They stayed in Le Tour for three days before leaving, reluctant to get moving again, but eager to get out of France. They grudgingly left the Opel in Chirens, knowing that they'd be able to travel more covertly without it. Even without being laden with heavy packs, and walking at the pace of their limping civilian, the walk across France would take days at best, but they all packed up everything they could carry and set out on foot all the same.

They cut across open fields and through forests, drawing as straight a path as was possible, and staying off the roads as much as they were able. They slept in barns and sheds as they came to them, rising early to avoid being found by either farmers or soldiers. As they trudged across the field on the fourth day, ankle-deep in snow that never seemed to stop falling, Bruttenholm began to once again show signs that he needed to rest. They couldn't and wouldn't go on without him, but if they stopped every time he started to slow down, it would take them a month to march across France.

"You got another mile in you, Doc?" Rogers asked, watching Bruttenholm as he stopped to lean against his cane.

Bruttenholm looked up toward the small wood up ahead and nodded. "Yes, I should think so. Just let me... Just let me catch my breath." He stayed where he was for just a few moments longer before forcing himself forward once more with a steely determination.

"Where the fuck are we, anyway?" Howlett asked, dropping back a bit to give Bruttenholm someone to lean against.

"What is this castle call'd that stands hard by?" asked Loki, unable to help himself.

Howlett looked around again. "What castle?" he asked.

Up front, Rogers and Barnes laughed quietly. Unexpectedly, Pinkerton picked up the cue. "They call it Agincourt," he said.

"What?" Howlett demanded. He threw his gaze this way and that, still trying to find the castle.

"Then call we this the field of Agincourt, fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus," Loki said, looking straight ahead and not even smiling at Howlett's distress.

"What the hell are you two limeys going on about?" he demanded, met with more laughter, both confused and amused.

"Shakespeare, James. King Henry the Fifth," Bruttenholm said, laughing along with everyone else.

"And Olson's not even English. He's an impostor," Pinkerton pointed out.

"Aren't you Welsh?" Morita asked. He looked back at Pinkerton. "Where are Welsh people from, anyway?"

"Wales," Loki said.

Pinkerton looked around wildly. "If I find out which one of you lot started this bloody rumour," he started, not even bothering to finish it up with a threat.

Now it was Howlett's turn to laugh, at least.

"Do you mean you're not Welsh?" asked Loki with a bit too much innocence. "Are you sure?"

Pinkerton stopped briefly in his tracks, shaking his head before continuing their march. "You're a right bastard, Olson, you know that?"

Loki shrugged. "Probably," he said. He waited just long enough for a few of the others to laugh. "Oh, you meant-! I'm sorry. English isn't my native tongue. I forget these things sometimes."

Everyone in the squad knew he was full of shit, which only made them laugh harder. Spirits were high by the time the time they made it to the treeline, but the sun was low behind the clouds, just a pinpoint of light filtering through near the horizon. They walked into the woods far enough for the trees to provide cover before Rogers stopped and dropped his pack to the ground. "Dig in here for the night," he said, looking around. "Low fires, but keep 'em covered."

One by one, everyone dropped their own packs and went for their spades. Even with two or three men digging a foxhole at a time, it was still back-breaking work trying to cut through the frozen ground. While everyone else dug holes in the ground, Bruttenholm stood awkwardly off to one side, watching through the trees like he expected to see someone following them.

"Hey, Doc," Dugan called out as he struggled to pull his spade from the ground.

Bruttenholm turned sharply, even more jumpy and alert than usual. "Hmm? Yes?" he asked.

Dugan finally got his spade out of the ground and nearly fell on his ass. Shaking his head, he tried again to actually make a dent in the ground he was trying to dig up. "I've been wondering, since these guys don't seem to know much about it either. What are we doing, exactly? This ain't really about some fountain of youth, is it?" He flung his spade into the air, finally managing to unstick a very large stone from the ground.

Bruttenholm looked around, but neither Rogers nor his NCOs offered any objections to the conversation. "Yes, that is precisely what it's about," he said, taking a step closer to the group. "Hitler is obsessed with the occult. He's built himself up almost as a god, and will be after anything to help him maintain that illusion."

"And you really think it exists?" asked Morita, leaning against his spade and taking a few moments to breathe. "I mean, seriously?"

"In my experience, there's always something worth finding," said Bruttenholm. "Even if it's not what you expected to find, these legends get started for a reason."

Loki kept his head down and dug in silence. If the well was what he suspected it to be, it was the last place anyone should be allowed to go. If it was he suspected it to be, a fountain with life-giving water would be nothing short of harmless by comparison. Just this once, Loki desperately hoped he was wrong.

"So what are we gonna do if we find it?" asked Coulson as he dug by Loki's side. "Blow it up?"

Loki looked up just enough to make eye contact with Bruttenholm and shook his head slowly. Bruttenholm shook his head as well, even more dramatically. "No, I don't think that would be best. It may be guarded. We just need to make sure we get to it first."

"Guarded by what?" asked Coulson.

"I don't know how they do things in Russia, but wells where I'm from are guarded by witches," Loki said.

"I thought this was a fountain," said Dugan.

"Same thing," Loki told him.

"Witches?" asked Barnes.

Several of the others were looking at him, but he ignored them all and kept digging. He'd said too much already, and needed to learn when to stay quiet.

"So, we're just going there to secure it?" asked Dugan.

"Yep," Rogers confirmed. "Unless it or anyone near it poses a threat, I think the best thing we can do is make sure nobody else gets to it."

"And what if there's nothing there?" asked Dugan. "Because I'll be honest, Cap. This sounds like a crapshoot to me."

"We'll find something," Bruttenholm assured. "I guarantee it."

None of them seemed to know how to argue with that, so they all just kept digging in silence. They all knew going into this mission that it wasn't going to be like any mission they'd gone on before, and none were even suggesting backing out. They'd all seen what Hydra already had. They'd all seen power and technology that shouldn't have even been possible. If Hydra had tanks the size of churches, and weapons that fired pure energy, who knew what else they were capable of.

A fountain of youth was at least something they had all heard of before.

Once everyone was dug in and covered, they fell into a quiet rhythm. Loki and Coulson shared their foxhole with a small fire and an empty ammo box, making their customary batch of army stew. It was strangely comfortable and familiar. Without thinking, Loki grabbed a few pine needles from their foxhole cover and sprinkled them into the stew, laughing and calling it rosemary. With Coulson laughing along with him and calling him an idiot, Loki was suddenly reminded of Italy. He had done the same thing then as well, just before the shelling had started. He looked up suddenly, remembering a long-forgotten errand.

"I took your comics," he said, surprised to have forgotten. He'd hidden them away in one of the places only he knew how to find, knowing he'd need the room in his pack when they moved out. "I didn't want someone else to steal them."

Coulson looked up at him, surprised and hopeful all at once. "Seriously?" he asked. "What'd you do with them?"

"I sent them back home, for safe-keeping," Loki lied. "I didn't keep them because I didn't think I'd ever see your ugly face again to be able to give them back."

"Well, I want them back," Coulson said, laughing. "Soon as I get back to Brooklyn, I'm coming to bust your door down."

Loki gave the ammo box a stir and held it out for Coulson. They both ate out of it quickly, letting their need for food win out over the taste of tinned meat cooked with hard cheese and stale crackers. As they scraped along the bottom of the box, Jones walked up to their foxhole and kicked a small amount of snow at them.

"You're up," he said.

In the dim light of the fire, Loki could see the disgust and confusion on Jones' face. Knowing that look well, Loki offered him the ammo box. "Want some?" he asked.

"Say no," Coulson said.

Shaking his head, Jones started to walk away. "Just go out on patrol," he said, obviously trying not to laugh.

Rolling their eyes at one another, Loki and Coulson reached for their rifles and climbed out of the foxhole. Loki stamped out their fire and pulled his coat close around him, making sure the collar stuck up how he liked it before leading the way out. They headed back to the east, toward the treeline and into the field they'd come from, counting on the falling snow to cover their tracks. They cut a wide circle around the camp, heading vaguely northward for a while.

The field around them seemed to stretch on forever, disappearing into the darkness. There were no lights anywhere, either from any villages or camps. Loki couldn't even see their own camp, though he knew several of the men had lit low fires. He didn't think they were likely to stumble over a platoon of sleeping Germans, but he wasn't sure they wouldn't, either.

As they walked, starting to head west again, something caught his attention in the distance. Loki stopped, trying to squint through the darkness to see it.

"What?" Coulson asked.

Loki cast a quick glance to him, and decided to take a chance. He closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds, and when he opened them again, the landscape around them had transformed. The sky and snow stood out from one another, in bright white and deep blues and purples, everything more clear in the dark than it had been during the day through the filter of false eyes. He kept his gaze away from Coulson and looked back out to the object in the distance, though he still couldn't tell what it was.

"Do you see that?" he asked, pointing.

Coulson took a step forward and looked to where Loki was pointing. "No?" he said.

Loki shook his head and closed his eyes again before Coulson noticed their colour. With his sight muted and muddied once more, he started walking toward the object. "Something's out there," he said. "Come on."

They walked cautiously, staying as low as they could while they snuck up on whatever it was Loki had seen. As they got closer, its outline became even more apparent, despite being half buried in the snow. They stopped again once they finally saw what it was, and exchanged a nervous look.

"The hell is that doing out here?" Coulson asked, looking at the wrecked fuselage of a B-17. "Should we go back and tell Rogers?"

Loki considered it for a moment, but shook his head. "No, not unless we find something in it," he said. Now curious more than anything, he walked closer to it, stopping to count the tallies on its nose. Through the damage, he saw at least twenty, plus two swastikas.

"Looks like his luck ran out," Coulson said.

"He was doing pretty good before then," Loki said. He wondered how many more tallies would have been added, had he made it back to base without being shot out of the sky.

He walked around until he found a way inside, ducking through the hole in the side. With Coulson close behind, they walked up the length to the cockpit, finding the pilots frozen and blue in their seats. Looking more closely, Loki could tell that the pilot was dead before the aeroplane even touched the ground. Whatever had caused the mess on the nose had come straight through the steel and did a good job at trying to cut the man in half. It was probably the shot that brought the plane down.

The copilot was slumped over the stick, the lower half of his face covered in dried blood. Loki stood and stared at the two of them for a few moments before reaching out and pulling the caps right off their heads.

"They don't need them," he said, dropping the pilot's onto Coulson's head. He took the copilot's cap for himself, ultimately intending to give it to someone else who needed it more.

Coulson adjusted the cap on his head, pulling the ear flaps down and buckling them together under his chin. They checked the rest of the wreckage, not finding anything else of use. The plane's mission would have been a brief one, like all the rest; a hop across the channel from England to drop a bunch of bombs onto a bunch of Germans. Most of them managed to make it back to England. This one didn't.

They left the plane shortly after, completing their circuit around the camp without finding anything else. As Loki passed the foxhole Bruttenholm and Howlett were sharing, he took off his cap and handed it down to Bruttenholm.

"Howlett, you're up," he said. He looked over to the next nearest foxhole. "Perce, you too."

While they gathered their rifles and got ready to head out, Loki went to find Rogers to report what he and Coulson had found.

It was midmorning when they spotted the village in the distance, hidden in the snow like everything else. Leaving Morita and Jones behind with Bruttenholm, Rogers had the rest of them quickly flank around the north side of the village. It didn't seem to have been hit by the war yet, which was a welcome relief, but they'd learned quickly that looks could be deceiving. Loki had no idea where they even were, but he was willing to guess that whatever village they'd just stumbled across wasn't on the way to anything important, or else it wouldn't even be standing.

Once satisfied that the village was as safe as they could hope, Rogers signalled for Jones and Morita to catch back up with Bruttenholm. As they slowly made their way into town, with weapons ready but not raised, the inhabitants quickly fled. While the war may not have hit the village yet, its presence was definitely felt.

"Olson, find me someone to talk to," Rogers said. "We're not gonna raid these people, but we need to resupply."

Loki nodded and went ahead, finally finding a man who gave the appearance of not caring about anything that went on around him.

"Excuse me," Loki called as he trotted up, making sure everyone heard French. The man sitting outside the shop looked up at him curiously, and maybe a little confused.

"Yes?" he asked back cautiously.

Loki stopped in his tracks. The answer he received was not in French. The single word the man spoke was not of any Midgardian language. Loki looked back at Rogers, already out of time. Rogers was right behind him again, taking a minute to look around the village before bringing his attention back to Loki.

"Ask him where we are," he said.

"You're in Ayrens," said the man, pulling the same trick Loki used to sound like he was speaking heavily-accented English.

Loki's initial shock began to wear off, leaving behind an almost bitter resentment that he couldn't quite understand. Bitter resentment and confusion. It was not a pleasant mix.

"You speak English?" asked Rogers.

"Yes," said the man slowly, looking to Loki once more. Loki glared at him, almost warning him to try what he was surely thinking. "And who are you?"

Rogers looked down at his utter lack of uniform and cringed. "Americans," he said. "Most of us. Trying to get to England. I'm Captain Steve Rogers. This is Sergeant Luke Olson." He nodded toward Loki, but kept his eyes on the stranger.

"Remy," he responded. "And how many soldiers have you brought to our commune, Captain Rogers?" Finally, he stood, looking past Rogers to where the rest of the squad stood in the street and looked around.

"Nine, counting myself," Rogers answered.

"Then why do I count ten?" asked Remy.

Loki wanted to punch him. He grabbed onto his belt with his free hand, just to make sure he behaved.

"The tenth's a civilian," Rogers said. "He's a doctor. We're taking him to England."

"He must be important, if it takes nine men to escort him," said Remy.

Loki shook his head. "You have no idea," he said.

Remy gave him that same curiously confused look, letting his gaze linger for longer than was comfortable. "I guess so," he said.

"Who's in charge here?" asked Rogers, quickly changing the subject. "We're running low on rations. I was hoping we might be able to resupply, and then get out of your hair."

Remy regarded him with suspicion for a few moments before nodding. "I'll take you," he said. He cast one more scrutinising glance to Loki before turning and leading the way down the road. He led Loki and Rogers to a house near the western edge of town, with a manicured garden in front and a cat on the step.

Remy knocked on the door, and they were shortly met by a man who looked half-asleep still. The man at the door looked at everyone suspiciously, before turning his attention to Remy.

"What is this?" he asked in French, either assuming neither of his guests spoke it, or not caring. "What are you bringing me? I don't want this."

Loki glanced over at Rogers and cleared his throat. "Then hear us out, and we'll be on our way and out of your village by midday," he said.

It was Remy's turn to clear his throat, if a bit more awkwardly than Loki had done. Some not-so-small part of Loki revelled in Remy's discomfort. "Pierre, they're Americans. They are asking for assistance."

He cast a sideways glance to Loki. Loki responded with an insincere smile.

"Assistance?" asked Pierre, looking back to Loki.

Loki turned and pointed back toward the centre of town, where the rest of the squad still remained. "We're escorting a doctor to England. We need only what you can spare." He glanced back again, struck by an idea. "And horses. Which we will pay for." Loki had no Francs, but he had plenty of gold at easy access that he could slip to the man without being seen.

"Horses?" asked Pierre.

"Horses," said Loki. "Ten, if you have them. The doctor we're escorting is injured. It's unsafe for us to drive, but horses might get us there just as quickly without having to stay on the roads."

Pierre nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. Perhaps you do something for me, and you can have your horses and your supplies. Or, you leave now, and I don't tell the Germans the next time they come asking for food where you're going."

"What Germans?" Rogers asked in very stilted French. Loki shot a quick look over to him, torn between glaring at gaping.

Pierre apparently didn't even notice. He pointed up the road as it lead away from his home, almost lazily. "Selves. They come for food, and if we don't have it, they take workers instead."

Rogers clearly understood enough of what was being said to cast Loki a wary look. Loki even gave him a matching one in return.

"How many?" Loki asked.

Pierre shrugged. "I don't ask."

Loki pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead so he could very tiredly rub his face. When he was done succumbing to utter despair, he looked up at Rogers and sighed. He knew that look already, and didn't even have to ask what the plan was.

"Ten horses, tacked and saddled. And enough food to get ten men to the sea," he said.

Pierre shrugged indifferently and waved them off before shutting the door in their faces. Loki sighed at it and then turned back to Rogers. "Since when do you speak French?" he asked.

Rogers shrugged. "I'm a quick study," he said. He started walking back down toward the centre of town. "What were you planning on paying him with? I did hear that right, didn't I?"

"I have money," Loki said, following him. "I get paid fifty bucks a month, and never get to spend a penny of it."

Remy was watching them again, trailing behind as they made their way back to the rest of the squad. Once they'd regrouped, Rogers explained the situation and the deal they'd made with the mayor.

"Why's it always gotta be fucking Germans?" Coulson asked tiredly.

"Why'd you ask for horses?" asked Jones. "Does anybody here know how to ride a goddamn horse?"

Loki looked around them, having not even thought that they wouldn't have known. "Yes," he said. "Do you not?"

Coulson cackled and sat down right there in the middle of the road. "You can't be from this planet," he said.

Shaking his head at the lot of them, Rogers pointed to Jones, Dugan, and Howlett. "I want you to go see what we're up against. We didn't get very much from our chat, but it didn't sound good. We just need a glimpse. Don't engage unless you have to."

Dugan dropped his pack on the ground and unloaded some of the heavier objects from his belt. "You know where we're going?" he asked.

Rogers nodded. "Yeah, this way." Once the other two were rid of their unnecessary gear, he led them back up the road to show them where to go.

As they left, the rest of the squad slowly dispersed, eager to explore the village before it was inevitably blown to hell. As Remy started to walk off, Loki dropped his own pack and followed after him.

"Who are you?" Loki demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

Remy didn't even turn to look at him. He just kept walking, eventually making the mistake of turning down an empty road. Taking the opportunity, Loki grabbed him and shoved him hard. Remy swung a punch at him, more out of startled reflex than intent, which Loki dodged, using the motion to shove Remy against the wall. He held him there with an arm pressed over his throat, threatening to cut off his air.

"Do not make me ask again," Loki said.

Remy stayed calmly still under Loki's weight, looking up at him and meeting his eye for the first time. "I think the question is who are you," he said.

"I am the son of Odin, and I will not be defied."

All of Remy's calm evaporated immediately, though he covered it quickly. He smiled, shaky at first, but still arrogant. "You must take after your mother then. But you don't look much like her, either."

Before Loki could stop himself, he moved away just far enough to punch Remy in the jaw. Were he human, it would have likely killed him, but Remy was barely staggered. Remy stood against the wall, rubbing his face.

"Okay. You hit like an Asgardian. I'll give you that," he said.

Loki hit him again, this time even harder. Remy staggered back, putting enough distance between them that Loki would have to telegraph another swing, but not bothered to actually flee.

"Tell me who you are and what business you have on this realm," Loki demanded. "Why you do nothing for the realm you are sworn to protect."

Remy actually laughed. "An oath I forsook long ago. Before you were even born, when I was called to war without a choice. I was just a mason. What did I know of war?"

Loki stepped forward to grab him again, pulling his bayonet off his belt and holding it against Remy's throat. "If you will not do your duty to the realm, then you will leave it," he growled through his teeth. "This realm is mine, and should I see you here again, you will not live long enough to regret it."

He pushed the edge of his bayonet against Remy's neck before stepping back.

"I take care of what's mine. You would do well to remember that," he said as he returned his bayonet to its place and walked away, not giving Remy the satisfaction of looking back.

By the time he made it back to fetch up his pack again, Rogers had returned and was talking quietly with Barnes.

"I don't like it," Rogers said.

Loki looked up at them as he picked up his pack. "Don't like what, sir?" he asked.

Rogers looked up the road and sighed. "This town. I feel like they're hiding something."

Loki had a feeling he knew what it was.

"I think the sooner we get out of here, the better," Loki said.

Barnes nodded. "The sooner we get out of France, the better. You're really sure about this? You're seriously not scrubbing it once we get back to friendly territory?"

"No," Rogers said, without hesitation. "But I'm not gonna force anyone to carry on if he doesn't want to. I think the Doc's right. Even if we don't find what we're looking for,we're gonna find something when we get there. And whatever it is, we need to make sure neither Hitler nor Schmidt get their hands on it."

Barnes frowned. "He just doesn't seem... all there to me," he said, wiggling his fingers by his head. "There's something off about him, talking about this stuff like it's real."

Loki frowned right back at him, beginning to wonder if Barnes was only there because Rogers wanted a friend. He barely even noticed Rogers' subtle nod in his direction.

"He's not the only man here who believes it is. Nor are they the only men in Europe. You don't have to come with, Buck. But I'm going." The way Rogers spoke said more than his words did. He wasn't just going to go all the way to Russia; he'd leave a trail of destruction to get there if he had to.

Barnes sighed and shook his head. "I'm with you til the end of the line. I just wish you weren't so fucking stubborn sometimes."

Rogers laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Nah, that's what you like about me." He looked around again, frowning at the general state of the village; at how clean and orderly and positively empty it was. "But you're right. We gotta get out of here as soon as we can."

"Are you suggesting we steal the horses?" asked Loki, determined to leave on horseback now that he'd had the idea.

For a second, he thought Rogers was going to chastise him for that question. "Just wait on that."

The scout team returned shortly after, unscathed and brimming with intel. They found a table in someone's garden and brushed the snow off it so Jones could draw out a crude map of what they'd come across.

"Hitler, or Hydra?" Rogers asked.

Dugan shook his head. "Couldn't tell, but they're definitely arming up in there. The rest of the village is empty, but whatever the big building is, it's been walled off."

"Any way in?" asked Rogers.

"Just the front door. If you think we can get through the guards," said Howlett.

Loki looked down at the map and chewed on his lip. "Have any of you ever played football?" he asked, snapping his fingers to remember the right word, since the Alltongue wouldn't translate it. "Soccer. Anyone play?"

"Olson, time and a place, buddy," Dugan said.

Loki shook his head. "No, I'm serious. I think with a football and enough concealed weapons, we could get in."

With everyone looking to Loki, he laid out his plan for taking a possible munitions depot with nine men and a football.