Chapter 11
Cry! Cry! Cry!
He had known all along that he had been putting himself into danger by coming with then.
Always had.
Still, maybe Ludwig had been naïve to think it wasn't going to happen so soon.
Estonia was nothing like Sweden. No more nights of sitting up and drinking as they shared stories. No more leisurely moments of relaxation. No more wandering around town with Magnus. No more flowers. And no more practice; suddenly, when the rifle was in his hands, it wasn't fun anymore, because now he was expected to use it, and if he missed this time, then it was not a glass he was leaving forlorn.
He was leaving one of his friends, a brother, hanging out to dry.
There was still a group sitting around cleaning guns, alright, but not the same ones. Timo's friends, men he didn't know, often joined them, sitting there and smiling as if they were just going about another normal day.
It had been snowing here lately.
They had only been here for three days before they had gone out for the first time. Out. Sounded easy enough. And, at least in theory, maybe it was. Timo's friends moved supplies and equipment through the forests, and they were expected to make sure the path was clear, both ahead and behind.
Not too hard.
It had been rather nauseating, the first time, pulling on those white boots and that bulking white coat, shoving his rifle into a white fur sling, and making sure that nothing on him would stand out. Even his shoelaces were white. White gloves. Timo and Magnus and Timo's friend, whatever his name was, took turns passing around a jar full of white pigment and spreading it under their eyes to shield off the bright glare of snow. Lukas was quite happy to smear it under Ludwig's eyes the second he had a chance to.
Berwald didn't use it.
The smell of it was deceptively pleasant; chalky.
He felt out of place. Agitated.
White. Everything was white.
Magnus, whose hair was perhaps the darkest blond amongst them, pinned it up well and away under the hood of his coat.
Wool masks, white, were promptly used to cover faces up to the bridges of their noses. They'd meld into the white of the forest, sure enough, and no one would know they were there until it was too late.
The group they escorted was a little bigger than Ludwig had imagined. A good fifty of them were moving about that day, and it had suddenly become an enormous pressure, to know that these men had entrusted their lives into his hands.
If the others were nervous, they gave away nothing.
Magnus looked a bit anxious, perhaps.
Timo was the one who took charge here, knowing these men and these forests better than anyone else, and Ludwig wouldn't lie and say that he wasn't disappointed with the way Timo had split them up.
He had wanted to go with Berwald. His first thought, but Berwald was more experienced, and when there were two snipers, it made sense to have one in the back and one in the front. A regrettable circumstance, but one he accepted.
Berwald went alone. Timo and Magnus took the middle. He and Lukas in the back.
He wanted to go with Berwald.
Berwald being alone in the front, with no backup, was a source of constant concern.
Everything, come to think, was a great concern; Berwald being alone out ahead, the fact that Magnus couldn't shoot, Timo's sometimes reckless aggressiveness towards the Reds, the grenades that were tucked inside of Lukas' coat in a neat line, his own inexperience. The fact that he was the very last, and therefore the most likely to get mixed up and lost within the endless trees.
The fear of choking.
The first time had been the worst.
As they had prepared to go, so many white figures, Berwald stopped beside of him, and put a hand on his shoulder. They all looked alike, but he knew it was Berwald, as much as Berwald had known to whom he was speaking.
A low whisper.
'That's a good gun—I wouldn't let ya go out with it if it wa'n't.'
He had only looked up at Berwald, their eyes meeting beyond the white masks, and had said, 'I know.'
He trusted Berwald.
The group had gathered up their supplies on the outskirts of town, grabbing crates and poles painted white, filed into line, and started moving after Berwald had tread off a good ways.
The forest stood tall and imposing. Every creeping inch towards it had seemed like an eternity.
He waited, after everyone else had gone in, and when he could no longer see them with his bare eyes, he stepped into the trees, and followed.
Some part of him wanted to turn tail and run in the opposite direction, but he pushed onward, keeping his chin up and his hands still and his eyes alert, because they had trusted him.
Berwald was inside these trees, far more alone than he was, creeping into uncharted territory without fear. He'd follow, wherever Berwald took him. No matter how fuckin' scary it was.
The snow and twigs had creaked beneath his feet. He put his scope up, found Lukas ahead of him, and began the journey.
Keeping the flank was almost as bad as it must have been keeping the front, knowing that it was his job to make sure no one, no one, snuck up on them. More frightening, perhaps, because instead of leading it was necessary to make sure that he didn't stray so far behind that he found himself alone and lost. He knew that Lukas checked quite often to make sure that he hadn't been left too far behind.
A comfort, he supposed.
The first time was the worst, although it had been the most uneventful.
It wasn't until the third time moving these men through the forests that they had encountered Red Army soldiers lurking in the brush.
The first time the gunfire had broken out in the forest, Ludwig had jumped so terribly that he had nearly fumbled the rifle straight to the ground, and it was like that night all over again.
Helplessness.
It took him a moment to realize that he was in a forest, not in a street, and that night had long since passed. This gunfire was for freedom, not fear.
He came back, quickly, and carried on without a second thought.
The only thing that frightened him in here was the thought of Berwald getting hurt.
He could distinguish the quick, frequent bursts of Magnus' gun from the slow, powerful blasts of Berwald's rifle.
He'd gunned down two men that day. The first time he'd killed someone since then. A terrible feeling, even though these men were enemies. To see them so clearly in the scope before he shot them was no pleasant thing, knowing that these men were following orders, just as he had been expected to. Knowing that they had families waiting back at home.
Knowing that every time he fired his rifle, somewhere out there a house became a little emptier.
Best not to think about it too much.
When they cleared the forest and made it to the other side, it was always with relief.
The journey back was made through towns, not the forest, and they stripped down their white gear, cleaned their faces of the talc, and hitched a ride back with Timo's friends. The trunks had removable panels, where everything was hidden safely underneath, just in case they came across a military check or a roadblock.
The next time, the cycle continued.
Whatever these men did on the other side of the forest, whatever they were up to, it obviously wasn't a secret to the Soviets. They never used the same path twice. Same thing, different way. That was all.
They'd been here for a month already, and Ludwig had already had his fill of this place. He wanted to go back to the little house in the mountains.
Berwald had been quieter than usual since they had gotten here. Looked stressed. Tired. Ludwig tried to engage him from time to time, when the others were trying to be normal, but sometimes even he didn't feel much like trying.
Usually, Berwald just looked at him, eyes heavy, and didn't say a word. They sat together, side by side, listening to Timo and Magnus messing around the house, and sometimes Ludwig wished that he could just throw an arm out and put it around Berwald's shoulders.
If only to let him know that he had a friend. Someone who would miss him if something happened.
One night, Berwald spoke to him, and said, drearily, 'I almost got lost. If I had—I'd'a left them there, with no cover up front. I woulda let 'em down. I'd've been out there alone.'
Berwald getting lost in that massive forest was terrifying to him.
'Well, you didn't,' Ludwig finally said, 'So no harm.'
Berwald had seemed shaken all the same.
'We wouldn't have left you, if you had gotten lost, you know. We... I woulda looked for you. No matter how long it took. I couldn't ever leave, knowing you were in there all alone.'
Berwald looked over at him, still so sad, and only gave a scoff.
'Thanks, I guess. Ha...how many did you kill today?'
Ludwig, voice suddenly just as dreary as Berwald's, replied, 'Four. You?'
'Five.'
It was a rather morbid tally, but one they kept all the same. Although it would have been nice to forget, it was somehow still important to keep track of how many men they killed, perhaps to know afterwards just how much recompense they would have to make. If the tally of men they saved could be greater than those they killed, if it could be worth it, somehow...
Never felt worth it. At least not to him.
Timo and Lukas really seemed to be the only ones who were convinced they were actually accomplishing something. Berwald looked uncertain at times, but never faltered. Magnus just looked sick all the time.
Had to be worth it.
So, Ludwig had just turned to Berwald, and said, 'Well, I guess there's not much of a choice.'
Berwald hadn't responded, not verbally, but Ludwig had realized afterwards that Berwald had closed the distance between them and was pressing up against his side.
Everyone needed a little comfort sometimes, whether they could say it or not. Lukas often pressed himself into Ludwig's side these days, more than he had before, and Timo and Magnus were practically arm-in-arm every second they were together. Ludwig sought out Berwald, and Berwald never walked away when it was apparent someone would pay him attention.
Reassurance.
If he had been braver, Ludwig might have reached up and wiped Berwald's disheveled bangs out of his eyes.
He didn't.
Although he knew that every day was a risk, that every time they went out was a time one of them might not come back, he couldn't bring himself to act upon any of the thoughts that crossed his mind. He wasn't bold enough. Some of the things that crossed his mind, granted, might not have been exactly considered appropriate, although he wouldn't deny that they were there all the same.
Sometimes, Berwald was so hard to read.
Maybe...
It might not have been the way that Ludwig was interpreting it. God, that thought was worse than any other, that this thing he had built up in his head was not really what was happening. Misreading, as he was prone to.
It had all started the moment that Berwald had extended his hand in kindness, and engaged him that night, when the others had taken instead to teasing him. No one had ever truly been nice to him, not to him, not unless they were being nice to Gilbert. It had been an innocent gesture, surely, and Ludwig hadn't really thought more about it.
But then Berwald had started hovering over him, had started paying attention to every little thing he did, had made a point to interact with him above all others, had taken such an interest in him. Berwald had been there, every time he had turned around.
He had started thinking.
Well, he had little knowledge of such things, but he had watched Gilbert going after girl after girl, and always, it had been the same pattern.
First, brash Gilbert had diluted his personality, actually sparing kind words that he never used otherwise. Then, he would start to bring the girl home, paying her every attention that she could have ever wanted, no matter whether or not it was excessive. Afterwards, Gilbert would bring her around even more, and would hang around her every second, always so interested in everything she said, and Ludwig would wait to see if it worked out. When it didn't, the cycle repeated itself.
And, well...
It might have been a coincidence, might have been a cultural difference, hell, he might have just been imagining things, but it felt the same. The way Berwald acted had reminded him of the way Gilbert had acted. Was he making such a mental stretch?
That night they had gotten him drunk and tried to pry information out of him, he had been mortified all right, but not because he had a girl waiting back home—he had been mortified because he couldn't very well have said, 'I don't have a girl waiting because I was just never that interested in them.'
Not to men he didn't know well.
And Christ almighty, never would he have said such a thing to Gilbert, not with Gilbert's SS friends running around. He'd've wound up in a fuckin' camp somewhere with one of those pink triangles branded on his chest.
A horrifying thought.
But Berwald hadn't really seemed all that interested in women, either, did he, and Magnus had proclaimed so confidently that Berwald was a bachelor for life. Maybe. Coulda been that Berwald was the same as him. If so, was it really just in his head?
He had always thought that Berwald was handsome, that had never been a question in his mind, but it was much harder to figure out if Berwald's interests were extended in such a way to himself. They looked at each other frequently. Berwald came to him before anyone else. He was the one whose shoulder Berwald placed his hand upon. Hadn't seen him do that with anyone else.
It couldn't have been in his head.
Could it?
It could have just been hope. It could have been his lack of knowledge of human relationships. Could have been wishful thinking on his part. Maybe he had gotten himself so stuck on Berwald that he was connecting dots in his head that just weren't there.
The way his chest burned and his stomach squirmed were so strong that it was likely he just wanted Berwald to feel the same way to keep his pride and because his hair-trigger emotions might not have handled rejection well.
Gilbert had always wondered why he hadn't fallen in love with anyone, because the teenage years were supposed to be the ones where you fell hard and fast and without reason. Ludwig had assumed that just wouldn't happen to him, nearing on twenty and having yet to be struck down by that odd affliction Gilbert had called 'love'.
If this was it, it was hard and fast, alright, and every bit as irrational as Gilbert had made it out to be.
He kept it to himself, and tried not to make it obvious.
If he was wrong, oh god, there would have been no getting over that humiliation. No regaining his pride. He would have ditched them that very day, affection and brotherhood be damned, if Berwald had laughed at him. If he had extended his hand to Berwald, only to have it slapped away with a look of disdain, he would have packed his things, left the rifle lying on the couch, and he would have 'borrowed' his own boat and rowed all the way back to Gotland, stolen one of the cars, and disappeared into the mountains of Sweden. He couldn't ever look at them again, not with that shame over his head.
Better to keep it a secret, and just stare from afar.
No matter how badly he wanted to touch.
Those kinds of thoughts were ones he did not have the courage for, and so, when Berwald leaned up against him, he kept his arms still, and just enjoyed the warmth.
He had to be sure, absolutely sure, before he lifted his hand.
Frustration.
Days came and went, and so did men.
Falling.
The snows came and went as much as men did. Some days they dressed all in white. Other days, when the snow had melted, they dressed in brown, and it was mud they smeared beneath their eyes.
It had been a long, arduous day in the forest, this time wearing dark colors, and they had emerged from the other side with less bullets than they had started with.
That night, the tone was dreary. Nobody was in a good mood. Nobody seemed able to raise their eyes up from the floor. Even Lukas, unshakeable Lukas, seemed a bit silent and dour.
They had a talk that night, after drinking had gotten well under way. The conversation hadn't been one that Ludwig had wanted to hear.
Wind, beating on the windows.
Timo was drinking hard, and it was no wonder why when he opened his mouth to speak.
"Lost three of 'em today. Damn—I had one of 'em right there, right there, and I still lost him. Fuckin' bullet had the whole damn forest and still found him."
Not the first time they had lost any, but it didn't make it any easier to handle.
To let someone down.
Another empty house.
Ludwig and Lukas had lost four so far. Berwald, three. Timo and Magnus, stuck in the middle, bore most of the brunt and had less of a field of vision, and had taken no less than ten hits.
Not significant numbers for an army, but devastating ones for this little group.
The more men fell, the more it hit home that any one of them could become just another number in a matter of time.
It was that night, when Timo was trying very hard to drink himself into a stupor, that the conversation finally took place. They must have been thinking it for a while, but had never brought it up before, because, hell, who would ever want to? Who wanted to say such things?
"We should talk about it," Lukas said, out of nowhere, and everyone had turned to look at him, dreary and mellow.
"Talk about what?" Ludwig asked, although he probably shouldn't have.
It was usually Timo who was forced to explain things, but this time Timo just couldn't seem to find his voice.
Instead, Lukas finally leaned forward, and whispered, "What would you like us to do, Ludwig, if it happens?"
It took him a moment to figure it out, and he sat there, silently, trying to understand.
Lukas made it easier by adding, "Almost everyone wants to be cremated these days. A lot easier, in a way, and then we can just take you off wherever you want."
"Oh."
Oh...
How strange, and perhaps a bit cruel, that such a proposition was completely normal. He had tried not to think about it much.
Hurt.
He wanted to go home. Always had. He and Gilbert had always promised that they'd do everything together, including finding themselves side by side in a cemetery. That wasn't possible anymore. His gravestone would be defaced if Gilbert survived the war and ever found out.
Instead of answering outright, he turned to Magnus, so quiet all day, and asked, "What do you want?"
Magnus, who avoided thinking about these things, too.
Barely having the strength to look up, Magnus gave a weak snort, and grumbled, "Dunno. Never thought about it. I guess, I mean, it's easier to cart around a buncha ashes, to take ya wherever... I always liked the ocean."
"Me too," Lukas added, easily.
Like it was nothing.
Timo was still.
Ludwig turned his eyes briefly to Berwald, who had suddenly found his shoes extremely interesting. He didn't have the heart to ask him; for his own sake, rather than Berwald's.
"Well?" Lukas prodded, after he had been silent for a time.
What could he say?
"It doesn't matter. You couldn't get me there, anyway."
Berwald glanced up, then, and opened his mouth. Ludwig was rather surprised at the tone of his voice when he said, sternly, "Just say it. We'll make it happen."
That place.
Tall trees. Shadows. Strange scents and stranger sounds, invisible currents of cool air, a blanket of leaves and earth. Dusty light streaming in through breaks in the foliage. The most beautiful place he had ever seen.
Turning his eyes to the window, he finally said, quietly, "The black forest."
They wouldn't ever be able to get him there, at least not until the war ended, and maybe even not afterwards, depending on how it all turned out. Hell, maybe none of them would even be around to do it by the time it all came to halt. Maybe they'd all be gone.
Sad.
They fell silent, as the urge to talk diminished, and Ludwig regretted that he hadn't made more use of the time he had had with Gilbert.
Heavy air.
"Well," Timo finally said, laughing a bit dryly, "Hell, who wants to get old, anyway, right?"
A short silence, and then Magnus took up the bottle again.
"I'll drink to that."
Ludwig stared ahead at the wall, and wished, more than anything, that he had kissed Gilbert back, that day. That he had been able to say those three simple words, just once.
'I love you.'
Had Gilbert already taken his military leave, to mourn his little brother, dead on the train? Proud Gilbert, standing over an empty grave, slouched and bleary-eyed, wondering why their luck had run out. Why them.
He should have told Gilbert that he loved him, no matter what, however many mistakes he had made. He would always love Gilbert.
Too late.
Berwald's eyes seemed to stay put on him for the rest of the night, but he didn't have the will to even look over.
After a while, Berwald trudged away, and Ludwig wasn't really sure why he was so agitated.
Everyone died. Sooner or later.
He took the couch that night.
Rather be alone.
The forests out here were enormous.
The shortest routes through it were still no less than a grueling fifteen hours.
Most of the time, it seemed, Ludwig used his scope to make sure that he could still see Lukas ahead of him, to make sure that he hadn't gotten himself lost. Getting lost out here might not have been a death sentence on its own, not if you could hold out a few days to reach the other side, but running into a Red might be, especially in a panic.
Alone.
The day had started like any other.
The forest was white again. Had been for a week now. Weather in the spring months here was exceedingly unpredictable.
Everything else was normal.
Almost, anyway—Berwald had looked a little ill in the morning, and the odd flush of red on his cheeks had been visible before the white mask had been pulled over the bridge of his nose. Feverish, perhaps.
They should have called the whole thing off for that day, and waited for Berwald to ward off the start of sickness. Dangerous, to go out with any sort of distractions, or if focus was an issue, but Berwald popped some aspirin, insisted he was alright, and they set out anyway.
Ludwig wished they hadn't. Not if Berwald was at greater risk than usual.
New day, new trail. The most frightening thing about the forest, perhaps, was that every time into it was a completely new experience. New trees. New twisting paths. New obstacles.
Timo seemed to know these forests fairly well, although whether he had been in this exact one before was a subject up for debate. Maybe he had a good sense of direction. Timo plotted out the routes with his friend, and Berwald used a compass and a little luck to follow them. Everyone else just tagged along for the ride.
They rested, every so often, when the wooden crates were too heavy to carry any longer, and in those moments, they huddled down in the snow, and Lukas and Ludwig had a moment to collaborate as they kept watch.
Still couldn't see Timo or Magnus, so far ahead.
Berwald was far out of sight. Was he feeling alright?
Ludwig worried.
White blurs on the horizon.
A half hour of tentative rest, the men picked up their things, and they carried on.
Birds fluttered above head.
Ten hours.
Lukas jumped across a sloshing creek ahead, right behind the last of the trailing men, and Ludwig checked every inch of the bank before he followed.
So far, so good. No excitement today.
The same routine; walk a half mile, stop, turn around, make sure no one was behind. Another half mile, stop, turn around, double check.
Ahead, Lukas used his ears more than his eyes, having a much shorter sight, and he tilted his head towards every shuffle or shift in the trees. Ludwig didn't bother; he wasn't skilled in that area like Lukas was, and whenever he heard a rustle, he wound up twisting around in a rush of adrenaline only to find a hapless deer in the crosshairs.
Lukas seemed to be able to tell the difference between fauna and soldiers, just by the sound. Whatever worked for him. Long as he didn't pull out any of those damn grenades.
Eleven hours.
A twist in the path. Winding, evasive routes. Often, they came across long trails of footsteps, and it was a mystery as to whether it was their own, from days past, or Soviet soldiers trailing after them.
Who could say.
Each route seemed to overlap an older one at some point.
Timo's friend was clever, certainly, and Timo's fearlessness no doubt made them all the bolder. Their luck would run out one day, when the Soviets finally grew tired of these little games and decided just to raze the whole damn forest.
How many more times would they pull this off without being ambushed?
Twelve hours.
An explosion ahead rocked the stillness of the forest.
Gunshot. One slow, powerful blast. Sniper rifle.
Lukas fell still and crouched, just in case, and Ludwig raised the scope to his eye, even as his heart started hammering.
That had been Berwald, certainly.
How bad was it ahead?
Berwald was sick. What if he had missed? What if he failed to see something because his head hurt and his vision was blurry? The thought of Berwald getting killed—
"See anything?"
Lukas' soft voice cut over the drifting snow, and Ludwig, after a full circle around them, took a step forward. Lukas took it as an all-clear, and crept onward.
They didn't stop, no matter how many people were shooting around them. Ahead, the men just kept on walking, and so did Lukas. Stopping could be as dangerous as walking.
Ludwig tried to keep focused.
Soldiers were always lurking in here, it seemed. What if one of them had seen Berwald before Berwald had seen him? Hardly a fathomable thought, as much as Gilbert getting hurt had been. Naïve, to think that they would never come to harm.
Lukas was close ahead, all of a sudden, and it didn't take Ludwig long to realize why he had fallen to stop when he suddenly dropped back down onto his knee.
A jerk of a hand towards their left.
Ludwig swung the rifle around, and could see the shifting and rustling of a Red, barely visible behind the brush on the hill. A shadow, white against white, and the vague outline of a coat.
A glint of light reflecting off of a gun. Lukas had spotted the flash of it.
He readied his finger.
The soldier was in his sights.
More gunshots from ahead; Magnus' fast gun, going off suddenly.
Berwald being sick, that conversation, thinking about those things, that image of them creeping into the black forest and tossin' around a bunch of ashes, the chest-clenching notion of ever having to scatter Berwald's ashes somewhere just because of one little mistake, sitting together and drinking one night and there being an empty seat...
He fired.
A shift of snow.
And he missed.
"Shit!"
He missed. He had fuckin' missed. Keepin' his mind too much on whether or not Berwald was alright—
Lukas reached out, gripped his sleeve, and hissed, "Forget it! Leave him! Look, look, they're runnin'—we gotta go."
Ludwig shook him off, and, after a split-second of irritable glaring, he pulled the scope back up and aimed again.
Let the men run. His job was the flank.
He was so intent on getting his target that he didn't even hear Lukas' soft footsteps retreating into the snow, didn't even stop to think that maybe Lukas had assumed that Ludwig was following him.
The scampering Soviet below had tried to take cover behind the ingrown brush beneath a tree, but Ludwig had spotted him shifting around.
He didn't miss. He didn't. Berwald expected perfection.
A missed soldier was a dead brother.
He fired again.
A second of stillness, a glimpse of red against the snow, and the soldier moved no more. A movement from the other side. Another soldier, lying in wait. He set the sights, focused his attention, waited for the moment, and gunned the second one down faster than he had the first.
A long sweep around.
No more shadows. Clear.
Satisfied, and feeling a little vindicated, he lowered the rifle, hair bristling, and turned back around, whispering eagerly, "Got 'em, let's get the hell—"
He stopped short, and his heart lurched hard enough to make him sick.
Snow. Trees.
Stillness.
Lukas was gone.
His rifle flew back up again, scope positioned, but this time he used it to scan the trees for friends rather than enemies, and Christ, it was a terrible feeling that crawled into his stomach as he looked this way and that, trying to see movement from any side.
Couldn't see anything.
Panic.
No matter how many times he swung the scope back and forth, there was nothing discernable, no sign of Lukas, no movement aside from the branches in the wind, no life at all.
Nothing.
The white attire that kept him hidden was doing the same for Lukas.
He looked down.
Footsteps.
The snow still held the footsteps, but everyone's fuckin' footsteps, Soviet ones too, and everywhere he looked around there were footsteps. So many men, so many soldiers, wandering though at different times. No way to tell them apart. All looked the same. No help there.
Where was he? He'd gotten mixed up when the gunfire had started.
East—the soldiers had been coming from the east. Or had that been south? The route they had taken twisted so often that there was no telling what direction they had been going, and whether or not they had intended to keep going that way. Unlikely, as often as they turned. If he couldn't follow them, better to go straight, and head for the edge of the forest. Find them there. Get back to the town.
No sense in trying to follow a trail of footsteps that might take him into enemy territory. They had run for a reason, and he didn't want to run into it.
For a moment, he just stood there, rifle low in his hands, and he felt helpless.
Stupid.
...oh, he should have obeyed Lukas' call for retreat. He shouldn't have let his damn pride override his logic.
Pride.
He had chided Gilbert for so many years for being so goddamn proud, but he was hardly any better. Trying to impress others and himself was going to get him killed one day, he had said to Gilbert. Those words were painfully true, now, and directed at Ludwig himself.
Finally, he lifted his foot and started moving.
He wandered silently through the white forests, keeping himself low and slow for fear of being seen by unfriendly eyes, and it did cross his mind that his stealth would be detrimental for the others should they have come back looking for him. Not much of a choice there. He was on his own now, and he'd have to find his own damn way out of these vast woods. He couldn't risk exposure, not for anyone.
He kept the scope of the rifle out of the white sun as he walked, to be certain it wouldn't reflect any light.
Hours.
No doubt the others had cleared the forest by now. Out in the air.
He was stuck.
Every sound, every twitch, had him running for cover and pulling the rifle out from under his coat. In the end, he found nothing, and had to gather his nerve and start walking again.
The others. Were they looking for him now? He had meant it, when he had told Berwald that he would have looked for him. Oh, he hoped they were looking for him, and at the same time he hoped they weren't. He was already walking his path, and he'd find the way out eventually. The thought of them putting themselves in needless danger was more horrifying than being lost.
If he stayed calm and focused, he would make it out of here.
As long as he didn't cross paths with another sniper.
He would have looked for Berwald, even knowing that Berwald would do exactly as he was doing now, knowing that with a clear head Berwald would make it out alright by himself. He still would have looked, because knowing that Berwald was on his own would have driven him crazy if he hadn't. All the same, he hoped Berwald was sitting in the house, and being patient. He'd rather the poor ol' guy just sat and stared out the window, instead of putting himself in the line of fire by trying to track down a lost friend.
Berwald needed to wait. Magnus and Lukas needed to be patient. Timo needed to keep his restless feet still.
He'd find his way out.
The sun lowered, steadily, and a cloudy day became a clear, freezing night. He huddled under thick underbrush, knees to his chest, and was grateful for the white coat. Hours of uneasy sleep, as every shift of branches and snow jolted him awake in panic, and he was glad when the dawn broke and light shed back in through the trees.
Ignoring a pang of hunger, he pulled himself up and carried on.
His mind wandered as much as his feet.
Had the others made it out alright yesterday? Was Berwald really back in the house, or was he lying in this forest somewhere, too? Magnus' gun going off like crazy. Had his bad aim cost him? Had Lukas caught up to the others, or had his light feet caught the attention of a soldier that Ludwig had not been around to take out? Timo hated the Reds so much that he acted recklessly. Had he gone after one and been blindsided by another?
His head hurt.
Walking, walking, walking.
No matter how many hours he crept along, the end didn't seem to be in sight.
He had gotten himself mixed up, no doubt, and was walking horizontally within the forest rather than vertically. An extended journey, but it was too late now to change direction.
Eventually, the forest would end. No woods on earth just went on forever.
...sure as hell felt like this one did, though.
Alone and in a precarious situation, every minute seemed like an eternity.
The second day was well on when he came across the first unwelcome sight.
The smell of it hit him long before the sight did.
A foul odor wafting in from afar, even with the mask over his nose, and somehow he knew right off what it was. All the same, he sought it out, because there might have been something worthwhile there.
His bullet supply was fairly low.
The odor grew ever stronger as he wound in and out between the trees, and it didn't take too long to find it. Half-buried with snow, mottled and grey and bloated, lied a Soviet soldier. The uniform, what was left of it, was clearly recognizable. White bone poked out here and there, gleaming in the pale sunlight. Wildlife had picked off quite a bit. Who knew how long it—had been a he, once—had been out here.
For a moment, struck in place by the stench and by the idea, Ludwig faltered.
Dead bodies in the forest.
Had any of his brothers joined them yesterday? Couldn't think about. Couldn't stand to.
Not Berwald.
Lifting his foot, he started moving.
Oh, fuckin Christ, that smell—
He crept forward, keeping his hand over his mouth and nose and his eyes well alert, and when he was close enough, he crouched and patted the corpse down. Nothing very useful. Whoever had killed him had already stripped him clean. All he got was a busted compass and a few coins.
He didn't waste a second in bounding away the moment he was upright again, as his eyes started watering from the rancid scent.
Walking again.
The scent faded away the farther he got.
A few hours later, as the afternoon dragged into evening, it started snowing again.
He probably could have gotten out by now, if he could walk normally. Speed-walking, jogging, running, anything that was not a creep, would have gotten him killed. He would take his time, and get out alive. Sure did miss Berwald, though. Seeing him again would be welcome. He was gonna sit there on the couch and stare at him all fuckin' night, that was for sure.
Blue light, as the white sky became grey with the first stir of dusk.
Visibility reduced.
The snow glowed in the remaining daylight, the flakes shimmering as they floated down.
Glittering on the ground.
The forest turned into a sapphire prism. Flecks of colored light, as icicles and snow changed the woods into a kaleidoscope of ultramarine.
Lethargy.
Pretty place. Shame he couldn't have walked here under different circumstances.
Dead bodies were hidden under these drifts of beauty.
Gettin' sleepy.
His already slow pace slowed all the more, as exhaustion weighed him down, and he was almost ready to settle down for another night when a twig behind him snapped.
A footstep from behind.
The sound of heavy breathing.
His wandering mind lit up.
He whirled around, the survival instinct kicking in like a motor, and he flung his rifle up into the air, finger flying to the trigger and already taking aim even though he didn't know what he was shooting at.
His finger contracted.
A flash of white.
A hand reached out like lightning, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and shoved it firmly aside, thwarting his effort at self-defense. He was probably good as dead now—
Thunder.
The bullet went off into the trees, and oh, god, oh, was he so fuckin' glad for it, because when the panic faded and his eyes focused and his mind was able to comprehend, he could have either pitched a fit or burst into tears. Maybe both, come to think.
Not a Red.
Berwald.
Standing there in that huge white coat, pale hair covered in snow, cheeks red and lips chapped with cold, glasses moist with condensation, eyes wide and pupils dilated with was certainly everything from fear to relief, his own rifle gripped firmly in one hand and boots splayed in the snow for balance. His other hand clenched the barrel of Ludwig's rifle.
The most beautiful fuckin' sight Ludwig had ever laid eyes upon.
Hadn't thought it was even possible for Berwald to become more beautiful, and yet here he was, bathed in blue, hair glinting with shades of cobalt in the light.
Berwald.
His hood was pushed back, and his mask was down around his neck. Why? What the hell had been going through the big idiot's mind, exposing himself like that? Letting color show through, when there should be none. What had he been thinking? Why hadn't he waited? He should have waited.
Stupid.
The urge to reach out and slap Berwald across the face and then yank that mask back up where it should be was suddenly overridden with something a thousand times more powerful.
Horror.
The gun fell in a second, and so did his heart, as he realized how close he had been to making a godawful mistake. He'd spent so much time worrying about Berwald getting gunned down and he'd nearly been the one to finally do it—
He felt himself sliding down the bark of the tree behind him, rifle falling lax in between his legs as the adrenaline faded into a dull ache.
Too close. Too close.
He'd almost shot someone he hadn't wanted to. Again.
Too close.
Berwald seemed as taken aback as he did, and just stood there, looking down at him and breathing through his mouth in a fright.
They stared at each other.
So many things he wanted to say, seeing Berwald there. So many words. So many sentiments. In the end, when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a weak, "You shouldn't have come back."
Why had he said that? That hadn't been what he had wanted to say. It was true, yeah, but he had meant to say something else.
A firm hand gripped his upper arm, and yanked him to his feet.
Their eyes met, as Berwald had to give him a good shake to wake him up enough to stand on his own, and he could see the way Berwald's mouth had fallen open as if to speak.
No voice.
It was their curse, he supposed, to never be able to say exactly what they wanted to.
The flush of fever was still evident in Berwald's face; Ludwig liked to think that it was the fever that had convinced him taking off that damn mask was a good idea, because otherwise the recklessness was incomprehensible. So had been sneaking up behind him like that. It had to have been the fever that had clouded Berwald's judgment.
Or maybe...
Berwald's wide eyes looked so helpless suddenly, and he finally managed to breathe, lowly, "I had to. I had to. You said you'd'a looked for me. I had to."
That was different.
Dumb.
Coulda gotten himself killed in here, wandering around like this with that hood hanging back, and Ludwig would've come out from the forest only to realize Berwald had not.
He woulda died.
When his feet were steady and the lurching adrenaline released its grip, Ludwig reached up, grabbed Berwald's hood, and pulled it up. Berwald just stood there, and didn't even protest when he forced the mask back up to where it rightfully belonged.
Ludwig caught his gaze, and shook his head.
"What were you thinking?"
Berwald seemed stuck. Strange, as if it had been him, somehow, that had been lost.
His answer was low and clumsy. "So you'd see me, if you were lookin'."
So stupid. Someone else could have seen him first.
Berwald's hand still had a vice-grip upon his upper arm, and it became clear a few minutes later that he had absolutely no intention of letting go. Ludwig had no choice but to let Berwald drag him along as he would.
Night fell.
The snow stopped.
A few hours, at the most, and then the trees thinned.
He'd been closer than he had thought.
Dumb Berwald had only needed to wait until the morning, and he would have been home-free. Just a few more hours.
Berwald's hands were shaking.
Stepping out of the forest, Berwald safely at his side, was one of the best moments of his life. Not the best, maybe; perhaps the most relieving. The house couldn't come soon enough.
The clouds parted in the sky. Stars above.
As soon as he knew he was safe, Ludwig's mind shut down in exhaustion, and he remembered Berwald stripping the white gear off and dragging him into a car. The second he sat down, he was out like a light, and didn't wake until Berwald was yanking him out.
The sight of that shitty little house was as good as finding heaven.
Berwald was so frantic to get back in that he practically kicked down the door, and whoever had been driving the car brought in the guns and coats.
Warm air. Warmer voices.
He woke up, jostled from lethargy by the sound of Magnus' loud voice.
"Fuckin' son of a bitch, there he is!"
A hand falling heavily on his shoulder, so hard that he thought for a minute there that Magnus had gone and dislocated it all over again, and it was such a relief to be back. To see these men safe. To see Magnus standing there, unharmed and looking so happy for once. To see Timo, face falling loose as tension fled, clearly in one piece.
Lukas wasn't there.
Ludwig looked around, and Magnus just smiled, wearily.
"He's on his way back. He was lookin' for ya, too."
Why couldn't they have just waited?
Before he could ask, they had pushed him down onto the couch, and Timo shoved a glass of vodka into his hands. He didn't waste a second in putting it back. That had been enough stress for the rest of the year. Time to calm down, now.
Everyone was alright, himself included.
Still, he caught Timo's gaze, and said, sternly, "You should have made them wait. I was almost out. I coulda got out alone."
Timo just smiled, a bit shakily, and responded, "I tried. That's what I said, too. I told 'em you weren't gonna just be sittin' there in the same spot waiting, but, hey. You know how stubborn they are. They do what they want."
Ludwig shook his head, and Timo tried to lighten the mood by adding, slyly, "Anyway, it's for the best, because Berwald would have knocked us all out if we had tried to drag him back home. He barged right back into the forest after we cleared out and realized somebody was missin'."
A twinge of warmth in his chest, and somehow a sense of exasperation.
Berwald had wandered in those forests as long as he had, as exposed as he had made himself, and sick, no less. Why? The leader wasn't supposed to be impulsive.
He looked over, but Berwald didn't even seem to hear them anymore.
He just stared at Ludwig.
An hour or two later, around midnight, Lukas came slinking in the door, and he made a beeline for Ludwig the second their eyes met. Hell, Lukas, for a moment there, showed a moment of actual emotion, and the arm that he slung around Ludwig's shoulders was unusually tight.
A whisper in his ear.
"I'm sorry. I shoulda looked back."
Not Lukas' fault. His own, for being proud and stubborn.
Small talk, as the minutes ticked by.
They kept shoving glass after glass into his hands, and it hit him hard after his two day fast. Already tipsy, and yet still the more he drank, the more he thought about it, the more he was certain that he was not the one who needed the alcohol.
He wasn't the one in shock. He was already gettin' over it, now that he was sitting here.
Looking over, a bit blearily, he could see Berwald, and knew that they should have been shoving the vodka down his throat instead.
Berwald's shot nerves were quite visible, in his clenched jaw, in his bloodshot eyes, in the way he gripped his hands together in his lap, in the way he was so pale he had nearly gone yellow, in the way his shoulders shook with every breath he drew, and he just stared at Ludwig the whole time, as a child might have stared at a pet that he had found again after assuming it lost and gone forever.
That was the first time he had ever seen Berwald look so sick.
The others didn't even seem to notice, or if they did, then they didn't seem to care.
The dawn drew closer.
Finally, after everyone else had retreated for a few hours of rest, Berwald spoke up.
A long, hard look, but when Berwald opened his mouth, he didn't scold him, didn't berate him, and he didn't make him feel childish. He didn't say, 'You made a mistake.' He didn't say, 'You put us all in danger.' He didn't say, 'You don't belong here.'
Just one simple phrase.
A strange tone of voice.
"I—I'm happy that you're okay."
Just like that, Berwald's stern face fell, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair as if suddenly nervous. Ludwig, inert on the couch and feeling a little out of it for the alcohol, could only stare up at him, and wonder if that was what Berwald had really wanted to say.
He himself hadn't even said what he had wanted to, had he? When Berwald had hauled him to his feet in that white forest, he had said, 'You shouldn't have come back.' That hadn't been what was supposed to come out.
So, he called to Berwald, as he turned around, "I'm happy that you wanted to look for me."
Even if he didn't condone it, he wouldn't deny that the thought had made him happy.
Berwald turned back, and there were no words in Ludwig's repertoire that could have described that look upon his face, as he said, fervently, "I woulda never left ya there. Never."
The crackling fire was not enough to drown out what Berwald muttered then, even though his voice threatened to give out on him.
"I couldn't'a. Not you. You... If I hadn't found you...I woulda gone crazy. You're the only one that even looks at me."
Ludwig was glad.
Because he had meant to say, 'I was afraid I wouldn't ever see you again.'
Berwald crept back, and disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to fall asleep at the table.
Ludwig watched him go, and, just like that, it was like someone had set a fire underneath him.
He'd gotten the scare of his life, that was for sure. From now on, it would be a damn good idea to act on his thoughts, instead of fretting about them. Life was too uncertain out here. Time to be more like Gilbert, and live in the moment.
Berwald had tracked him down. That must have meant something.
It couldn't have been all in his head.
Time to find out.
So that he wouldn't regret, later on, that he hadn't said all he had wanted to.
Magnus and Timo waltzed around each other quite gracefully, and it was obvious as to why by now, even to him, and if they weren't waiting until the war ended, why should he? He was no dancer, had never even lifted up his foot to try, but suddenly the notion had gone far beyond tempting.
If Berwald didn't want to lead, that was fine. He'd take the reigns.
Music was already starting.
He wouldn't cry about anything later, if he could at least say he had tried. If it didn't work out how he wanted it to, he wouldn't regret.
The time for carefulness and subtlety had passed.
Berwald would be wise to watch his back.
Staring had gotten old.
