Oaths of Blood and Wine

37|Percy

Buchenwald Concentration Camp, Weimar, Germany, 1945

Finally, victory is secure, but it feels like a Pyrrhic victory.

The very idea of a Pyrrhic victory reminds me of her, but there's no time for that anymore. It's been almost three months, and I have people to liberate, lives to save, and a family to return to.

"You alright up there, Caldwell?" Pearson asks over the roar of the truck's engine, tapping my cap. 

I shift in my seat and keep my eyes on the trees.  "Yeah, just fine."

Pearson's an alright guy, but I wouldn't call him a friend on the level that I would call Sam or Oliver a friend.  I might've left the Special Ops, but the memories remain.

The tanks ahead of us rumble loudly, trampling anything and everything in their path.  They suddenly take a sharp turn, a turn so sharp that Pearson and I have to hold onto our stuff so it doesn't fall out.  I'm in charge of the bazooka and he's in charge of the ammo, so naturally we have a lot to carry.

"Holy..." Pearson trails off as a cluster of buildings rises in front of us, hidden behind layers of barbed wire fencing.  In German script, one metal gate reads, "Arbeit Macht Frei". The tanks mow down the wire like grass, but that's not what hits me the most.

The worst stench I've ever smelled fills my nostrils, and the source is no mystery.  Pitch black smoke pours out of the largest chimney I've ever seen, and when I glance at Pearson, his eyes are knowing.  It takes all of two more seconds for me to decipher the horrific odor: flesh.

A chill runs down my spine, but there's no time to waste.  The whole company comes to a stop about 20 yards from the buildings, and Pearson and I leap to the ground with everyone else.  I prepare the bazooka for German troops, but none emerge.

For just a moment, it's completely silent.  A gentle breeze crosses the area as the company commander calls for us to stand at ready.

Slowly, people begin to poke their heads out from the buildings.  It's just a couple people at first, all dressed in identical blue striped uniforms, but the numbers soon grow. They're almost impossible to tell apart aside from the colored badges on their shirts and any missing pieces of their uniforms.

Each one is pale, shaved bald, and nothing but skin and bone.  They come in any way they can: some on foot, some limping, some supported by companions at their sides.  I look at Pearson for answers, but he seems just as clueless as I am.

Silence falls across the land once they are done shuffling out.  Each side keeps their distance.

"Are you Americans?" a thickly-accented voice pipes up from their side.  There is a quiet murmur of German among them.

"Yes," I say.  As we inch closer to their side, they erupt with joy, foreign smiles and unfamiliar ease- or exhaustion, I can't tell- slackening their postures and features.

"Percy?" calls the voice of a ghost.  I double-take.

"Astride?" I choke out.

Though her head is shaven, her skin is bruised, her eyes are weary, and her face is gaunt, it is her.  There are black numbers etched into her forearm and a green badge emblazoned on her chest.

For the only time in my life, she is not beautiful.  She is weak and in pain and traumatized. This place ruined her.

But she is already in my arms, all bones of glass and skin of paper, she is here.  I press my lips to the top of her head and hold her close, trying to ignore the sharpness of her elbows and ribs against me.  She is here.

I breathe in her scent, rub my thumb against the stubbly head that used to be covered in long, soft brown hair. Nothing is the same but her soul, but it's enough for me.

"Astride," I say breathlessly, pulling away.  She looks up at me like a wounded animal, eyes round and glassy.  This is not the woman who ruled the world, who slaughtered Nazis to save her friends, who looked fear in the eye and grinned anyway. "What happened to Matthias and Amélie?"

She runs her thumb along my cheekbone, her touch light as a feather, and shakes her head.  A single tear streaks down her cheek like a falling star, but she has no energy left to cry.  "Percy," her voice is raspy and soft, still laced with that lilt that makes my name rhyme with the French word for thanks. I relish in it.

"What?" I ask.

She offers the smallest of smiles.  "Just making sure you are still here."  The tears in her eyes threaten to spill over, but she is smiling.

"Where would I have gone?"

I glance at my comrades and lower my voice. "What did they do to you?" It feels like an echo of a time not too long ago.

"It does not matter now," Astride grabs my hand. The twitch never quite stopped in her left hand.

"The medical team will be here soon with food," I say, "Are you okay?"

She nods. "I'm just so tired."

I fish around my pockets to look for something, anything, to fill her stomach. All I can come up with is a half-melted chocolate bar.

I hold it out to her, a meager offering, and she takes it, shedding one more tear.  The chocolate disappears in a blink.

The Sergeant starts yelling out orders.  I look at her, unsure of what to do, but she nods me ahead.  "Go on, you have a job to do."

I take off my cap and put it on her bald head.  "So I can find you later," I explain.

"Percy?" she says.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

I don't hesitate.  "I love you, Astride. So, so much."

Then we split apart again into two different worlds.