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Chapter Text

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UNSENT LETTER FROM

Darlene Fearchild

Birmingham, England

TO

Unknown addressee

June 16, 1943

My Dear, 

Blood, so much blood. It's burning my stained hands, flowing from cold-stone body to floor. But it's not my blood, I keep repeating in my head. It's not mine, this blood of young men was shed at war. Horrendous time for humanity. This isn't the first drops of crimson substance to drop and surely not last. But you know it. 

Sometimes I wonder if I will shed blood, my own or someone else's. I save people's lives every day and I wonder how badly we have failed as a society to commit such crimes. Have you thought about that too?

I heard the young soldier's screams filled with pain and a silent plea for relief. Although I wanted to take away his pain, I couldn't, I wouldn't have enough skin to take his scars, blood to give when he started bleeding out, my bones wouldn't grow back where his leg had to be amputated. The bullet pierced his thigh, tearing tissue, muscles, grazing his femur. The man struggled and went limp under my touch, writhing in agony at the sight of the state of his body parts. Muscles and skin were torn as I searched for the bullet. Blood pooled at my feet, staining my worn-out shoes, it was everywhere. I could feel its metallic aftertaste as I rubbed my forearm across my face to wipe the stains from my chin, irritating and burning me.

Two other soldiers were holding him up on a table covered with a cloth as if to provide some comfort to the patients. Although I and the other nurses knew that the people who ended up on those tables would not experience any. One of them was holding him in check, pressing his chest against the table so he would not rise and interfere with my attempts to save his life. Both he and the other man were trying to convince him that everything would be okay and that he would come home. I am not sure who they were trying to convince; him or themselves.

His screams mingled with the many in that narrow alley I was in. Some were calling for a doctor, reporting more victims and bodies.

I had to clamp the femoral artery before he bled out. I clenched my fingers around the metal tool I was using to stab him in his torn-to-shreds body. Hot blood gushed, its drops falling to the ground into a puddle. My hands had long since stopped shaking from hours of work. I focused only on the boy in front of me who didn't stop his piercing screams.

I heard footsteps somewhere to the side, but there were so many of them that I couldn't tell who they belonged to. Only after a moment, when a doctor I recognized stood next to me, I let him take the scalpel and stepped back. I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat and the stream of blood that had spilled onto my apron from my neck. Without stopping for a moment of respite, I reached the next patient and tried to save his life.

Two weeks have passed today and I sat down to dinner with my aunt and uncle and I can still hear the shouts of that soldier. I was woken from my trance by Aunt Dorotha, who scratched me under the chin and placed a bowl of soup in front of me, steam rising from it.

She said I had wilted since I left home, and disappeared behind the wall by the kitchen door. I ignored her comment about my haggard appearance, as I saw myself in the hallway mirror as I took off my shoes. Dark strands of my hair stuck out from the braid I had wrapped around my head. My cheeks were a little sunken from the limited meals and few hours of sleep. Being on the front lines helping wounded soldiers, I am unable to take care of my own needs.

I don't like being away from home for such long periods. I last stayed with my aunt and uncle Farnsworth in Birmingham in the autumn. Then I was moved to the outskirts of London.

Aunt came back with another bowl filled with warm soup and sat down opposite me. I heard the creaking of the stairs as my uncle came down them, holding something in his hand. Without a word, he sat down at the small table where his wife, my godmother, and I were sitting. We looked at each other and grabbed each other's hands. I closed my eyes, but when I heard the first words from my auntie's mouth, I automatically opened one eyelid to glance at my uncle.

We thanked God in prayer for that meal, prosperity, and safe return to the family. I repeated the word Amen.

Uncle Quentin then passed me an envelope addressed to me across the table and said that it had arrived before my return. At first I thought it might be a letter from one of my brothers or parents, but when I read the signature on it my heart stopped.

A United States Army officer, Chester Phillips, offers me a transfer to a unit under his command in New York, but I cannot recall where I know this man from, or how does he know me.

It's been so long since I've been to my homeland, it's been so long since I've seen my parents and brothers. I miss the peace and quiet, the lack of blood on my hands when I'm not forced to...

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Chapter Text

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SENT LETTER FROM

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

Azzano, Italy

TO

Steve Rogers

Brooklyn, New York

USA

October 7, 1943

Steve,

The fighting is heavy, we're losing a lot of men. I'm writing this to you from my camp tent, every evening could be my last. I'm glad you're not here, you don't have to see the piles of corpses lying on every corner, you don't have to smell the tearful smell of rotting flesh. I'm glad you're home, even though I know you'd rather be here with me, fighting for your country. You're a good man, too good to die in a place like this. 

Look after Becca for me. 

Bucky.

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| November 1943 |

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. Although it was more of a fever dream, which he had already experienced on his win skin. Seeing the next images, he knew what would inevitably happen, but he still couldn't change the course of events. It always started the same way. He was in this strange place he had ended up in with other soldiers four days ago. They had lost the fight at Azzano, a tank had exploded and ruined their chance of winning. He had been taken unknowingly and thrown into a train, squeezed with a mass of other soldiers, whose names he didn't know and probably wouldn't know, because they all died one by one. On the journey in the tight carriage, they suffocated, trampled, pushed just to get some space for themselves. Dirty, tired, starving. When they were forced out onto the snowy ground, he vomited from the sudden access to air. They hit him in the face with a rifle for that.

The air here wasn’t clean, it was filled with smoke released from the large chimneys on the roofs of the factories, where he was supposed to be working on a new weapon for Hydra, or maybe the Nazis.

When on the fourth day of work he was ordered to take a box of ammunition to one of the officers, he was falling in health. This was only the beginning of his body adjusting to the new, brutal work schedule, where food was limited to a watered-down soup. His stomach tightened, but at the sight of a bowl of fresh, lusciously-looking apples he couldn't help himself. Still alone in the office, extravagantly decorated, almost luxurious compared to the conditions of his cell, which was completely empty, and the only furniture was a pallet stuffed with hay, he looked around at the closed door. Quickly but carefully he grabbed one of the fruits, thinking that among so many, a mountain of food that other people in the camp had no access to, no one would notice the disappearance of one. He hid it under the dirty shirt he had arrived in. That same day it was stained with his own blood, when he was whipped on the back for theft. Officer Colonel Lohar ordered him to be given twenty-five harsh lashes.

But it was just another dream.

The cells were wet and cold. Bucky felt like he had been assigned the worst one to make his situation even more miserable. After a month of slave labor in one of the weapon facilities for Hydra, his tired body, which lost strength every day, had become accustomed to the monotonous work at the life-depriving machines. Considering his health, he was doing least of all soldiers, but it wasn't his fault. The pneumonia he had caught from the cold ground he had slept on was burning his forehead from the inside. His chest was sore from the last time Officer Colonel Lohar had cracked his ribs. He was surprised he could still move.

As a soldier he was prepared for every possibility, he could not imagine ending up in a place resembling a labor camp. The place was filthy, deprived of human reflexes, unleashed savagery. The desire to fight for survival. The large building was surrounded by barbed wire, on which hung shreds of clothes from prisoners who had tried to escape. They tried because they failed. If the guards in gray uniforms had not shot off the escapee's head, the harsh winter outside the fence would probably have frostbitten their body. He had become accustomed to the fact that he did not move anywhere without armed soldiers guarding him, ready to put a bullet through his throat. At sunrise, they took him to a large hall where, together with a thousand other kidnapped and held soldiers fighting against the Nazis, he worked on creating weapons for the enemy, and in the evening back to his cell. Sometimes there was a transport, warned by the sound of the train, which announced new prisoners to everyone. Then a few of the already incarcerated were chosen for "unloading", during which, if they did not disobey the officers' orders, they could take parts of the clothing of the weaker, newly arrived soldiers. No one cared whether they were killed or taken to hard labor. The only mercy they were shown was not knowing  in what torment they would spend the next few days of their lives. Everyone took care of themselves, survival and physiological needs were most important. Slaves were stripped of compassion, human reflexes. The only exception was the help Barnes received from several prisoners who noticed his condition after one of Officer Lohar's visits, when his face was smeared with his own blood, his chest bent inward. Five weeks had passed since the unfortunate accident that resulted in the death of the Officer who often visited Barnes' cells. He still felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth as the man's boot dug into his stomach over and over again.

"You're working too slowly! You are weak!" He repeated to him with every kick, every punch to the jaw.

Bucky couldn't remember when exactly the wounds on his stomach had turned into a searing pain around his left arm. In the morning, he was taken to some ward, injected with an unpleasant dose of medication, and later he woke up in his cell, very exhausted and sore. It was agony for him, when he felt the prints of fingers tracing paths on his skin, he felt the bruises collecting on his wrists as if he had been tied for hours.

Even now, he was uncomfortable as he lay with his eyes closed in a pool of water under the railings of his cell. He felt the cold bars brushing against his exposed skin, and the burning touch of a strange hand pressing something against the wound that had formed on his arm, the origin of which he was unable to identify due to his lack of memory of the last few hours. Like every day.

Waiting was driving him crazy, just like the touch that paralyzed his senses. The tingling was getting stronger, he closed his eyes tighter. He struggled, pulling away from the person who was washing his burning wound with something that caused a stinging sensation. He couldn't stand it anymore, his heart began to beat faster, hitting the cage of ribs painfully. He unconsciously grabbed the hand that was rubbing the scrap of material against his heated forehead, almost squeezing it through the barriers of the cell wall and pushed back to throw away the person who was causing this discomfort. His ears registered a dull clang. Bucky opened his eyelids but saw only the darkness of the cell. He began to sob for air, moving away as far as the small area of ​​the cage allowed him. He put his face on the cold floor to cool down. After a moment, his eyes got used to the prevailing darkness, he could see a curled up figure on the other side.

He didn't hear a second breath as the person held it back to be as quiet as they could. He only saw the outline of her silhouette, trying to squeeze into the opposite corner from him, separating herself with the bars he had hit her against a moment ago. After a heartbeat, he heard quiet rustling and the sliding of a body on the concrete floor. It was so cold, but his skin burned mercilessly. Something hit the bars of his cell and splashed drops of water. A wet rag lay under them. Bucky breathed heavily, not knowing what the gesture meant. Was this person trying to hit him with the cloth?

"You have a fever," A barely audible whisper echoed through the cell next to him. He didn't know who it belonged to, since the locked place next to him was always empty when he woke up and when he fell asleep. Confused, he stared into the dark space, trying to see the person who was talking to him. "Put this on your forehead, it will help."

"Are you American, Miss?" It sounded more like a statement than a question, he could this tell from her accent.

He didn't get an answer, the murmurs had completely died down. The person had mastered the art of silence so that he wouldn't hear her in his sleep, not even her breathing. He was waiting for some sentence, a word that would bring him an answer to why this person wanted to help him. In this place, you didn't get it for free, you didn't get it at all. Lohar was an exception. Maybe this night too.

     ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗     

The man ran through the underground corridors. The bends doubled and tripled before his eyes, creating a kind of labyrinth that seemed to lead nowhere. It was dark here, only the green lights of bombs from outside illuminated his moving legs. However, he ran forward, looking for the one in whose life he still believed. It was for him that he broke the rules and set off to Austria. Steve Rogers had to find his friend. 

At the end of the corridor he saw a short man with glasses and a clutched briefcase. He smiled at him wickedly, as if he knew something he didn't. Some secret. But Rogers was disturbed by the sight of a young woman next to him. Her shadowed silhouette was distinguished by a white apron over a crumpled dress. Before he could shout to them, the short man dragged her down a distant corridor. Steve wanted to run after her, but she wasn't the one he'd been looking for hours.

He quietly slipped into the room, the sight of the door after many steps of the empty corridor was hope. It was large, the walls were brick, the light came through the windows covered with foil so that nothing could be seen from the outside. Already at the entrance he heard someone groaning.

"Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven," The voice murmured the words hoarsely.

Steve, who didn't care if it was his friend or not, immediately ran towards the metal table upon hearing that someone needed help. He felt all the color drain from his face as he saw Bucky half dead in front of him. His face had thinned out, robbing him of his handsome-Brooklyn-youth. His hair had been shaved short, barely regrown moss. The hair was often used to make felt which was used for seals in submarines. 

"Bucky? Oh, my god," Rogers tried to wake him up, to make him open his heavy eyelids. 

He threw himself at the bindings on his friend's wrists that prevented him from moving. He had never seen his best friend like this. Beaten, tortured. The shirt on his left shoulder was sloppily rolled up, revealing cuts on his skin. Rough and uneven cuts, as if they wanted to attach something there.

"It's Steve. It's me."

"Steve? Steve? Steve?" Bucky repeated over and over, bringing himself back to verge of consciousness. He was too tired to think straight, to move his lips all the way. Maybe it was another dream or maybe he was on the edge of death.

"I thought you were dead." His friend, now his savior, admitted sadly. He patted his shoulder and Barnes hissed in pain. Seeing his condition, he wrapped Bycky’s arm around his own neck and moved towards freedom.

"I thought you were smaller." He tried to remember what had happened and how he had ended up in the room. He had no idea why he was lying on a metal table with medicine and medical equipment scattered around him. Only a memory of gentle, hesitantly touch crossed his mind. 

"Come on." His friend hurried him along, looking around for any obstacles or enemies.

"What happened to you?" Barnes asked, admiring Steve’s height and new body.

"I joined the army."

Bucky remembered the rest as if through a haze. Sometimes he wondered if it was because of the hours of experiments he had been subjected to that day, or if it was the decades that had passed that had caused it. He run after his best friend, left, right, up. The structure loomed high above the bursts of fire someone had unleashed, heat blazing across his already hot face. Beads of sweat fell down the collar of his ruined shirt. The echoes of doom echoed in all directions, deafening his confused senses as they stopped before a bridge. On the other side, two men waited for them. One was taller, chin raised, his black cloak billowing in the blast. Barnes shivered as he noted his hideous resemblance to Officer Lohar.

"Captain America. How exciting! I am a great fan of your films!" His voice dispersed the sounds coming from below. The soldiers who hadn't managed to escape were burning alive, and Bucky could smell the smoked flesh.

His head started spinning even more, from the stench of dying people, from the realization of who the other man was. He was short, with glasses that covered his small eyes. Bucky stood before his tormentor who had been experimenting on his body for the past few weeks. He grabbed the metal railing, wanting to throw up the bile that had risen to his throat, but there was nothing else in his stomach. He was disgusted by him, mad by the way his body was reacting.

"So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all." The taller one hissed, but his words were clearly aimed at Steve. They didn't care about Bucky, they didn't want their guinea pig back. That was probably worse.

Fire roared as Rogers approached the bridge, his opponent doing the same. They glared at each other.

"Not exacly an improvement, but still, impressive."

 "You have no idea." He swung his shield at the man’s cheek, knocking his head to the side. As the strange man began to laugh ominously, the skin beneath his eye began to droop, revealing red.

Bucky watched as his friend was soon attacked as well. A dent appeared in his shield as the other fighter dug his fist into it. It wasn't a human blow.

"Haven't I? No matter what lies Erskine told you. You see I was his greatest success!" He screamed and clawed at Steve through his shield, saliva dripping from his mouth like a rabid dog. "No measly soldier will stop me from achieving perfection! No one will ever stand in my way again! One tried to distance me from success and paid dearly for it!"

Barnes shook with the effort of just standing, unable to breath with the feeling of the smaller man still observing him. He glared at him, losing the other man's words in this chaos. 

"Are you talking about Erskine?" Steve asked. 

The man across from him laughed again, his fingers traveling to his neck where he began to scrape away skin. His own skin. "Oh, no. I'm talking about the one who thought he could outsmart me and hide Erskine. The stupid soldier who was just meat and bones when I am mighty!"

Rogers was as confused as Bucky. Who the hell was he talking about? 

"You are deluded, Captain. You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality, you are just scared to admit that we have left humanity behind. Unlike you I embrace it proudly. Without fear!" He announced proudly, walking away as the bridge began to split.

"Then why are you running?" Steve called out to him, but he was already gone. He and his companion disappeared through a door on the other side of the chasm. "Come on, let's go up!"

They climbed the stairs again, Barnes barely keeping up. His legs were tangled, the steps merging into one, making him stumble. When they reached the next level, their eyes saw a structure of thin metal leading to the other side. There was an exit there. Rogers pushed his friend to go first, unsure if it could support them both. Without protesting, Bucky moved across the piece of metal, slowly. He breathed sharply, his lungs burning with the effort as the fire burned everything beneath him. His stomach ached, he couldn't concentrate. Something began to crumble under his shoes, clatter and make disturbing sounds, so he decided to jump for the railing. Just as he made it to the other side, the metal structure fell into the abyss, leaving Steve within a way to escape.

"Gotta be a rope or something!"

"Just go! Get out of here!" Rogers ordered him, ready to sacrifice himself. Bucky was barely conscious, but he still couldn't let his best friend stay here and burn to ash. He was too good to die in agony.

"No! No without you!" The protest reached him, and in a moment Bucky witnessed his best friend parting the metal barriers and creating a passage for himself. He couldn't determine if this was really happening or if his alleged fever was cooking his brain cells.

The choking smoke from below blocked his view for a moment, but then Rogers landed at his feet on the safe side. He pulled him up, keeping his balance as he did so. Steve, seeing his condition, put a hand to his forehead and removed it almost as if he had been burned.

"Buck you have a fever." He stated with concern in his blue eyes.

It reminded Barnes of something. A similarly caring touch, yet foreign. The touch of the person in the cell next door who had told him the same words. He almost had to spit out the cold lungs that were no longer cooperating with him, but he wanted to throw himself down the stairs and find the stranger. She had saved his life. How many times had she taken care of him when he had been struggling with illness for weeks? He didn't want to think about it because he didn't want to know. He didn't want it to turn out that she had treated him multiple times. That it had even happened more than once.

"I have to go back to my cell."

"What? Buck, you can barely stand, we have to get out of this place before it explodes!"

"That's why I have to go back, damn it!" It took a lot of energy for him to sound decisive. Too much to do what he thought was right. Even if it violates his comfort.

"Then I'm coming with you."

"No."

"No?" Rogers asked in disbelief.

"You're too good to die, Steve. You promised you'd take care of Becca if I couldn't. And I promised my mom...I promised her I'd take care of my sister. You know I'm with you till the end of the line, but I have to go alone."

At first his friend didn't seem convinced, but he closed his eyes and sighed. He pulled some kind of device out of his jacket pocket and handed it to him along with the rifle on his back. "When you leave the building, find a signal and use this communicator. I will come back for you."

Bucky nodded in agreement, and before he could part ways, his friend took off his jacket and handed it to him. He was too cold not to take it and put it on.

Without wasting any time they lacked, he quickly chose the path leading to the narrow corridor. He ran as far as his exhausted body would allow, everything blurring before his eyes. He blindly found his way out of the factory hall where weapons and machines were being manufactured just yesterday. He headed to the hall next door, where prisoners were being held. It was deserted, and all the cells were wide open. He forced his legs to move again, determined not to trip over them. He stopped  in front of the cell next to his own. It was the only one closed, more in shadow than the others. He yanked on the door but the lock didn't fall, only clanged against the clanking metal. He grabbed the bars tightly in his hands, supporting himself on them, and focused his blurry vision on its interior. 

"I know you're here, speak up," He asked for cooperation, for some sign that she was really here, that he wasn't wasting time and risking his poor life. 

He tugged the door at the soundlessness that lulled him to sleep.

"Hey, you there!" A voice shouted from behind.

Bucky turned just in time as one of the guards ran at him with a gun. He pushed himself away from the cell and dodged before he was shot. He was slowed and dehydrated, but the will to survive was stronger. When the guard in the gray coat wanted to shoot him again, he grabbed his hand and directed the gun upwards so that the shots hit the high ceiling, then hit him with a headbutt. Taking advantage of the moment, he ripped the gun from him and pushed his head against the metal walls of the cells. It did not stun him, so Barnes went to the extreme and shot him in the knee.

The attacker fell to the floor unconscious, and a quiet cry rose from beside him.

"You– You killed him." The figure from the darkness declared.

"I did what was necessary to keep him from killing us."

"Leave me here and save yourself, the fever will soon wear you out and we'll both die anyway." The whisper made him feel worse than he thought he could.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat and approached the dead guard. He found the keys hanging by his belt and took them. He also immediately stripped him of his long coat, which he threw over his shoulder. He began searching through the keys to find the right one and turned every other one in the padlock. The door creaked and opened. Bucky quickly opened it wide and burst inside, hearing the murmurs of someone moving away from him against the walls. He only managed to grab her by the ankle and pull her towards him before she started struggling.

"I'm trying to save your life!" He tried to reason with her as she kicked him hard in the chest. 

"I don't want you to do this! They will find me anyway!" 

"No one will find you if you let me save you and take you somewhere safe!" He grabbed the material of her dress and pulled it up along with her body. She was still thrashing in his arms as he threw her over his shoulder like he had thrown the coat.

He quickly left the hall, hearing the sounds of fighting outside. He decided that the back door, which he had observed when he was still returning from work at the machines, would be a better option. Only authorized officers who took the number of prisoners every evening to check if everything was correct passed through it. Now Bucky tried to kick it open, while supporting the woman on his shoulder. The door hit the wall outside, and he resumed his escape. It led out to the back of the camp, where smaller buildings with offices for officers and guards were scattered. He made his way through the sounds of gunfire and tanks running people over. One of them made a hole in the fence with its cannon, on which shreds of clothing waved in the wind. They were like a warning flag, but Barnes ignored them and made his way to the snowy foothills. He waded into the forest that spread out around the factory, he didn't know how far he should stop to let Steve know with his communicator.

He would probably have rushed forward if not for the sound of the explosion and the gust of wind that disturbed his balance. He felt the cold snow on his face that enveloped him in sleep.

   ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

Time slowed and then sped up as Bucky woke up. His head was throbbing worse than it had during the hours of the brutal officer's visits. He felt the snow melt beneath his heated body, soaking into Steve's jacket. Hands shaking from the cold and exhaustion, he tried to push himself up from the frozen ground, but fell back down. The snow choked him as he lay face down and tried to regulate his breathing. The cold pierced his body from the top of his shaved head to the tips of his toes in his soaked boots. He tried to push himself up again, this time he succeeded, and was sitting on his knees, staring out at the desolate landscape. The sun shone through the trees, but it didn't melt the mountains of white snow. Steam rose from his lips as he took in the sight, allowing himself a moment of breath after days of torment. He closed his eyes, reveling in the freedom. The only thing that drowned out the hissing gust of frosty wind was the sound of a rifle being reloaded. He turned his head slowly, ready to defend himself from the attacker who was aiming at him with his own weapon that he had forgotten about.

Just as he forgot about the woman he had saved from the explosion. About the woman who was aiming at him at the moment.

Steam rose from her mouth, clouds of it covering her rosy cheeks sprinkled with freckles. She watched him with terrified, wide-open brown eyes. He noticed her shaking hands as she uncertainly held the weapon. Only now, in this life-threatening but oh-so-majestic scenery, could he take a closer look at her and say that despite the hunger visible on her cheeks, the bruises under her eyes and the fact that she was barely able to stand on her feet, she was like a lost deer in the middle of a forest full of hunters. 

The most remarkable hunts are those that are let loose, leaving us with scars. 

Chapter Text

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SENT LETTER FROM

Darlene Fearchild

Washington, USA

TO

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

London, England 

July 19, 1944

My Dear James.

Today Rebecca and I went to the state piano competition. She did a great job, touching the soul of everyone in the audience. I would miss the flowers in the garden to reward her with. I am sorry you could not be here. But she still claims that you are her hero because by fighting the enemy you enable her to develop her passions and live in prosperity.

She often talks about you, more often than I dream of your face on your birthday when we met again.I feel under my fingers how the wind caressed the pages with the notes of the songs that I played for you every time you came for her and I pretended that I hadn't waited for it the whole lesson. To see your face in the empty auditorium, the only one whose applause I was waiting for.

She told me about your childhood from her perspective. Don't be mad at her, she's young and needs to talk to someone other than her school friends or her older brother. To her, you were always someone she could rely on, someone who took care of her long before she knew it. When you joined the army at eighteen, she was only ten. I put myself in her place - she probably thought you had abandoned her. I understood that your rebellion against Major Samson was only an attempt to protect her. I admire you for your strong will and that even though you hate that man, you still left Rebecca in his care. You gave her a better life, for which she is now grateful. I wish you knew, I wish you had a chance at a better life too. 

Maybe one with me.

Your Darlene. 

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| March 1944 |

𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧. It happened to him more and more often, everywhere. It had been like this since he started to appreciate the comfort of a flat mattress, the back of a chair or even his friend's arm. The softness he could sink into was a luxury he had missed in the Hydra weapons factory. Sometimes he dreamed about this place, the same agonizing nightmare. Vivid, making sweat run down his back like blood from the wounds when he was whipped. They reminded him that he had survived, but at what cost.

Leaving the train, he was surrounded by a thicket of white cotton wool, creating clouds of smoke that quickly turned into the memorable smell of Brooklyn. The station was filled with people, old and young, greeting the soldiers. He walked through the crowd, not turning his face towards the tearful women kissing their missed husbands, fathers hugging sons who had volunteered for service so that the authorities would spare their sick parents. He walked through the masses, not stopping his pace, not listening for the call of his name with a breaking longing. No one tugged at his green uniform, to immediately close him in a tight embrace, which he needed because he felt that he would soon crumble and fall apart. His heart was disintegrating.

He stood in front of the wooden door, knowing who was waiting behind the threshold. Struggling with himself, he grabbed the handle and reminded himself that he was a grown man who shouldn't be afraid. He had survived the hell of battles, the agony and torture in the factory, escape and a certain Lady who aimed at him with his own weapon. Bucky pushed the door open and put the small suitcase on the floor under the coat rack. He raised his head at the sound of the creaking of wood. At the end of the narrow corridor by the entrance to the kitchen stood Major Samson, watching him with disappointment in his old, wise eyes. For a few seconds he gave him his attention, only to disappear behind the wall. Bucky swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and tensed his shoulders to present himself impeccably. Although on the other hand, he wanted to ignore his posture and rebel against him again, like he did in his teenage years.

Reluctantly, he moved towards the room where he found Major sitting at the end of a small table with two chairs. The other was opposite him and the man nodded to indicate that he should take it.

"Sit down, Soldier." It wasn't a request, it was an order, one Bucky had learned not to deny over the past years.

"I'm no one's soldier, especially not yours."

"And you aren't Steve Rogers' too?" The Major asked, raising his thick, bushy eyebrows.

It was a challenge, he was goaded on to anger, knowing that Barnes' loyalty reached the roots of his  soul, to his childhood when he felt a huge responsibility for his sister and risked his neck so that she would have a better life. The number of belt strokes was compensated for by the number of smiles from little Rebecca who received new dresses and dolls. He accepted the contempt, the severity of Major Samson who took over as their legal guardian after their parents died. Bucky was never sure why he did it, but it didn't change the fact that he hated him. He was the one who brought that doctor.

"Steve is my friend, not my supervisor." He assured through gritted teeth, trying to keep his nerves from clenching in his own mind.

Rogers becoming an American hero - Captain America, was a reason for pride for him, not to fall on his knees before his own friend and serve him. He will never kneel before someone's power over him to lose his torn dignity from which they tried to strip him.

"But you joined his special team without a second thought. What's it called? Oh, The Howling Commandos."

"Because I wanted to, I wasn't forced."

"Ah, loyal James, old values ​​have awakened in you, eh," Laughing dryly, he bring the glass he had been playing with to his lips. "Would you like some scotch?"

"No, thank you, Major. " Barnes almost spat out the last word.

"Too bad." The older man dipped his lips in the drink.

"Too bad for you."

"Don't act like a child, soldier. You're twenty seven years old and you should speak to me with respect for what I've done for you and continue to do for your sister. You need to sort out your own hierarchy of values. What's more important to you; hating me or Becca's safety and well-being?"

Barnes fell silent, sending him a hateful look that softened after a moment at the thought of his sister. The person who was the last one person left of his familyand the apple of his eye. He could hate the old Major who, despite his years, really held up well, and only the dry skin of his face marked by time gave evidence of it, but he was bitterly aware of how much he owed him. Becca could go to boarding school where she built her future that he wouldn't be able to provide for her. He let her live with Major in his large mansion on the outskirts of Washington, while he stayed in his own mansion in Brooklyn.

"I thought so," He glanced at his uniform and stood up from his chair. "Good thing you're already packed, let's not waste any time and go to my residence. Aren't you sick of this little place?"

"This is my home, which I pay for and maintain myself. Not some little place."

"As filthy as the one you lived in with your parents." 

"Enough!" 

"Don't raise your voice at me, Soldier. Unless you want to experience again the haughty fatherly hand your old man clearly lacked, " Samson slammed his hand on the table. "About-face and leave the apartment. Do it now!"

Barnes did as Major Samson had commanded him to. 

    ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗     

Time passed like clockwork as Bucky stared out the window of the car. He had just stepped off the speeding steamer returning to his homeland and now he was driving through the hustle and bustle of Washington. The sun slightly blinded his tired eyes, reminding him that March days were short. He absorbed the view of the world changing from winter to March, although there were two weeks left until the calendar spring. In his cells, he missed nature and the human landscape of rushing passers-by. The only remaining memory was of the harsh mountain peaks beckoned with white snow or the cathedral on the hill where he had spent the last few hours of agony. Where he tried to warm himself and the stubborn woman he had pulled out of the frozen water. 

The huge theater in the heart of the city towered over him with golden arches. He stood before its entrance feeling unworthy to cross the divine-artistic threshold. He felt that the green uniform did not fit his elegant decor and rich surroundings. He was just a humble, poor soldier fighting so that plays and songs could be created about the brave historical deeds he committed himself to. Never did he wanted applause for them. Bucky found no one in the waiting room decorated with red couches and gold accessories, so he headed to the main hall. He had never been there before, so he was finally forced to look at Major Samson when the vehicle stopped in front of the building, confused. The man only told him to hurry up. The main hall was filled with rows of chairs and pillars, looking like architecture in a temple of some God. The aisle between the seats branched off into boxes and balconies, finally leading to the raised stage in front of him. Right from the door, he could hear the sweet melody of the piano, confusing his senses and sending shivers down his neck.

In the empty audience, a woman sat with her back to him. From the side, he could see the profile of his sister, so changed by adolescence. Although the last time he had managed to meet her was almost half a year ago, he played her image in his mind every day. She was a spark of light in the dark cell he was in. She rested her chin on her folded hands as if in prayer, but her faith was the music flowing from the fingers of the person playing the instrument. Bucky followed the trail of invisible notes closer to the stage, but his legs did not pull him to slow dance, but to get closer to his family.

"Jimmy," Rebecca's quiet whisper fell from her lips as she felt the chair beside her give way under someone's weight. His sister tore her blue gaze from the piano and grabbed his hands. "Thank God, you're okay."

He pressed her to him, putting into it every semblance of the longing he had felt during the time of lack of contact. Both of them - separated - worried about the lives of their siblings, haunted by the shadows of the past and loss. "I'm here, Becca. Just as I promised."

"I have never doubted you, Jimmy," She sobbed, clutching his fingers and wetting the material of his long uniform coat. "I was very worried, you didn't send letters directly and only Steve knew what was happening to you, but I couldn't contact him for the last few months. I was crumbling of fear that something had happened to you."

"I'm fine, really. I'm so glad to see you, you've grown up." He studied her face, so parallel to his that he could swear he saw his reflection in the mirror.

They were similar since childhood; the color of their dark hair like chestnuts in autumn, the blue of their mother's iris eyes. When she cast her angelic gaze at him, he saw the lost woman who had given birth to him. He appreciated the fragments of her presence in Becca, because then he felt that she was still with him. Although he was with her like two peas in a pod, it was Rebecca who inherited the charm and grace, and the delicacy that he absorbed. Soothed by the calm touch of his mother's hand on his hair, as a little boy he fell asleep hearing her smooth voice in a lullaby. The words were not important if it was her singing it. She lulled him to sleep among the fluffy clouds that she would enter shortly after death. Then he tried to sing to his sister, although salty tears flooded his vocal cords.

"I'm eighteen already, I'm not that little."  Becca giggled with her radiant smile so as not to disturb the person who was playing.

She was a beautiful girl, although you could still see her childish features that did not leave her cheerful face. Dressed in a white sweater and elegant skirt, she presented herself like a young lady from a rich house, it was not her brother's house but the kindness and hospitality of Major Samson. Bucky was hurt that he could not provide her with this, but he wanted to believe that his departure was for the better; she lived in a large mansion with her own room, she no longer had to share a single bed with him, which he later gave up when his legs started to stick out over the edge, she went dressed in elegant dresses and wore polished shoes, and her hair was smooth and smelled of rowan. Despite this, Bucky still saw her as his little sister, whom he swore to protect his mother. The oath he had made took root in his heart when squeezing his mother's hand, he saw the fire in her dying.

"I know, I know. But I'm having a hard time accepting how much time I've lost with you. How is school?" Masking the pain that was creaking in his heart was easy. 

"I like it, a lot, Jimmy. Major Samson let me choose extra classes and I'm taking French. He even provided me with a replacement for my piano teacher because she got sick," As the girl was speaking, her gaze was focused on the stage where the music was coming from a single spotlight. She watched it like a painting, following the movements of the player's wrist. Becca moved her head closer to him to whisper in his ear. "But I think I like this one better. Just don't tell it to Madame Bovaary."

"Are you happy?" One simple question wandered in his thoughts. He was ready to sacrifice everything he had left; himself, so that she could live as she dreamed.

"Yes." Becca answered quietly.

"Then it's all that matters."

The music seemed to reach his ears more vividly, awakening him with sweet melancholy. The piece was rather calm, but it carried a deep message. Maybe he didn't know much about music, but he remembered the days when his beloved mother would play songs to dance while cooking dinner. He would hide behind the table and eavesdrop. There were evenings when Winnifred would play slower rhythms to sit by the fireplace and watch the sparks shoot. He often had reflections on what she could have been thinking then. That soon they would run out of money for bread? That her children will be left alone when the illness finishes her off? Bucky remembered that naturalistic image, when she spent her last day of life lying in bed, stroking his head, even though he was already sixteen and his father had scolded him for the fact that it was not proper for an almost adult man. However, he was lying cuddled in his mother's arms, and in the background that memorable piece by Ludwig van Beethoven was playing.

Moonlight Sonata and its sustained notes represented moments of his greatest pain and loss, returning in a fiery note of his struggle. Rebecca rested her head on his shoulder and listened to the slow sounds that surrounded them like once motherly arms.

"Happy Birthday, Jimmy."

Bucky smiled to himself, and the music slowly finished its story, the message of which it carried to the world. He thought to himself that this was the best birthday he had had in many years; he was with his sister and mother, who wished him well through their favorite song.

Rebecca tore herself away from her brother and almost immediately stood up to give a thunderous applause to the person who sowed silence in the huge hall. Bucky watched his sister's actions for a moment to direct his gaze into the depths of the darkness. The white beam of the spotlight illuminated the central place on the stage where a woman stood in a velvet beige dress. Her flared bottom reached her calves and reminded him of a lily flower spreading on the morning dew after a long night. The short sleeve revealed the nimble fingers that were the perpetrators of this display of art and craftsmanship. Shoes with a small heel clattered on the foundation of the stage as the woman bowed and approached the edge. There she stood, a mysterious stranger like a ghost or a phantom haunting the walls of the theatre to play the last verse to her deceased beloved. She appeared to him like a white swan with her long neck and straight silhouette. He couldn't see her face as when he carried her in his arms; frozen, soaked, delicate as the snow around them. 

He sat enchanted by how beautiful this woman was amidst the silence of the emptiness he had inside him, how she remained motionless and around her the light illuminated the flying particles of air like the snow that stuck to her hair when he first saw her.

"Good evening, Sergeant. Would you like to hear another song?" 

The March air blew with Barnes as he left the haunted theater, leading Becca by the arm. It was a rare gesture that he allowed only her and his mother at functions, as he usually avoided such physical contact with women. He considered himself a gentleman, but he felt that leading by the hand meant a kind of attachment, as if a red string was tied to his hand and the other end to the counterpart of his chosen one. That was why even Becca usually only briefly wrapped her hand around his arm, to appear as more mature and presentable young people who had been deprived of role models in the form of parents.

This day, March tenth, was his birthday so he made an exception and leaving the hall immediately suggested a walk until Major Samson came to pick them up because his time of rebellion was over and he had to be obedient and grateful again. He swallowed all the insults he wanted to say to him so as not to spoil the pleasant atmosphere when they later will reache the estate where he would probably stay until Steve calls the Howling Commandos for another suicide mission.

He tilted his head to the side at the sound of boots clattering against the concrete sidewalk. The woman who played the melody that was dear to him was walking towards them, her blue pastel coat fluttering in the wind. Dark hair escaped from the braided crown she had pinned on her head, slightly negating her elegance. She stopped next to them, and Bucky's nose began to spin from her perfume, which reminded him of the sweetest chocolate cake his mother baked him for his birthday with the ingredients she had saved. In her hands she carried a stack of papers.

"Rebecca, please practice at home the pieces we covered today. I wouldn't want Madame Bovaary to be disappointed with our progress." The teacher smiled timidly, but not at Bucky, which he didn't like. 

"Did I do badly today? I really apologise, I thought I was making progress." The young Barnes replied glumly.

"No, of course not, my dear. You did great today, I'm very proud of you. I'm afraid that Madame Bovaary is more demanding, though, and I wouldn't want to delay her schedule. She has more experience and will probably prepare you better for the competition."

My dear. What an incomparable and pure noun. Just like

"A competition?" Bucky asked, flustered, looking from one to the other.

"Rebecca has great potential, so on my recommendation she signed up for the state piano competition. Everyone has to amuse oneself with something in this time of terror and–" Pausing, the woman looked at him expressively. "barbarism."

Oh, so she still thought he was a heartless monster.

"But please don't hold a grudge, Miss.. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name," His voice soaked with charming tone. 

"Darlene Fearchild." Her brown eyes sparkled, but he saw no contempt or hatred in them. 

Fearchild. Daughter of Gerald Fearchild - Ambassador in the American parliament. 

He was already offering her his hand when the wind rose stronger and tore the papers from her hands, scattering them on the ground. He immediately crouched down to pick them up, and the woman did the same.

"You don't have to help me, Sarge. I can take care of myself." Now, with a wrinkled nose, she reminded him of her fiery nature, which she had shown him more than once during their short journey.

"Like when you ran like madwoman after that animal?" He asked in a hushed voice so Becca, who had gone to catch the slips of paper, wouldn't hear. 

"That animal was scared by what you did." Miss Fearchild stopped moving to look him in the eye defiantly.

"I am a gentleman, so let me apologize for that."

For a moment she was shocked. Probably wanted to clearly deny it, but she just lowered her head to look around for the rest of sheet music. Bucky reached for a piece of paper, thin and rough, but met the warm and the softness of her porcelain skin. He felt the heat pass from his fingertips to his cheeks, shamefully giving out his embarrassment. A gesture so small, so innocent, and he felt like stealing forbidden fruit that he shouldn't even look at. She was the daughter of a powerful man with influence, a woman with a sweet and benevolent soul. And he, stained with the blood of those killed in battle, couldn't provide her with anything that she probably already had anyway. The only thing to give was his miserable soul, even a moon on a string, but he wasn't sure if he hadn't already done that. When he looked at her fluttering hair, at her raspberry lips that looked like ripe fruit, juicy, Bucky wanted to run his finger over them.

The moment was shattered when arms lifted Darlene from the ground. Barnes looked up and at the sight of the unfamiliar man, he gathered up the last piece of paper and straightened. 

"Uh, here you go," He handed her the paper and extended his free hand to the person standing next to her. "Good evening, I'm Bucky Barnes."

"James suits you better." The nurse shyly admitted, noticing his outstretched hand, she made a few gestures in the air. 

The not-too-tall man with light brown hair smiled at Bucky and merely nodded in greeting. Barnes withdrew his hand and cleared his throat in embarrassment. 

"I beg your pardon, I didn't know you were married."

"I– he's my brother. Wayne Fearchild." She explained to him and introduced the man.

It made sense. Although at first glance, the youngest daughter of Fearchilds and their second son were not as similar as  Becca and Bucky. Their hair shade was different, as the woman took on a darker color and Wayne had more potential for blond hair than brunette. They had similar eyes that betrayed their kinship, framed by thick eyelashes. The older Fearchild was rather slender in build, reminding him of his friend Steve Rogers, so the natural reaction was that he aroused his sympathy.

"Then I apologize again for the misguided theories."

"It is no offence, Sergeant. I wanted to ask how you were feeling and about your health, but I remembered that you asked me not to." Darlene confessed, then quickly drew symbols in the air that he didn't understand.

"Much better, and you, Miss,  look better too." He admitted, stealing a glance at her brother, afraid that he would read his lips movements and it would end badly for him. Wayne, however, still stood smiling at him. 

"Thank you, and I feel the same way. I must admit that I've heard a lot about you, Sergeant, your sister sees  you as her hero. It's heartening to know that there are still men like that in the world."

"I'm no hero."

"You saved me, that's worthy of a hero. Besides, we can be whoever we want, only we decide about ourselves." Sure of her words, Darlene Fearchild made Barnes feel appreciated for the first time in a long time.

"Yes, indeed."

Chapter Text

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

SENT LETTER FROM

Darlene Fearchild

Washington, USA

TO

Marcus McBeth

Iverness, Scotland

March, 19th 1934

 Marcus,

Today I read the book you wrote to me a quite some time ago. It was hard for me to find the same copy because apparently it is a different from the Scottish one. In the morning I asked my father to take me to the city with him. He did it reluctantly because since yesterday there have been terrible downpours and storms. At least it was wonderful to read with the smell of rain. I did not think you have such a romantic soul to read about the language of flowers. You must write to me about your favorite and some story related to it [...]

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧. She recalled the symbolism of forget-me-nots, which supposedly ensure fidelity in love with their magical power, and with their big eyes they learn in heaven what is happening in the world between spouses. This is what she read in one of her favorite books, the simple edition of The Language of Flowers. Forget-me-nots were one of her favorite flowers, whose symbolism she knew by heart. Walking through a green park, she often looked at plants to remember the details of their leaves, colors, stem structure, and later to find their properties and uses in old books. She appreciated how the beauty of nature could have healing applications, but also be deadly. It reminded her a lot of herself - a delicate bud, which, like forget-me-nots, was not ready to release pollen along with the memories that dried her golden petals. These flowers had rich symbolism that could be interpreted in different ways; as true love but also precious memories.

Darlene crouched by the green grass, regretting that March dragged on and didn't allow for the arrival of a real, colorful spring, in which her favorite flowers would bloom. With eyes like nuts, she searched among the blades of grass for blue petals with yellow in the middle. She sighed when two images brushed against each other in her memory – a certain legend, and the person who told it to her. The old story that gave rise to the name Forget-me-not told of a knight who wanted to pick beautiful blue flowers for the lady of his heart. It happened on the bank of a river, and since the knight was dressed in heavy armor, a moment of inattention was enough for its weight to cause him to fall into the water. The knight, feeling that he was being carried away by the current of the river, shouted to his beloved "Forget me not!".

She felt like a forget-me-not when her first love was leaving her. The man whispered to her between kisses the same fragile words, "Don't forget me, my wife."

Her heart pounded in her chest, and the wind carried a memory as painful as the moment they had parted. She grabbed the gold chain around her long neck, her fingertips caressing the pendant. The woman felt the cold metal of the wedding ring beneath her skin, dangling over her heart, guarding it as if he were the only owner of it, the only one who could live there. 

"Oh, Marcus." Darlene whispered, his name testing like an ancient spell that could crumble her world. 

Smelling the plants around her, she sniffed harder and realized that salty tears were running down her cheeks. She stood up from where she was kneeling and went to her bike. As soon as the weather got a little warmer she wanted to ride through the Washington park and be able to connect with nature for a moment of respite. Although she always liked to take walks, two months ago when she had finally went out to the garden from her room in her family home, she felt a great need for closer contact with a live marmot. For two months she herself was like a withered plant. Ate a little, drank a little, sleep was like a divine punishment. Closing her eyelids she felt the stinging snow under them that had surrounded her for days of wandering after escaping from the facility where she was held. Lying down she felt the icy floor of the cell under her sweaty back, not to mention the tight spaces that reminded her of how she felt like a bird in a cage. These events left their mark on her, although she had no tangible scars from them. After dusting off her knees so she wouldn't have any  grass on them, Darlene began to walk her bike to a bench by the pond. She stopped at one and pulled a bag of bread crumbs from her morning breakfast, which she hadn't finished, out of the woven basket. Her stomach was already taking in food normally, but it had shrunk considerably during her prison hunger strike, where she had only been better fed then working prisoners, receiving an extra portion of watery soup and sometimes two slices of bread. Her esophagus was so constricted that she still sometimes had difficulty finishing her meals.

The water surface parted under the swimming swans, which, upon seeing the first crumb of bread, almost threw themselves at it, hungry. It reminded her of how she herself had traversed the snowy mountain country, yearning to sink her teeth into even a wild berry. However, her appetite was not enough when the poor animal ended its life and was to become her meal. Since then, she could not look at the venison that her father enjoyed. Darlene kept throwing in more and more pieces with force, thinking about hunger during the war. She had experienced it, felt her belly sucking in on her protruding bones. She felt the lack of vitamins and fats that led prisoners to night blindness, and she knew the consequences of this devastating eye disease. Working men were unable to see after dark, often sentenced to being unfit for work when their condition was serious. However, she did not get sick, and only felt the effects of hunger and dehydration after returning home.First time looking in the mirror was the worst, she felt like she saw a ghost, fading away, lifeless in her eyes. Now, after four months, her body had regained its mass and taken on its former shape, her dark hair had regained its cinnamon glow in the sun of a March afternoon, and her skin, although delicate like a porcelain doll's, was covered with a healthy blush. She had the strength to walk around the garden, although it took her many days to leave the threshold of her own bedroom. She was afraid. She was afraid that if she walks down the enormous stairs she would again come across the limp body of her aunt Dorothy. Now she could once again enjoy prosperity and a full belly. It was hard getting back used to it, as she had felt on her own skin how unfair and cruel fate is, and how helpless a person can be.She should have appreciated every bite, every crumb, but how could she when people in the world were still suffering like this? There was a war going on everywhere. Living in a bubble and surrounded by the walls of a mansion on a hill where nothing was lacking nothing bad could happen to her. And yet she experienced what other people go through. Money, position, her father’s name, they didn’t make a difference. Being human is equivalent to being one of millions, and what is a million compared to the infinity of death. She now understood what other prisoners of war, women and children whose husbands were sent to the front and have nothing to support themselves with, no one to work and earn bread, feel. 

Oh, how spoiled she was before the war! She couldn't think of how she had once despised stew with aspic because she didn't like it, and someone would die for it. It was only when she understood how fragile life is, how precious time is in prosperity that she opened her eyes. Time is very precious, especially during the war. Hearing the wind rising behind the bombers, time slows down, waiting for the blow that may never come. Pleasant moments spent with loved ones, in the rural idyll, will not last long because time suddenly slips through your fingers like golden sand in an hourglass counting down to the end of our days. It is a treasure for which we drift on a dangerous and unknown sea, unprepared for the storm. It is a sacred thing that we will never understand, which is why it is important to appreciate it and use it. Darlene had a different opinion on this. Despite the months that had passed since the first bombers and the memorable day of December 7, 1941, when war was declared on the United States, time had stopped for her. The hands of the clock had stopped in one place when she tore open the envelope of correspondence from her husband's superior and read the death certificate. The temple of time collapsed like a blown dandelion, wishing it would go back. Maybe that was why it was so hard for her to return to the normalcy that had been taken away from her so long ago. She stopped feeding the swans when she realized she was wasting food. Darlene  looked at the horizon, at the hanging sun that cast its rays on her cinnamon hair. She crushed the crumbs in her hands and then gently scattered them throughout the rippling liquid.

Over her shoulder covered in a blue coat, in the not so distant place the man in his green uniform was walking back and forth. He was scratching his head on which shaved hair had grown back into a soft-looking one. In his hands he held the cap which he immediately put on and finally took a decisive step towards her.

"Are you planning on jumping in the water again?" He stood behind her, strong arms clasped behind his back.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Darlene pretended she hadn't been looking at him a moment ago and threw the bread back. She replied nonchalantly, twirling the crumb in her fingers, “I admire these beautiful creatures. Were you following me, Soldier?"

"Not at all. I'm coming back from an important meeting with my friend." His assurance wasn’t believable to her, she could have sworn that wasn't the case. 

He watched her as she dusted the remains of bread off her hands, and slight wrinkles appeared around his eyes.

"Ah, I'm sure you look busy. Does heroism bother you?" "Heroism is an honor, but I don't deserve it." He stood at her side, facing the March sun reflecting off the pond.

"You saved my life, Sergeant. In my eyes, you are," She confessed honestly, studying his side profile. "I never even thanked you, and I should have. I am in your debt."

"You can pay off your debt by calling me by my name.” With a twinkle in his sapphire eyes, he suggested charmingly. The sly smile suited his face, making him look younger. But there was something stark about his good looks.

"Alright, James." She whispered his name, savoring the sound of it. 

James smiled.

"I'm glad you're teaching Becca, she loves your lessons."

"Rebecca is talented and a quick learner. I think she has a great chance in the competition. The only thing she lacks is a little support from her brother.” Darlene crushed the bag in her hands, where there were no more crumbs. A reflex she had acquired to distract herself from her thoughts. 

"Was she complaining about my absence?"

The young Fearchild lifted her head to look at his worried face. She felt a pang in her heart as she pitied him. How much had this young man sacrificed to make his sister feel fulfilled? When was the last time he had eaten a nutritious meal? He was staring hungrily at the bread paper. She couldn't fault him for being emaciated like most men in combat. Barnes was a well-built man, not overly muscular, but the outline of his powerful frame was visible even under his uniform. He had gained muscle since she had seen the scarred skin on his back when she had cleaned his wounds from whipping.

"Please forgive me but I will speak freely. She believes she does not need what Major Samson provides her, she only needs her brother.”The sensitive side of her soul compelled her to place her hand on his shoulder in an act of support. He flinched, glancing at the gesture and quickly back into her sympathetic eyes. His face was grave rather than friendly

"I do everything to provide her with plenty and safety. I did not have that at her age, I still don't.” He took an almost imperceptible step back, but the woman felt her hand drop. Such gestures were inappropriate.

"She needs time, not new dresses."

"Time is relentless during war. When I'm home I try to spend it with her because I never know when I'll see her for the last time." Bucky was outraged.

"That's a very sad thought. I don't feel time when I heal the fallen. Maybe because I'm not the one taking my last breath like they are," She had already withdrawn her hand, slightly embarrassed by her own behavior. 

"You're trying to make sure that its not their last. That's heroism. You save others and you can't be sure if you'll live to see the morning," The words contradict his attitude towards the woman, he was tense and isolated from her.

"Everyone closes their eyes someday, it depends on the will of heaven."

"I am not a believer."

"Oh. Faith keeps people going these days, may I ask why?" She inquired.

"Who, if not myself, will try to save myself from the final judgment?" The world around them seemed to fall silent in agreement with Bucky.

"Maybe someone will think you're worth this sin, James."

"I don't think it's necessary," He gave her a cynical smile.

"Life?"

"Sacrifice."

"It's an individual choice. Whether to sin or stand up to one's own morality," Once upon a time, her father had taught her not to engage in polemics over worldviews, as values ​​depended on generation and experience. However, Barnes was around her age, she guessed from his appearance. Their views on issues were completely different, proving once again that they could never reach an agreement. She disagreed and shook her head, "You can't make that decision for someone, James. That's what life is about. Making decisions and facing consequences." 

"You're the one who forbade me from killing the deer, you didn't want me to sacrifice my conscience so we could survive. And it was necessary." His eyes darkened. The conversation took an unpleasant turn, and the coldness that accompanied their acquaintance during the kidnapping returned. 

Necessary? He couldn't have been serious, but that's exactly what he looked like. If he hadn't been drafted into the army when the war broke out, he certainly wouldn't have chosen a different path. How could someone take the lives of others for their own reasons? They were eyeing each other but she didn't want him to hold it against her. She frowned and changed the subject of what had been on her mind since morning.

"So you grab handfuls of time so you don't have to worry that you've wasted it?"

"I'm more likely trying to find something that will make me wish that time would never stop."

"Did you find it?"

"I haven't decided yet," He admitted uncertainly for such a confident man. "But maybe someday fate will be kind enough to me to find my forever,"

"And how long is forever?"

"Sometimes very briefly." He spoke honestly, but his words were laced with distance, he didn't delve into details.

They had no obligation to tell each other the truth, they didn't even have to talk to each other. What had happened was in the past, and Bucky knew it, but Darlene still sensed he held a grudge. She didn't smile at those words, even though they were true. Something seemed to whisper in her ear that she should get going if she didn't want to come home in the dark, and she sighed loudly. 

"So why waste it on unnecessary feud?" She asked with a raised eyebrow, showing her displeasure at his cold demeanor, even though he'd initiated the conversation and approached her. "What did I do to offend your pride?"

"My pride? I didn't say anything about you offending me,"Sergeant was visibly irritated at her accusation, his body tensing. The wind lifted the hem of his coat, which matched his uniform.

"And yet you're hostile toward me."

"You're wrong."

Was she, really?

She, a young widow, was not ready to seek her "forever" again. The longing for her beloved was still deep in her heart where it would remain forever, and her husband's sweet name was engraved on the ring on the necklace around her neck. The young sergeant followed her pounding heart with his gaze and saw a piece of metal that had jumped out like a sign into the world during the ride.

"You told me you were not married."

"I told you that the man was my brother. I never mentioned a husband." The bitter aftertaste of those words made her head spin.

"Forgive me then, Darlene."

Her throat tightened before she could tell him the truth. Before she could realize that their entire conversation had been leading up to this moment, because after all, why waste time that might never come.

 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗     

Washington was a beautiful city, which even in the darkness of a storm seemed elegant and proud to her. Darlene liked it for its proximity to New York, which she believed would one day become a city of light. She much preferred the quiet corner of her family home on the hill. The estate was quite large and had this thing about it that you could still feel the atmosphere of closeness of its inhabitants. The trimmed garden was a labyrinth in which she loved to get lost, wandering in her thoughts. A wide driveway led to a high black gate, uninvited guests could not cross it. The house itself was historic and passed down from generation to generation, finally inherited by her father Gerald Fearchild. The ambassador took care of the presentation of the place and also the rich interior. Every time Darling walked down the long hall, she admired the paintings on the walls, which had slightly started to fade but held the secret of the old house. She had a strange feeling that the painted figures had their eyes and ears wide open, eavesdropping on family dramas. She joked with her brothers that the house was under a spell. The Fearchild family estate was old-fashioned but classic.

Four o'clock in the evening brought with it storm clouds that hung restlessly over the city. The cloudy sky took on a silver hue. Darlene felt the cauldron begin to boil. Running down the stairs, the pounding of her feet mingled with the distant thunder outside. The storm had not yet hit her home. A white ball of fur ran past her legs, and the quiet bell of her collar made a sound. She lifted the cat into her arms and went with her to the open living room.

"Lawrence, we have to go before the storm catches up with us." She sighed, turning to her oldest brother.

The man with the darkest hair of the whole family didn't even move from his spot. Concentrated, the chin resting on his hand, he was calculating next moves with a pawn on a black and white chessboard. It wasn't a moment of hesitation, but a carefully thought-out strategy that he was currently developing in his head. The card table he was sitting at with Wayne was made of white wood and placed against the parallel wall from the fireplace. The peace of the living room was broken only by the crackling of the fire. Duchess meowed in the crook of her neck.

Lawrence, who was six years older, hated being called Larry or Law, although the law-like nickname suited him well and his strict adherence to rules. They him consider himself an extremely mature person. In fact, he was the most argumentative of the four Fearchild children. Darlene put her cat on the board, which was met with words of protest. She just looked apologetically at the brown-haired Wayne and sketched in the air that their brother had to take her to piano lessons.

"We shouldn't go there when it's gray outside. It's dangerous." The tall man stood up from his seat and, seeing her pleading face, softened. 

"I have a lesson scheduled and I have no way to cancel it. Besides, Rebecca is my best student and I can't let her down." Darlene protested, tilting her chin. 

"She's your only student." Her youngest but still two years older brother, Clyde, sneered as he entered the living room. Darlene glared at him. 

His tousled ginger hair was a stark contrast to his older brother's carefully styled and downright slicked back hair. He pushed past her and threw himself on the couch, his hands behind his head.

"Just for an hour, then I'm taking you back home." Lawrence stuck out a warning finger and left the room to go get his car.

Darlene said goodbye to Wayne with a kiss on the cheek and a loud, “see you later,” to her father and other brother, and hurriedly put on her coat. Her patent leather shoes clattered against the hallway tiles as she raced to the vehicle. Lawrence was already waiting for her, and the rain was slowly beating against the windows, so he didn't bother to open the door for her as he usually did. She slid smoothly into the seat next to the driver and smiled broadly. The car pulled out of the driveway toward the city immersed in nature's anger. The streets were deserted from the drops that cut through the air. Darling, rushing out of the car, prayed silently that she wouldn't trip over the wet curb. Lawrence drove off, promising to return in exactly an hour, because he had to take care of a few things in the city. The theater was one of the woman's favorite places outside of her family home. She greeted politely the man behind the counter, who allowed her to enter the stage with the piano, because of the agreement she had signed with Madame Bovaary. 

"The power's out, Mrs. Fearchild, but I've put out some candles." He informed her kindly.

A deathly silence swept over her body, leaving goose bumps. She walked between the abandoned rows, touching the red fabric of the seats. She liked to come here with her family or her husband when they came to visit. The sounds of an orchestra always moved her deeply, making her close her eyes with delight. Classical music flowed over her body like milk. Before she entered the stage, she took off her coat, hanging it over one of the armrests, then the wooden steps buckled under her weight. She slid her fingers along the lid of the piano. The old Washington theater had a mostly wooden stage. Although there might have been a stronger material underneath, the top was made of wooden planks. They sometimes creaked under her feet, but with the promise of renovating the place, she could practice with Rebecca. Not many people wanted to come here until they renovated it. Darlene began to play single notes to warm her fingers, searching for her sheet music by the faint glow of the candle. She was leafing through her notebook when a horrendous clap of thunder struck somewhere nearby, causing the doors to the great hall to swing open.

The candles lost their flame slightly from the sudden draft, darkening the room. She was frightened by this nightmarish phenomenon. She could barely see anything at the entrance and her eyes were playing tricks on her so she wanted to put down the pile of papers and grab the candlestick handle at the same time. She felt the heat on the skin of her hand, burning a mark into it. Darlene pulled it back, letting the heavy metal fall with a clatter onto the dry wood. Fireflies danced in her brown eyes as flame spread from the edge of the stage.

The theatre was burning down.

Chapter Text

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

SENT LETTER FROM

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes 

London, England 

TO

Darlene Fearchild 

Washington, USA 

July 8, 1944

Darling, 

When I shot that deer, I felt like I shot you. You were so sensitive, you believed that he was some kind of symbol that gave you hope. I wanted to believe that too. But at that moment, what mattered to me was keeping us alive at all costs. You looked at me like I was a monster, you called us that. It was only after some time that I realized that I had taken away part of your innocence. You had been through so much during those six months in that cell, and I had added to your suffering. When you finally came out into the world again, I reminded you of how awful he was. You remind me so much of my friend Steve, he has as much kindness in him as you do. I feel an unimaginable need to protect you, even if it meant you would hate me.

And yet it was you who saved us. Remember? When we reached that cathedral on the hill, abandoned, old as the world. Instead of snow, dust began to surround us. We started to look for signal, barely keeping on our feet. I put you by the fireplace, as if its interior was to warm you with a non-existent hearth. I wanted you to be warm so much, so I gave you my jacket, even though I was shivering myself. There was no signal anywhere, I was giving up and you were mumbling something under your breath. You whispered something about the fireplace, and I sat up and grabbed my head. I was desperate, losing hope. But you weren't. You started to slip into that fireplace and I grabbed you by the waist so you wouldn't get in there. It wasn't until you started to pull away and beg for the communicator that I understood your idea. Don't think that if I hadn't been wounded on my side, I wouldn't have done it myself. But as usual, you were too stubborn and started climbing into its depths yourself. I wanted to grab your ankle and pull you out, Darlene.

I called after you but my echo did not reach you. I thought you would slip and fall. Minutes passed and you returned covered in old smog but smiling. You said that my friend Steve is a better gentleman than I am.

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫? 𝐎𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞? Fate is a relative term that for hundreds of years philosophers and sages, writers and clerisy have tried to fathom. It has been called variously; fate, fortune, destiny, inevitable future. The mystery of life and death are human questions that we cannot comprehend.

Darlene often wondered about the justice of the world. About why some people met such and not other fate. She wasn't sure if the God she prayed to was watching over her, if he existed, if he directed what happened in her life. She felt bitterness and resentment towards fate, which could have been a greater force. Or maybe they were the same? Justice and fate? They were like a two-headed deer pierced by two arrows, signifying injustice and a contrary fate. 

Both shot her.

She spent many hours delving into various concepts and definitions of fate, absorbing sundry views. She absorbed letters and recomposed sentences from them, trying to decipher what fate was and how to avoid it. She was very afraid of what life had in store for her. She would never want to do something against herself and her morality. That's why the woman promised herself that she would take fate into her own hands with which she healed people, stopped their suffering. Darlene Fearchild had a choice about what she did and who she was because she had no way of controlling what surrounded her, what fate condemned her to. She could drink the poison from the cup of life, condemning herself to damnation and causing pain. But why should she do that when she could pour out its contents that other people so willingly spat around. Although, the cup was made of gold, shining brighter than the sun that was just rising behind the trees without leaves, she didn't reach for it. White fluff flew onto her messy hair, showering the world around her along with the gray coat lying somewhere nearby. It belonged to the dead officer, whose breathless body she saw before her. A bloody stain soaked his uniform, as he lay motionless with his head down. Lifeless.

But it wasn't him. The man lying on the white in front of her had taken the breath away from that officer. He had done it to save her, even though she hadn't asked him to, he had done it in defense.

So why was she pointing a gun at him now?

While the unaware man slept, she stood and held the weapon with trembling hands. She was disgusted by it, she wanted to let it go before it stained them with scarlet blood. Even the invisible one that would remain in her memory, that she would try to wash away until her skin peeled off. She was shaking with cold and terror at what she had done.Darlene had held such a shotgun before, she knew how to use it. Her finger knew the way to the trigger that meant a sentence. Tears gathered in her dark eyes, stinging like frosty needles. But she kept her eyes wide open, observing the dangerous and hostile surroundings. She was in the middle of the forest, surrounded by a landscape sleeping in winter. When she crossed the threshold of the weapons factory, summer was just beginning, and the June evening of 1943 smelled of homesickness. That Tuesday day, Fearchild received a letter offering to return to the United States. To her home. That same envelope remained on the desk in her room in her aunt and uncle house in Birmingham, and her fingers never touched its paper again.

Now it was just a distant memory and her fingers gently brushed the cold material of the weapon. Had she become so savage from her stay in that brutal place? Where she had to watch the torture of soldiers whom she was then ordered to bandage so that they would be strong enough to stand on their feet and continue to take blows. Where her knowledge, which she had acquired to save human lives, was used to help with experiments that young men were subjected to. Darlene had wanted to react so much then, but her lips clenched before the words that eased in her throat could come out, and her legs did not want to take a step. She had failed as a nurse whose calling was to relieve pain, not cause it.The woman had chosen this profession so that she would not have to hurt, and she had done nothing to stop the scars that had been inflicted on these defenseless soldiers. The blame was on her too.

Including the one in front of her.

She let out a small howl as consciousness slapped her cheek with an open palm, staining it with a shameful pink mark that anyone would have thought was just a blush from the cold. She held back her tears, just like she did every night in the filthy, dirty cell where she curled herself up in the far corner so no one would see her. Where she bit her left wrist to keep from making any sound, not even a louder breath, and covered her smooth, porcelain skin with a new scar to remind her of how she had not been able to untie the shackles of the soldiers tied to the table. She wanted it to remind her that she should be ashamed.

She bit her lip to keep a squeak of despair from escaping her lips. She began to rock from side to side, wanting to look away from the man lying before her like a corpse. She took a deep breath, too loud, and he began to regain consciousness. She immediately tensed her body and assumed a more stable position, breathing heavily. Horrified was not enough of a word to describe how scared she was. God knows what the man will do if he realises what she had done to him.

The soldier's first attempt to get up failed, but Darlene had no doubts about his willpower. She had witnessed him wake up the next day every time he was experimented on. The nurse remembered feeling guilty and bandaging him every night and keeping his fever down. She had foolishly stolen medicine and wet rags from Arnim Zola's office to spend a few hours watching over the man in the cell next door. Even after he had slammed her against the metal bars to push her away. He tried to get up again, this time he succeeded and was sitting on his knees looking out at the desolate landscape. The sun shone through the trees but it didn't melt the mountains of white fluff. Steam rose from his lips as he absorbed the image, allowing himself a moment of respite after days of torment. He was finally free, just like her. She was still standing behind him, watching his actions. The landscape was beautiful, the sun had come out over the horizon. The wind whispered to the trees, sending word of two people who had been intertwined by guilt. Maybe it was a good time for them to escape the daylight.

Darlene adjusted her grip on the rifle, making it quetch a sudden sound. She held her breath, and the man froze even more. He slowly turned his head, revealing a tired but determined face. 

"Raise your hands, Soldier." She commanded, her voice supposed to be firm, but it cracked mid-sentence. She might abhor violence and be incapable of it, but she didn't think this man was like her in that regard. She had seen with her own eyes how he had treated that guard, how easily he had demanded the lethal shot. Now she was going to take the same one.

"I won't hurt you." He swore, but he could have sworn on his life that was probably flashing before his eyes. "I saved you, so why would I hurt you?"

"Maybe you like hurting others. Maybe one life means nothing to you, because it is so easy to take it away." She stood tall, but he certainly saw her fear because with his hands raised he began to get up from the frozen ground. At that movement she gripped the rifle tighter. 

"Easy. Can I lower one arm? I can't hold it up for long." He asked, looking at her uncertainly. 

Darlene's gaze flicked from his face to his left arm, covered by his jacket. She couldn't tell if he had taken a bullet while running away or if he had hit something with it when the explosion had knocked them off their feet. She didn't need to check because she knew what had caused it, and it wasn't because of her medical-eye. 

The man lowered his arm and waited to see what she would do. Only she didn't know what to do now. Let him go? Let him go when she didn't know where she was or if anyone would help her? 

"What's your name?"Darlene asked him after a moment of silence. 

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes from the 107th Battalion. Are you American, Miss?" He had asked her that question once before. That time in the cell when she didn't answer him. "If you put the gun down we can help each other. My friend gave me a communicator, I have it in my pocket, we can call for help."

His injured hand went down to his pocket, and a look of pain crossed his face. Before he could pull out what was actually in his jacket, Darlene took two steps closer with the weapon.The soldier stopped moving and looked at her suspiciously. 

"Hands in plain sight," She admonished him, afraid he would pull out another weapon. But he made no move, just stared at her like she was his undoing. "Do you have any other symptoms besides the pain in your arm?" 

Confused and surprised, he opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He thought about his answer for a moment. "I... I feel like I'm going to suffocate and my chest hurts, but that's probably from hitting the ground."

"You still have pneumonia. If you let me check you over I'll help you and let you go, but we have to find a place where we can..."

"Still? Are you a nurse?" He interrupted her, trembling. His eyes suddenly narrowed, and his chest began to rise faster. "It's you. You were the one who bandaged my wounds in the cell. How often did you do that?"

Darlene was stunned, lowering the rifle gently. Was he realizing what harm she was doing to him as he lay on the metal table in Zola's office? What kind of experiment she was watching him undergo? Guilt drained the colour from her face.

"Yes, that was me, but I couldn't watch you grow weaker every night–" She didn't have time to finish as she felt the air leave her lungs as she was thrown to the snowy ground. 

The man was above her, pinning her to the ground with his body. Now he was the one holding the gun aimed at her heart, his finger twitching on the trigger. "Don't ever touch me again, don't heal me, don't examine me. No matter what edge of life or death I might find myself on, don't save me."

She was lying on white fluff that fell on her warm-colored eyes. The stranger was staring at her with spite, over whose head towered the crowns of thick trees devoid of color. The wind stopped whispering, allowing the echo of the shot that would soon pierce her heart to carry the message to all corners of the world. That her sins would soon be counted and that many times the shot would be fired. She only regretted that she had not done what was right. Silence filled her body. They stared at each other, maybe they were looking for what interlinked them that fateful day. Maybe they would have found it sooner if not for the terrifying sound of a branch breaking under the boot of one of the soldiers they had escaped from. Before Darlene noticed how many of them there were and how close, she was already hiding behind a thick tree. The man was standing close to her, leaning out from behind the trunk. He held the heavy weapon tightly in his hands, prepared for the fight. She wanted to grab him by his green jacket, but he managed to pull away and attack. Accompanied by gunshots and trembling screams, she slid down to press herself closer to the bark. With each blow, she crouched down more so that nothing would hit her.Darlene looked around to make sure that no one would surprise her from the side and water the tree with her blood. However, that's what happened and the tall soldier wanted to approach her from behind and yank her out by her dark hair. Beforehe could catch even a strand, his body went numb and he collapsed next to her. Darlene closed her eyes.

Finally the screams, sounds of pain and blows stopped, giving way to the freezing wind again. She looked up at the cloudy sky and then at her legs covered by the ruined blue dress she had worn at the dinner after which she had been dragged from her room. The memory hit her with a gust of stronger wind. She could hear her own squeals as she held on to the railing of the stairs, while being carried down. She could see Aunt Dorothy's hand lying behind the pretty couch in the small living room.Darlene still didn't know what had happened to her Uncle Quentin. Maybe it was better this way than having another person on her conscience.

Was the sergeant wounded? He was in poor health when he tried to shoot her, which could have slowed him down and ruined his chance to win. But she would have been dead long ago by then. Soldiers would have shot her immediately when they discovered she was behind that tree. Or maybe they left her to her fate like Arnim Zola did, when threw her back into the cell before the explosion, not caring that he was crossing her out and her valuable knowledge. 

She peeked uncertainly behind the tree trunk, just enough to stick out a part of her head. A vast space appeared before her eyes, to which red traces led. Corpses lay scattered like flowers in a meadow, drained of color before the approaching autumn. She held on to the wood and tried to calm her galloping heart.

So much blood.

The soldier from the 107th Battalion stood in the middle of the forest surrounded by bodies and trees. From a distance, he resembled one of the plants waving in the wind, only after a moment did Darlene realize that he was actually swinging from side to side. He staggered and fell. The woman ran to him, avoiding the fallen soldiers. Darlene fell to her knees and grabbed his face, ignoring the fact that he had just told her not to help him ever again. His gaze was distant, and when she put the back of her hand to his forehead, it was burning.

"Sergeant! Sergeant!" She tried to bring him to consciousness and rubbed him with snow to bring down his temperature. She looked around, covering her mouth with her hand. She continued rubbing him and prayed in her mind for him to wake up. "You took their lives just to die now?! How can your conscience allow you to do this! Sergeant!"

He opened his eyes only to close them again. Darlene's gaze flicked from his face to his still moving chest. Not far away she also noticed a gray coat that the snow had almost covered with a thick layer. She had slid over to it and wrapped herself in it. The cold had long since pierced her body but only now did she start to feel it as the adrenaline began to subside. She put her hands in in sleeves, ignoring the blood stain on side. Then she was beside the dead soldier and pulled the pistol from his bony hands, which she put clumsily in the pocket of her coat.The woman crawled again to the half-conscious Sergeant and shook him. Getting no reaction from him, she tried to lift him. Putting all the strength of her emaciated body into it, Darlene straightened him and put his arm around her neck. The weight of his paralyzed body transferred itself to her, almost knocking her off her feet.

"Why did you do it? Why couldn't we just escape?" She asked him, dragging him along the long path to the unknown.

"I did what was necessary." He mumbled, wandering between consciousness and sleep.

She didn't think about his words, she had no power to change his actions. Darlene held him, pushing through the snowdrifts towards the spreading trees. The further she went, the thinner the forest became. A downward slope appeared before her eyes. Before her and the Sergeant were high mountains and forests, which for the next hours and days would be the only thing surrounding them apart from themselves.

   ˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

The frosty air clogged Darlene's lungs as she paced through snow hours later. She couldn't feel her numb feet but she continued to follow the tall sergeant, who after a shaft break was able to continue their walk on his own. Or rather he tried to convince her that he was able to. The man purely announced that they needed to find a signal to communicate his friend, then fell silent. Every few steps she could hear only his horrifying and torturing cough.

"Let me help you." Darlene insisted. 

"No." He replied gruffly, not even turning to her. He was strutting forward with his rifle ready for combat, but all that surrounded them were trees that looked the same. Some thicker, others thinner. 

Seeing his attitude, his refusal to her quiet help, she slowed down. The nurse looked at his back and then at the lifeless, deserted forest they were in again, even though they were still walking in the same, undefined direction. She stopped at one of the trees and ran her fingers over its rough bark, tapping it. 

"We don't have time, Miss."

"Did you know that a tree's trunk tells you its age and value? The larger the girth, the older the tree." She had read that long ago in one of her father's books. She was very fascinated by botany, nature, anything about plants that she could smell and see how they change color with the seasons. 

"We need to keep moving." He said firmly, not waiting for her.

"We need to find a place to rest, you're weak and need your bandage changed," She caught up to him and was now walking backwards so she could get him in front of her, pulling her cursed cloak tighter around her body. "Would it be so terrible to let yourself help?"

"Yes." He replied without emotion, but she could see the grimaces that appeared on his face every now and then as he made a more demanding move.

"Why?" Darlene didn't understand why he was so stubborn about risking his life. She was a nurse, trained for such cases and he was putting his pride before his health. 

"You're just a nurse, not a miracle worker." Finally, he glared at her to give her a look of contempt. 

"You don't need a miracle, just clean a wound. I see that growth goes hand in hand with stupidity."

Now she was ahead of him and going first. He trailed behind her and fell even quieter than before. In the passing trees she thought about his words,knowing she wasn't a miracle worker. She knew the limits of her abilities and how much she could help another person. 

"Wait–"The Sergeant tried to catch up with her as she shot forward with the wind.

"Now I'm going to be the stubborn donkey!" Shouting at him, Darlene kicked her shoe into the snow and a rock popped out and flew into the space in front of her. 

She followed it with her eyes, its sound and splash into a small stream. She stopped and if it weren't for the drought she already felt in her throat, her mouth would probably have gone dry. On the sides of the water, the trees formed like tunnel walls, indicating the only non-blind path in the labyrinth that was this huge forest. Almost tripping over her treacherous legs, she hobbled into the water. Throwing herself on her knees, which responded with pain from the sudden contact with the hard ground, Darlene leaned over the water and took it in her reddened hands. She immediately tilted them, the water bounced off her skin, and drank. She did this several times and finally washed her face. The Sergeant had immediately joined her, satisfying his need. He also washed his hands and face, and the slung shotgun banged against his back. They drank enough to be able to move on, leaving the stream in the distance. 

A branch snapped, making a dull crack. They immediately straightened their heads to identify the source of the noise.

Darlene clenched her fingers in the snow, not believing her eyes. Ahead of them, at the other end of the stream, a mighty deer emerged from the trees. His fur had taken on the color of the white fluff surrounding his kingdom. She stared at the beauty, at the way his long legs left spruce tracks. He had entered the water to drink as well, the physiological need more important than the lurking threat that they were. Something flashed from her side, and she turned her head slowly and carefully in that direction. Steam billowed from her mouth as she breathed deeply, seeing that the Sergeant held a weapon in front of him. He took a position ready to shoot.

"No," She pleaded, shaking her head, "you can't kill him."

"We've been wandering for hours, and God knows how much further we've got to go, we need food and his skin to keep us warm." He fixed his cold, blue eyes on hers. For the first time, she could see their intense colour, could see his full face not hidden in the shadow of offense or distrust of her.

"No," The nurse repeated pleadingly as he closed one of the sapphires, "please!"

"Do you want to go on an empty stomach? Because I assure you, Miss, you won't get far, and I won't be saving you again."

"No one told you to do this the first time, Sergeant. This animal just wants to survive in this forest full of monsters, just like us. And right now, we're the monster!" She whispered with a look of horror, her eyebrows knitted together. 

"It's just an animal that we have to eat to survive. Do you think I want to do this?" Holding her in place by her arms, he tried to stop her from wrestling the weapon away from him.

The deer, alerted by the hushed sounds, raised its mighty head. Between its spread antlers, a round sun appeared, as if locked in a cage. Darlene stopped struggling to admire this wonderfully sweet sight. How the rays spread out to the sides behind his head, as if he had a heavenly crown. He was the king of his own life until fate sentenced him to lose his crown of antlers. Until fate took away from him what was most important to Darlene - the choice of what he wanted to do in accordance with himself. He could die immediately because such was his fate, he could escape because such was his will. 

Only we can decide what we will condemn ourselves to.

The shot stunned her, and her eyes opened wider. The pristine, clean fur of the deer was stained with blood. She thought about how soon she would have to put it on and show the world how she had dishonored her soul, her kindness. She would not wash this stain from the deer's delicate face. She let out a breath. When Darlene lifted her head to look at the animal again, there were tears in her eyes. Before the Sergeant could get up to approach him, she began to beat his chest with her fists. At that moment, she did not think about the fact that she could hurt him, that she was resorting to violence. It was nothing compared to taking the life of the deer, which, as usual, she could not stop. She could not protect it from its fate.

"You– You knucklehead!" She hesitated, calling him stupid and a foolish person. She stepped away from him to take a few steps and cover her face with her hands. Her fingers were shaking. 

"You're too sensitive for a nurse. People die in war, you have to look at the world and its brutal reality more severely."

"I despise your world, how you and the other soldiers kill each other every day without a blink. How can you sleep thinking about what kind of person you are?"Snapping, she finally asked him, unable to hold it in. Her heart ached at the thought of people dying in worse ways than that deer.

"This is war, I do what I have to to survive." His face was right next to hers, steam from his purple lips mixing with her lack of air. The Sergeant looked at her one last time and moved towards the fallen animal.

She followed him with her gaze, feeling that their different worldviews would get them lost in their search for the right path to the future. However, she didn't pay him any more attention as something moved behind the trees. She grabbed the material of his jacket to inform him of the hidden danger. The soldier immediately lined up for a shot, pulling her more to the side to shield her with his body. Darlene pressed herself closer to his back, like she had done before, protecting herself behind a tree. Seconds passed but nothing attacked them, even though the snow was bending under someone's weight. 

"Miss," The man whispered to her, tilting his head slightly to look at her. She lifted her chin to meet his blue eyes.

She slowly broke their eye contact and leaned behind his tall frame, still clutching the material of his green jacket. In it, he looked like the last green tree in winter. One that couldn't be lit because it was too cold inside. A young fawm stood at the edge of the stream, over the carcass of a dead deer. Its stick-thin legs led it to the older animal. Confused, lonely, it huddled next to it in the red snow. Darlene swayed. She pushed away from the sergeant who tried to grab her wrist, but she escaped him like the wind from a jar. She walked quickly, too quickly not to scare the little animal. She didn't want it to be left alone, to be in danger. She knew she was being stupid, that this wild animal was adapted to this and would cope. But could she cope with the thought of leaving it to its fate as she had been left in that cell?

The young deer jumped to his feet, an unnatural reaction. Usually, after the parent leaves the young, they hide, curled up until she returns. Just as she curled up in the cell. He ran into the world, running away from her. 

Please come back, I want to run away from this cruel world with you.

She followed him, ignoring the Sergeant's call after her. Darlene ran between the trees, grabbing their bark and bouncing off them. She heard the man behind her trying to catch her like a wild animal. She didn't slow down even when the forest and snow were replaced by a vast wasteland. She was already in the middle of it when she lost sight of the fawn. It was white all around, but empty. There were no plants growing here, no treetops visible. The sun towered high above her, blinding her along with the bright colour of the earth. But she wasn't standing on the ground. She began to understand what she was standing on when she heard the ice cracking under her feet, when it was too late to escape. She felt cold, terribly piercing cold. Worse than the surface she had been on a moment ago. She was drifting in the water, lacking air and her senses were slowly turning off. She couldn't see the sun above her, nor the hole she had fallen through. The current carried her further and further. It was getting dark, and she was afraid of the darkness. She heard her bones crack, which turned out to be ice breaking. Something grabbed her under the arms, pulling her toward the light.

The nurse spat out water, choking on the fresh air. Her eyes wouldn't adjust to the light, so she blinked harder. Finally, she felt water dripping from her hair, stuck to her face, freezing. She shivered, certain that her teeth would break. The Sergeant lifted her body, his bloody hands gripping her under the knees, his other hand holding her back. Darlene pressed herself against the jacket, the colour of which she liked so much because it reminded her of majestic nature.

"Thank you," She tried to whisper, but her throat felt tight. She looked up at his jaw when he didn't answer her. "You weren't supposed to save me anymore, wha-what changed?"

"There's a building up on the hill ahead." He simply stated, staring off into the distance.

She jerked her head up to the rise. Sure enough, a large building stood before her. It looked more like a church or a castle than someone's house.

"Do you think anyone there will help us?"Darlene asked hopefully.

"I think if you don't run away we might get there alive enough to find out."