She held the letter in front of her, not believing what she had just read. Her hands shook uncontrollably, almost tearing the already battered paper in half. Setting it aside, her breaths coming in gasps, she fumbled for the other object that she had felt in the package. With shaky hands, she held the brown paper upside down and shook it out, one hand held underneath to catch whatever it was. But she missed it, and it fell to the ground. Emilie struggled to pick up the small, silver dog pendant she had given Tobias when she had left Berlin.

Not saying a word, she collected her crutches, climbed out of her foxhole, and walked away with the necklace held tightly in one hand, leaving the letter to the weather. Maybe someone else would find it when they came looking for her. She didn't care.

She walked right past the other soldiers, expressionless, not answering when they asked where she was going simply because she didn't hear them. Nothing registered. She could have had her arm blown off and not even noticed.

Emilie continued silently on her way, not even considering the fact that she would be shot on sight if any Americans spotted movement in the woods. She followed the 'U' shape the trees made around the small village of Foy. She continued like that for a long time, not even feeling the cold, not feeling anything. But that emotionless bliss didn't last forever. When she got to a certain points, she lost it.

She let out a screech, not caring who heard, friend or enemy, and threw her crutches to the ground, kicking them repeatedly with her injured foot, revelling in the agony it caused her. She tore at any exposed skin with her nails, drawing blood, slammed her fists against a tree trunk, sobbing uncontrollably the entire time.

What did she have to live for now? He was her life. The thought of her baby brother had been the only thing keeping her going. He was her best friend, her everything. But the worst thing of all was that he had been dead for four months. Four fucking months and she hadn't known, hadn't felt it, nothing. He was too young. Her mother was right: it was her fault. If she hadn't left, if she hadn't abandoned him, she would have been there to protect him. She should be dead, not him. Not Tobias. Not her little brother, who had barely begun to live.

Emilie staggered and fell to her knees, beating her fists against the hard snow until she split the skin on her knuckles and a light trickle of blood stained the snow. Her wails were muffled as she tucked her chin into her jacket, shaking her head. This was all a nightmare. She was going to wake up in her bed, back in Germany. Her entire body hurt. Her soul hurt. She felt empty, like everything even remotely good had been replaced by pain and a deep-set feeling of nothing.

"Miss Demont?" The voice sounded very far away. "Jesus Christ. Sergeant? Emilie?"

She faintly heard someone running towards her, and felt a hand on her back as they kneeled down beside her. Still choking on her tears and letting out incoherent sounds as she stifled wails, Emilie looked up to see Eugene, staring down at her with obvious concern and a frantic light in his eyes.

"Jesus, miss Demont," he breathed, looking down at her bloody hands, "What did you do to yourself?"

Emilie tried to say something, but she broke off in another sob, jerking away from Gene and hanging her head. She felt his hand hover over her back for a few seconds, before he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Alright, miss Demont," he soothed, "Let's get you to your feet. Everything's gonna be okay. C'mon."

She shook her head hopelessly, turning away from him. "Leave me alone," she managed to mumble, salty, warm tears falling onto her tongue. "I don't want you here."

Gene refused to leave. "Well, I don't care what you want," he replied, voice soft, scooting closer and raising himself into a crouch, "Now, come on, help me out here. Up we get." One arm still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, he slowly edged her to her feet. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, both because of her injured foot that was now twice as bad and her mind that was clouded by crippling grief, but Eugene caught her before she fell. She beat her fists against his chest, but he still didn't let her go.

Vision blurred by tears and eyes half-closed, mouth partially open as she fought for breath, she gave up on her stubborn, tough act and leaned against the American medic. He rubbed her arm comfortingly and lead her to a shallow foxhole that an American had obviously started to dig out and then abandoned as they had moved further into the woods.

He helped her down into the foxhole, slipping in after her. Emilie sat turned away from him, right shoulder pressing into the dirt uncomfortably, staring straight ahead. Her finger nails were bloody and already starting to bruise. She could feel his body heat radiating off of him as he sat beside her. Neither of them said anything for a minute. The thing that she felt most, above all the intense sorrow and horror, was a blinding rage.

Then, finally, with her back still turned to him, she whispered, barely audible, "If God truly loves us, why is He doing this?" Emilie's fingers brushed over the small, gold cross that hung from around her wrist, before she grabbed it and tore it away, breaking the chain. She let it fall silently from her palm onto the snow.

"What happened?" Eugene asked quietly. "What are you doing here, miss Demont?"

She shook her head, another tear running down her cheek. "My brother is dead." She didn't want to beat around the bush.

Emilie felt him tense beside her; she had told him about Tobias, about her love for him. He knew how much he meant to her. "I'm… Sorry," he murmured.

"You didn't know him," she muttered, chuckling darkly. When she was upset, she, for some strange, terrible reason that she had never understood, always felt the need to make everyone around suffer along with her. "You don't know how it feels."

"You're right. I don't have any siblings. But I have lost people – people I care about."

Sniffling, she rolled onto her back, turning her head to the side to face him, snow and dirt sticking to her right side where she had been lying. Her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. "I know you have," she whispered, forcing the words out as her throat closed up, aching and making speaking difficult, "And I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to see me like this. It's so stupid, but… I don't know how I'm going to go on." She broke off in a bout of coughing accompanied by sobs.

Gene usually looked so calm, but now, staring down at her with dark, hooded eyes and that little frown, he seemed so hurt, as though he hated seeing her like that. "Don't talk like that," he scolded her gently, "You're strong; you'll get through it, I know you will."

"You don't know me," she growled, lowering her eyes.

"No," he responded after a brief hesitation, "But you've told me how much your brother and your army mean to you, and I do know you'll fight through this 'cause you don't wanna let them down. You're stubborn, miss Demont. And that's not always a good thing, but, in this case, it is."

Her eyes flickered close; that soon proved to be a very bad idea, as the darkness allowed concocted images of her brother's mangled body to play over and over on the inside of her eyelids, for her to remember his tears when she had left him. She snapped open her eyes and glanced down at the dog pendant she was still holding, tracing her index finger over the tarnished object. Her chin quivered. She hated nothing more than showing weakness; she couldn't stress that enough. But, though her protective barriers were trying to crash down around her, the sadness and anger was just too much to contain, and kept shoving them back. It was a horrible, repetitive circle that wasn't helping her cope.

Not thinking, just searching for some comfort, no matter where it came from, she shuffled forward, burying her face into Gene's chest and fisting a handful of his jacket's material. Neither of them said anything; at first, Eugene stiffened, clearly unsure of how to react, but, after a few moments, he tentatively lifted his right hand and once again rubbed her arm soothingly. She cried quietly, staining his uniform where her tears fell. But he didn't seem to mind, and, if he did, he made no sign of it.

They stayed that way for a little while, Gene every so often murmuring something like "it's okay" into her auburn hair, his breath hot against her skin. He smelt musky, but it was a pleasant scent, filling her nostrils and making her feel at home – not home like in Germany, but just… Safe, as a home is supposed to be. She knew it couldn't last but, for now, she just enjoyed the extra warmth and closeness of another person as much as she could under the circumstances.

But, suddenly, she realised what she had been doing, and bolted away, almost hitting her head on the other side of the foxhole. Eugene jumped too, seemingly surprised at the sudden movement, but stayed where he was.

"I'm…" She wiped the tears frantically from her eyes and cleared her throat, "I'm sorry, Eugene. That was inconsiderate of me. I put you in an uncomfortable position. I, um…" Emilie looked around for her crutches, dazed and confused and taking a second to locate them even though the foxhole was no wider than five feet. As soon as she found them, she struggled to her feet. "I'll go now. Thank you, for… God, sorry, 'bye."

Emilie was scrambling onto the snow above the foxhole when Gene placed a hand on her hers to stop her. "Don't apologise," he told her, lips pursed, frowning in that way he got sometimes, like he was deep in thought, "Do you need help getting back?"

She tried to smile the best she could, forcing back yet another sob and wiping her eyes again. "No, no. I'll be fine." She gestured to his jacket. "Sorry for, um, ruining your uniform."

He looked down. "Nah, it probably helped clean it a little, anyway. Don't beat yourself up 'bout comin' here."

Emilie nodded, sucking in a breath. "Look out for yourself, yeah?" She raised her chin, using her protective method of closing herself of: humour. But she expected Eugene could see right through her. "Getting yourself blown up won't help anyone."

"Will do," he replied, smiling sadly. "You too, miss Demont." Just as she turned to go, he added, "And I'm sorry."

With a thin smile, Emilie began to make the long walk back to the line, back to the remarks of Eberhardt that she really couldn't handle at the moment. If he had any common sense at all, he would learn to not step on her toes at that particular moment. Because a woman in pain will do reckless, irrational things, and he was right in the firing line. She wouldn't be held responsible if she did anything she might later regret.

A/N: You know, it's funny. While I was writing this, it felt like I was in Emilie's position; my heart was doing crazy shiznit, and I felt sad a long time after ahaha. Well, I hope this doesn't disappoint. Review if you like, if you want to add one, big, stupid smile to my face. (; A lot of updates today ohwow.

I've kind of unintentionally been experimenting with different levels of sadness when it comes to Emilie losing people: you know, trying to ignore it when it came to Rene, blaming herself for everyone else, and then there's her brother, where she just feels this indescribable rage more than anything else, and this burning desire for revenge, taking it out on herself. I kind of based that off of when Guarnere lost his brother; in the book, it quotes him saying that, when they dropped him into Germany, they let loose this wild, blood-thirsty animal. So, yeah. Ahahah.

We'll just see where that takes us, I suppose. Hey, I don't know any more than you guys! I have this rough plan in my head for where things are going and what will happen, but mostly I just let it write itself. I hope you aren't disappointed. :D

Enjoy, my dears!

xx