Night and Fog (closed)

WARNING: This thread may contain intense scenes of violence, torture, abuse, rape, and other triggers. Please read with caution.

Essex, England - June, 2009

Adam Horowitz was embarking on a summer of perpetual boredom. An intelligent boy, he'd been accepted to Saint Andrews for university and spend his first year making new friends, taking new bedmates, and causing his fair share of trouble. The problem with attending such a university was that his friends were now spread across three continents and even more time zones, and he was back home with little to do for the summer. A trip to visit his flatmate in Spain had been killed by his stepfather due to the cost of such an excursion, and a trip to his grandmother's on the coast was suggested in it's stead. It was, at least, a change of scenery, along with the added potential of bikini-clad women on the sand, and so he gave in and packed a bag.

His grandmother, a half-deaf woman in her 80's who didn't always remember his name, seemed happy to see him. Soon, he learned this was because she no longer had to pay a neighbor boy to take care of her hedges, and Adam began to quickly regret his decision. The heat, while not bad down near the water, was intense to the point of unbearable while working with the pair of clippers that were at least as old as the woman that owned them, and the little squeak they made when closed gave him a headache that killed the rest of his day after using them. Those, unfortunately, were the exciting days.

Every night by 8:00, she would disappear into her room and turn on the old television she had perched dangerously on a chair in the corner of the room, then crank the volume beyond a level any sane person could consider reasonable. It was then that Adam actually felt free to explore, whether it be the town, the house, or the plethora of porn he was able to find with his phone. Though he'd brought his laptop, he hadn't even considered that she'd not have any internet service at her house until he asked what her WiFi password was, and she looked at him like he was speaking Russian.

Late in June on one such evening, with Lawrence Welk thundering through the walls two rooms away, Adam discovered a door in the ceiling of the pantry, with a short string dangling from it. Figuring anything that may've made a nest up there would be asleep and he'd have a fighting chance at getting away, he took hold of the string and pulled.

For a brief moment he thought it was going to snap in his hand before the door moved an inch - he was convinced that he was, by far, the youngest thing in the house now - but mercifully it held, and with a groan that would've woken any person with decent hearing the door turned on it's old hinges. The wooden ladder was folded into thirds, and with little concern for the sound of it's reluctance to straighten he pulled it out, until the feet rested against the grey carpet.

Cautiously he climbed, testing out each step before putting his weight on it. The attic above was shrouded in heavy darkness that the faint shaft of light from below did little to pierce. Pulling out his phone, he thumbed on the torch and shone it around the room. To his surprise, it extended nearly the entirety of the house, though most of it was empty space. Leaving the light on, he descended the ladder to grab his grandmother's old straw broom, then made his way back up armed for battle with the rampant spread of spiderwebs that seemed to be everywhere he looked.

Walking slowly, wanting more than anything to avoid falling through the ceiling of her bedroom and killing the woman with a heart attack, he made his way into the darkness, guided by the cone of line cast forward by his phone. In a far corner, thankfully on the opposite side of the house from what sounded like a nature documentary blasted through a megaphone, the white light swept across a small gathering of old and dust-covered boxes.

With the broom waving back and forth in front of him, Adam made his way methodically over to the boxes. Leaning the broom against the nearby wall, he blew a layer of dust off the top of one cardboard box, then used his hand to wipe away the three below it. Pulling at the tape that, through some miracle, was still holding things closed, he opened the box and coughed at the dust that now seemed to be a cloud around his head. Inside, among what seemed to be mostly junk and old knickknacks, was a photo album with a warped and water damaged cover. Pulling it out, he set it on a corner of the box and kept his light on it as he flipped it open. Most of the pictures were in black and white, and clearly from when his grandmother was little, if not before. The water damage extended down into the pictures, with many of them altered beyond recognition. One picture though, a corner of it damaged but otherwise intact, made him stop and stare. The face in it was familiar, but still he didn't think he'd seen it before. Perhaps he'd ask his grandmother about it later.

The photo album was closed and replaced, and for a moment he was swallowed up by the darkness as he slipped his phone into his pocket so he could moved to box aside and access the one under it. Pulling his phone back out, he found that behind the semicircle of boxes was an old, worn trunk tucked all the way in the corner. The leather was cracked and faded, covered in the same layer of dust as every other surface in the room, but it was also more likely to have protected what was inside it. Using his feet and one free hand, he pushed aside the remaining boxes to get to the trunk, and found himself shining the light at last on a rusted, ancient-looking lock slid through the latch. The metal was rough as he pulled at the lock, and he knew by the extensive rust that the key, if one still existed for it, had no hope of opening it.

Using the toe of his shoe, he pushed at the trunk a little, and found he was unable to budge it. Whatever lay inside was clearly heavy, to the point that he was surprised the boards up there were able to hold it for so long. Picking up his leg, he kicked once at the lock, and then cursed at the pain in his toe. The lock, however, seemed completely unharmed. He was going to need something more than just a kick. A quick sweep of the attic showed him that the only useful thing up here was a broom, and he was under no illusion that it would remain in one piece for long. With a resigned sigh, he snatched the broom up from where it leaned against the wall, and began making his way to the shaft of light that led back down to the rest of the house.

A bit of searching found a tool box under the sink in the kitchen, and a hammer that felt solid in his hands was contained within. The house-rattling volume of whatever was screaming out of his grandmother's television told him she was still asleep, and so he didn't even waste time checking on her before he made his way up the wooden ladder again.

His trip across the attack was quicker this time, with no webs to knock out of his way and his path already known, and as the clock neared 10 p.m., he found himself once again shining his light on the trunk. Dropping down to one knee, he took a deep breath and began to swing the hammer. The first clink! of metal on metal was loud in the dark attic, louder than he expected, but for the first time he found himself thankful for the half-deaf woman and her comically loud television habit.

One swing of the hammer followed another, and nearly a half hour passed before the lock finally gave in to the combined years, rust, and repeated impact of the hammer, and with a grinding clang it fell open. Sweat standing out on his forehead, he rested his forehead against the dirty lid of the trunk and worked to catch his breath. Unseen in the darkness, a black smudge was left behind on his forehead when he finally straightened.

Pushing the lock out through the latch, he swung it up and opened the latch, excited to see what was inside that made it so heavy. Somehow, rows of leather-bound notebooks was a disappointment, though exactly what he'd expected he couldn't say. With something approaching a resigned sigh, and certain that his summer of boredom was not going to change, he picked a book at random and pulled it out. The others in the row leaned in to fill the void left behind, but he barely saw this as he flipped the lid of the trunk closed and made his way back to the ladder without a look back.

Down the ladder, and he folded it back up and closed the door, everything from below appearing as if it was untouched. Too late, he realized he'd left the hammer up in the attic, and he knew he'd have to remember to grab it before he left for the summer. He planed to flip through the book before he went to sleep for the night, but he didn't expect much and had no plans to climb back up into the darkness and dust any time soon.

Mercifully, his room was on the opposite side of the house from hers, and with his door closed it almost felt like he had a little peace. The small lamp on the bedside table cast just enough of a glow to read by, and still unaware of the dark spot of dirt on his forehead, he climbed into bed and set the book in his lap. Opening to a random page in the middle, he found himself confronted with handwriting that had begun to fade in places. Brow furrowed, hunched over in the middle of his bed, he began to read...

Near Cuxhaven, Germany - May, 1939

His leg always hurt in the morning. It was the inactivity overnight, the lack of movement in what muscle was left behind after the dead was cut away, that did it, so that he had to sit for a few moments on the edge of the bed and move his leg to get it limbered up enough to move more freely. He walked with a limp, he would always walk with a limp, but it was always worse just out of bed.

The land outside the window was coming alive, the sound of birds drifting over the naked sill and into the sparsely furnished room. Downstairs, silence held fast, the girl still locked away in the basement. He knew how quiet it could be down there, with the time he'd spent preparing the place after he moved back to his boyhood home, and it was likely the girl was still asleep. Given the darkness she lived in there, it came as no surprise.

On his feet now, the wooden slats of the floor cool under his bare feet, and he limped to the window, working the blood down into his damaged leg. The dark cloth of the curtain was pushed aside, and he looked out across the expanse of short grass to the old barn that rose up out of the field. The girl there, the one that had not earned a place in the house yet, may be awake herself, her fire no doubt having gone out some time ago and the chill of the early morning settling in. Already the light breeze drifting across his bare skin felt warmer than it had just a week ago, and he thought the chances of her dying of chill in the night had lessened considerably. Still, always best to check.

Moving away from the window, he crossed to a basin of water and splashed his face, the cold shocking the rest of the sleep out of his system and throwing a shiver down his spine. The towel was similarly cool against his skin, and was left crumpled and damp by the basin after he'd dried. The girl would collect it after laying out the rest of his clothes.

A shirt of grey cotton was pulled over his head, the sleeves short and leaving his arms bare. Trousers, the same he'd worn the day before, were stepped into and pulled up, then fastened around his waist with the shift outside of them. Lastly, simple shoes were pulled onto his feet. He was not getting dressed for the day, the girl had not yet heated the water for his bath or made the morning meal, but trekking out to the barn in little clothing seemed a chilly endeavor, still. Another few weeks, perhaps.

The stairs groaned under his weight as he descended to the main level of the old farmhouse, filtered sunlight casting angled shadows across chairs and tables that had been in the house since before the turn of the century. He paid little mind to any of it, certainly nothing had changed since he'd climbed the steps and undressed for bed, his body tired and his cock soft after emptying himself inside the girl he now went to wake. She protested less and less now, her body responded to his far more quickly than it ever had in the past, and he was still unsure if this was good or not. At least she still bruised nicely.

The key hung from a nail just around the corner from the basement door, a lone copper key on a small silver hoop, the pair jingling softly as he pinched them between his fingers. The key was fitted into the lock and twisted, the door opening with a moan of old hinges and older wood.

"It's morning," he said down the stairs, the conveying of information the closest thing she received to a greeting. "Meet me in the barn." He did not have to tell her to hurry, did not have to warn her of her fate were she there more slowly than he desired. She carried with her the scars as a daily reminder of his tolerance level.

The key was pulled from the lock, the hoop slipped back over the angled nail in the wall, and he left the door to the basement standing open as he made his way to the side door of the old house. The knob was turned, the door opened without the need for unlocking, and he stepped out into the morning sun. Those around him, what few neighbors he had, knew of his position in the military and saw his occasional visitors. It was never said outright, but rather strongly implied that any violation of he or his property, human or otherwise, would end with a one-way trip to Dachau. He'd not seen one of his neighbors in nearly seven months, though they sometimes heard the screams from the barn if the wind was just right.

It was half a minute before he made his way to the barn, entering through the main door that stood at least partially open virtually always. Moving towards the center of the barn, his limp now reduced to the somewhat lessened version he always had, he found that the fire had ended gone out, small tendrils of smoke the only remnants left emanating from the blackened circle. The girl, to his surprise, was still asleep, her nude body limp on the straw-covered floor, heels suspended a could inches off the floor by the rope around her ankles. A single blanket covered her, the only other defense against the cold she was offered outside of the small fire started for her every night.

A half dozen feet away, a barrel stood filled nearly to the top with water drawn from a pump and carried in by the bucketful. Around the outside rim, a tin cup hung waiting. Small clouds of dust were kicked up as he moved to the barrel, the cup lifted into his hand and dipped into the cold, clear water. Turning, he crossed the few steps back to where the girl slept, and tossed the water onto her face.

"Wake up," he said, again the closest she'd receive to a greeting as well.

Reaching down, the blanket was pulled off and the entirety of her body was revealed to him, and he paused a moment to take her in as she coughed and moved in reaction to the awakening. Turning away then, the blanket was tossed aside, the cup hung back in it's place on the rim of the barrel.

Moving around the blackened circle where the dormant fire casts ghosts of itself into the air, he began to unravel a length of rope from a steel hook. Once the rope was free, he pulled, letting the excess fall to the ground, the muscles in his forearms standing out as he worked against the weight of the girl on the other end. Once she was off the ground and hanging freely, he pulled a little more, putting a couple of feet of distance between her head and the ground, and then secured the rope around the hook once more.

As he approached the girl, a clock in his head was ticking away, counting the passage of minutes since he woke the one in the basement. She would be given time to draw some water to splash on her face and dress in the simple white cotton dress she'd been given - neither girl was allowed to sleep clothed, and neither girl was allowed to wear anything under the simple dress they were give - but wasting time beyond that would have her tied to the post and whipped. Or left in the box for the day, if he didn't feel like exerting the energy with the whip.

But she did still have time, a short span of time, and he would not spend it idly waiting for her. The Finnish girl had not been with him long, a gift from his former military superiors, and he'd rather enjoyed having her, he found. All sides of the arrangement knew that he was given this gift to keep him quiet and occupied after his injury and subsequent discharge from the military, though it was an understanding that went without saying. A dance both parties stepped to, without the music actually playing. The girls were rerouted to him from Dachau, Bergen-Belsen, or Treblinka, trash the party was taking out to burn but gave him the opportunity to pick through first. He had yet to inquire why they were being transported, though the gypsy bitch was obvious enough.

But the delightful little thing dangling from the rope in front of him was here for reasons unknown to him. Eventually he may care and allow her to tell him, but for now, there were other things on his mind. Approaching the dangling girl, he unfastened his trousers and dipped a hand inside, pulling his cock free. With her hanging there, helpless and on display, he couldn't risk reddening her a bit, and with an open palm he slapped her chest with a solid blow, sending her swaying like a pendulum. At the apex of her forward swing, another open palm connected with her stomach and put more momentum into her back swing.

Centering himself in front of her, his hands caught her behind the neck as she swung forward, and he forced his cock into her wet mouth. He doubted there would be time to finish with her, but the gypsy would be here to finish him off if and when he decided he was ready, and choking the girl on his length until she arrived seemed a fine way to pass the time.

He'd only pushed her too far once so far, realizing a moment too late that consciousness was slipping from her grasp before he could free himself from her throat, but the beating that followed had given her a firm grip on it quickly. Still, he liked them conscious, aware of what was happening, able to yelp and scream and cry. Pleading never seemed to last long, whether here or in the lab, whether the violation of their body was from his hard need or a needle in their vein. Eventually, all of them seemed to resign themselves to their fate, and simply try to survive. The knowledge, told to them on the way here and again after they arrived, that if he was unsatisfied with them they'd be sent to a camp and never seen again, probably helped as well. How much... it was hard to say.

Quickly, he was hard and forcing himself into her throat, pulling her body to him by the hands on the back of her neck until her lips were around his base. He'd hold himself there to watch her begin to writhe on the line with the ache in her lungs before he relented and returned to merely fucking her mouth. Too soon, he heard footsteps approaching outside, and he found himself irritated that he was interrupted. There was work to be done, but the whore had a mouth that seemed designed for violation. Maybe the gypsy wouldn't get to finish him off this time.

Releasing the girl's neck, he let himself fall free of her mouth as she swung away from him, grunting as the cool air enveloped his slick cock. Still hard, he worked himself back into his pants and fastened them, though they did little to hide his arousal. The girl had taken too long and then arrived to interrupt him, and he backhanded her when she arrived by the pair of them.

"Quicker next time, cunt. I didn't want to have to use the box today, but I will if you make me."

He brushed past her then, the girl hanging by her ankles seemingly all but forgotten now. In a far corner stood an organized stack of wood, chopped down to size for firewood and kept dry inside the barn.

"Wash her," he said over his shoulder, nodding not in the direction of the Finnish girl, but instead at the rubber hose coiled against the wall nearest where she still slowly swung. A single, lone bar of soap sat on the ground next to it, altered some in shape by previous use, and stuck here and there with bits of dirt and straw. Ordinarily the girls would clean themselves, under his supervision of course, but he had other things to attend to today, and he wouldn't stand for wasted time. Military life had that effect on a person.

As the girl set about her duty, he lifted the split wood and carried it to the burned circle in the center of the open room. Three trips were made, enough wood for a hot and intense fire, and once it was stacked he paused for only a moment to watch the girls. As she moved, the thin material of her dress would hold to the skin of the gypsy and the mark she'd soon share with the one she now washed could be faintly seen.

Wiping sweat from his brow with his bare forearm, he took his attention from the pair and collected kindling, then set the fire to spreading. His eyes drifted to the pair again, curious now to see how the Finnish girl reacted to the one that washed her, wondering if perhaps it was being a lesbian that had landed her here, stripped of country, personhood, even her very name. He knew it, somewhere in his mind, but it didn't matter. She was the cunt in the barn that he used when he felt the need to. A body he masturbated with, name unnecessary.

The crackle of fire drew his attention, and he was pleased to see the wood had caught and the fire was steadily building. His focus back on the task at hand, he moved to the far wall opposite where the pair were and lifted a long iron rod, with a two stylized iron letters at the end of it: AD.

The branding iron was inserted into the fire and pushed into the glowing heart of it, then left for a short time to heat up to the desired temperature. The limp with him still, the scar tissue on his thigh hidden beneath the fabric of his pants, he circled around the heat of the fire and took hold of the gypsy girl's hair.

"You're done," he said, pulling her away from the girl and over to an empty animal stall. The iron would take some time to heat fully, and as always he had no desire to waste the time. Shoving the girl over the low wall of one of the smaller stalls, he bent her forward and lifted her dress to expose her to him. His fingers made quick work of the buttons that would free him, and it was only another moment before he was inside her, his length growing slick once more.

"This this whore what a gypsy bitch is good for," he said, increasingly breathless as he slammed home again, and again, and again. The girl was still tight, and as he used her she grew increasingly wet, and not for the first time he wondered if gypsy dicks were useless and placed there only for decoration. The girl was not so young that she should have been as unused as she seemed to be, but she was still so tight that she had him spilling his seed inside her quickly, and hard.

Just as he did now, with a final bruising thrust and a long, low groan. Both hands grabbed the wooden beam of the wall at either side of her hips, and he pulled against it, forcing himself as wholly deep as it was physically possible to be. His chest was heaving as he finished, fresh sweat standing out on his brow, his hands releasing the rough wood so he could take a half-step back.

Ordinarily, he would wait for the girl to turn and kneel, and clean herself off of him. Today, with the Finnish clock swinging for him still, he had other ideas. Crossing, his prick jutting lewdly from the front of his pants still, he cupped a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her forward, filling up her mouth once more.

"Every drop," he said, hitting the juncture of her thighs with his fingers to emphasize the point. Behind him, in the glowing center of the fire, the iron glowed as well, ready to be used.

The birds twittered outside the small dirty ashen window, the first rays of light filtering through the window to shine onto her face. She was awake. Tense. Ready for the day. Her body ached from sleeping on the hard dirt floor, but she stretched it out slowly and the barest aching in her limbs as she assessed the injuries from yesterday. No new bruises, or cuts to contend with. It had been a good day then. The shift dress above her, the only clothing she was allowed curled under her fingers.

His footsteps over the floor above her.

She froze. Waited.

The click of the key in the lock and she stood poised and ready if he should actually descend on her. She knew better than to be abed when he came to the basement, that mistake had earned her a beating and burning that took most of the previous winter to heal.

She held her breath.

“It’s morning. Meet me in the barn.”

This meant she had several minutes to prepare the house before she would need to be outside; grabbing some firewood from the pile near her bed and dashing up the stairs fearful that he’d meet her at the top with pain. Thanking God above when she discovered that he was already limping his way outside.

Hurry Nadya, hurry.

That’s not your name.

Hurry Nadya.

Start the fire.

Hurry.

Prepare the breakfast.

Hurry, Nadya.

That’s not your name.

Set out his clothes for the day, and change the water in the basin. Prepare water for his bath, make sure it won’t over heat.

Hurry Nadya.

That isn’t what he calls you. What does he call you?

No.

His clothes are pressed. His uniform is clean.

What does he call you?

Hurry cunt.

No. Nadya. You have a name.

Cunt. The one he gave you.

He is nothing.

He is everything and you know it. Why else do you dawdle and finger that lapel lovingly?

Nothing.

Hurry cunt. Our master waits. You know he will bruise you worse if you don’t move. You know he has that new toy and will be replacing you soon.

No. He won’t. He needs me.

No he doesn’t. Don’t lie to yourself, cunt.

She shivered as she picked her way across the yard between the barn and the house. There was no one for miles. Well, no one who would help her. She knew that from her first days here, when she was firmly disabused of the notion of running. So she hadn’t, she had stayed here, with him. To serve him and make him happy.

Except he wasn’t ever happy, but oh, how she tried.

The sneer on his lips informed her before the hand landed on her cheek that today would not be a good day. And then she found herself on the ground before the new girl and Him.

"Quicker next time, cunt. I didn't want to have to use the box today, but I will if you make me."

Cunt. See? He likes you.

Get up. Get up quickly.

"Wash her." He said over his shoulder.

Nadya…no cunt.. set about her job, finding the basin of cold water and cruelly running the rough cloth over the new girl. She hated this girl. Didn’t care why she was here but knew she was here to take cunt’s place. No.. Nadya.

You are a Gypsy, you have a proud heritage. Nadya wiped the girl’s messy mouth and over her chest and slit. If the girl made a noise, Nadya didn’t notice, she was too preoccupied with paying attention to the noises He was making behind her.

Then his hand was in her hair and she was dragged to the side stall thrown over the low wall and filled with him. Part of her swelled that he was still using her, part of her quailed at the pain this might mean. She whimpered, he pushed harder, she knew that he liked her pain and thusly let the noise fall freely from her swollen lips. Nadya tried not to allow herself to get wet, but was betrayed by her body.

It’s his, cunt. It’s his and you like it.

No.

He uses you cunt, and you like it.

No.

You love him.

No.

Scream for him cunt. You know he likes that.

She did scream for him, as he thrust himself fully into her, slamming her slight frame into the low wall, bruising against her hips. She gasped, and waited for him to pull out so that she could turn and offer her mouth for him for cleansing.
He had other plans. He was done with her. His cock was in the mouth of the new girl and she felt like dying. She knelt quietly and watched him.

She loved him. He had found her and brought her here and turned her into what he wanted. She had been molded by him. Twice her treacherous body had cast out the unwanted child that he had put into her, and as her hand curled around her belly, knowing that once more she was carrying, she knew utter despair.

She loved him. He would cast her aside. She might as well die.

Helmi knew what cold was, long before she arrived at this farm that apparently hid the Devil and his newest incarnation of Hell behind its wooden walls.
She was sure it was that and only that fact which kept her alive through the long dark nights, where the muted crackle and pop of the fire provided only light. The open door stealing away any modicum of heat it might actually have provided. She knew that’s why he did it, making sure he was torturing her without even being there.

She’d grown up with cold, with real cold. The kind that killed you if you lingered too long and without proper thought for your attire. This was a different cold though. She’d been just as naked as she was now in the cold of her homeland but it was different then. Scampering naked through the snow with cousins after a sauna was fun and invigorating. Voluntary. This was a worrying cold, the kind that crept into your bones and kept you from ever truly warming up again. A damp that festered and grew mould around your soul until it was useless. Dead.

She remembered the first time she saw him. All but thrown from a truck to land sprawling on the ground. Wrists bound before her and a purple welt rising on one cheek bestowed on her by the truck’s driver. He hadn’t taken too well to her kicking him in his crotch but then, she hadn’t taken too well to him groping her chest. Fair’s fair. She’d staggered to her feet, a tiny part of her hoping that salvation would be waiting for her. She knew it was folly and one look into his eyes crushed that tiny glimmer of hope like a bug beneath his boots.

She knew that look, the one that met her eyes. She’d known hunters too. Uncles and brothers who stalked for elk, sometimes even bears if they came close enough. That keen eye that missed nothing, that was focused. That look that knew what it wanted and was quite prepared to do whatever was required to get it. Even kill. She knew this man would kill, probably had killed. And somehow she knew it wasn’t animals he hunted either.

He had stood for a long time just looking at her. She was wearing the dress she’d been wearing the last time she was home. Dark brown, almost black, with a white dotted pattern. It fell to her knees and was fastened with a tie at her waist, wrapping around her slim figure to create a ‘v’ at her chest. It was her father’s favourite dress which was why she’d worn it. It had been his birthday. It seemed oddly fitting that it was the dress he last saw her wearing. And he had always said he found an odd delight in people who died on the same date that they were born. The soldiers that came crashing into dining room probably didn’t know they were granting him a birthday wish when they opened fire. The staccato sound of ammunition was one that haunted her dreams for weeks after, those small cracks of thunder and then that soft, sad, sound her father had made as the last of the air had left his body.

Leather covered hands had grabbed her brother, her mother and her, and hauled them outside. Harsh voices barked in barely understood German telling them to get down, to show their hands. Kneeling in the dirt she kept her head bowed, she was sure her mother did the same. More barking. Laughing now too. The tramping of boots ruining her mother’s pristine floors coming to them through the shattered remains of the front door. Then to the truck. The first of many she would be put inside before coming to the farm. It was only as the engine gave a grumbling roar and shuddered to life that she and her mother realised her brother was not with them. The shot that rang out over the stuttering engine answered their unvoiced question. He would be staying with their father.

Helmi had grown up with cold and yet the shock of the water hitting her face never failed to terrify her. A wheezing breath quickly drawn in as her body tensed, ready to try and defend herself. She knew now it was pointless, he was strong, stronger than her and, clearly, deranged. He hurt her whether she complied or not. Once, at the beginning, she had feigned willingness. Knelt and taken him into her mouth, hoping to please him would soften him, enough to just lock her in the barn and not bind her. A locked barn door was nothing when you’d lived in the countryside all your life. Her submission had been rewarded, not with kindness, but a new level of cruelty. Now when she fought it was for her own peace of mind. To know she had tried.

The rope hauled her into the air and she squeezed her eyes tight shut as the pressure built in her head. She was getting used to it now. The dizzying head rush. Slaps, something else she was now coming to expect. The stinging warmth left by his palm almost pleasant against the fresh morning air. Then it started. Her mouth forced open and forced to accept his manhood. She’d kissed boys before, done a little more now and then, but never this. The first time he’d forced himself into her throat she’d vomited. She woke up two days later with eyes that would barely open. She hacked and gagged around him, feeling and hearing his enjoyment. Then he was gone and they were joined by the other girl.

She didn’t know her name. She called her Esmeralda in her head because he sometimes called her a gypsy. In amongst all the other ‘pet names’ he used. Helmi had tried to speak to her halting German phrases whispered the first time they were left alone. Esmeralda didn’t reply. She never did. She’d clearly been there far longer and knew the consequences. Helmi hated the thought that she might turn into the same type of girl. A shadow of the person she once was. Docile and meek and scared to even think for herself.

She hissed, breath drawn in through clenched teeth as Esmeralda washed her. It was perfunctory and brief but the cold water clung to her skin, chilling her further still. Nipples painfully hardened as the droplets ran down her body before dripping to the ground below. Swinging back and forth she watched him use her, as she had done so many times now. Blue eyes flitting between the sight of his jack hammering hips and the fire. There was relief that if her used one girl, the other would usually be spared the same treatment. But then came worry. He never wasted wood. She’d seen him beat the gypsy girl for spilling kindling on the floor. The fire was hot, she could feel it. It made her feel nervous. Very nervous.

His use of Esmeralda was hard and rough and ultimately what he apparently needed. Soon he was back before her and his shaft was pushed into her mouth. His seed and Esmeralda’s own arousal mingling on her tongue and she cleaned him. Fighting the urge to retch that rose up habitually inside her. She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes from the lack of oxygen and the amount of blood swilling around in her head in this position.

She licked and sucked his softening length until it was clean. She did as she was told. She knew what fear was before she came. But she didn’t truly understand it until she arrived.

Standing over the hanging Finnish girl, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth, a hiss of breath sucked in as her mouth worked to clean him. Even without realizing it, it seemed, she had changed her behavior to fit what he wanted. It was amazing the way hunger took the fight out of even the strongest of wills, eventually.

But that was in the past, of course. Now, more obedient yet still not entirely trusted, she was allowed to eat actual food once more, though the times she was untied and set free were still quite rare. Slowly but surely, though, she'd be allowed more freedom. Maybe even trusted enough to be allowed into the house, to sleep in the cellar with the gypsy, locked in the darkness but warmer, at least. It was a goal for her to achieve, such small creature comforts stripped from her just as her clothes once were, burned to ashed in the very spot where a fire raged now, converting wood to the same pile of leftover ashes.

A slight step back from the dangling girl and he put one calloused hand on her belly, pushing her away from him as he did, swinging her on the rope she was bound to. His prick was slipped back into his pants, one tool of his ravaging tucked away so another might be used. Bending at the knees, he grabbed her hair as she swung closer and tilted her head up, to look into his face.

"I won't lie to you, huora. This is going to fucking hurt. But resources are scare in times like these, and a man has to protect his property. Remember, while you entertain your thoughts of escape: whoever finds you will see, and know you belong to me, and they will return you to me."

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, his face close to hers, his voice dropping.

"Just imagine what happens to you then, vittu."

His lips retreated again, a snarl changing his features with this final word, and then he released her hair and pushed her away, sending her swinging again. Rising back to his feet, he turned away from her and approached the fire, the heat flowing from it like a force to be walked through, the dust kicked up underfoot swirling in the currents of consumed oxygen.

Crouching again, near enough to the fire that small beads of sweat began to form on his brow, he closed his hand around the end of a metal rod that disappeared into the fire, and careful withdrew it. At the end opposite where he held, the letters AD glowed a bright and menacing yellow. He grinned, a grim and terrible thing, and rose back to his feet, his expression morphing into a grimace as his leg straightened.

Turning back to the new girl, he held the glowing iron out in front of him, on display.

"You're going to scream for me, vittu."

His eyes slid to the kneeling gypsy, and he nodded towards her Finnish counterpart.

"Grab her hair, cunt. Hold her still. She's not going to like this."

The heat at his back washed over him still, leaving his clothes hot against his skin, and he used his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow as he waited. Once the girl was secured, he crossed back to her, just a bit closer than an arm's length away. Tilting his head, he considered his target, lips pressed together into a thin line.

Reaching out after a moment, he pressed the glowing iron to her hip, eyes narrowing as the sound of her scream drown out everything else in the room.

She hissed as he pulled her hair and twisted her head to look up at him. His words vicious and threatening. Even if she didn't understand them all, she understood the few hurtful words he spat at her in her own tongue. She hated him for using them, for using her heritage as a weapon. Another reason to add to the others, another reminder why she could not let this man steal her life as he had done with the other girl, and God only knew how many others before that.

He stepped away and made for the fire, suddenly revealing his next activity.
Helmi had wondered where the strange mark on Esmeralda's hip had come from, the letters burned into her skin, but she had her suspicions. Now she knew her worries had been right. The brand in his hand glowed ominously as he hefted it easily in his hand, it was so bright it hurt to look at it for long. Making her scrunch her eyes shut, only to see the letters dancing in the darkness as a result.

"No! No you can't!" She begged, her voice a desperate cry. Finnish, German, Swedish. Any language she could call upon to try and make him stop. She knew it was wasted breath, that her screams were doubtlessly as pleasurable to him as physical atrocities he unleashed on them both. But she had to try.

"Don't do this, please, don't do this!" Now she was looking at the girl, the girl who acted without a mind of her own. The girl who eyed her coldly whenever he'd used her and who looked at him with such a terrifying and sickening expression, something that could almost be confused for devotion.

Her words did nothing, they wasted breath and softened neither of the grim faces before her. His was almost gleeful in it's wickedness. Esmeralda's wasn't all that different.

For the first fractions of a second after he pressed it to her skin, Helmi didn't feel a thing. Then it came. Sharp and hot and more painful than anything she could ever have imagined. She screamed, twisting uselessly against the other girl's grip and the rope around her ankles. She screamed and screamed, tears dripping to the floor below as he marked her as one would an animal, a piece of livestock.

Then came the smell, sickly sweet and horrible, the scent of burning flesh. She retched again, the smoky scent filling her nostrils and threatening to make her empty her stomach of it's pitiful contents.
The brand was eventually taken away, bloody oozing from the wound and coursing it's way down over her stomach and breasts towards her face. She felt sick and light headed and angry, so very angry.
She could tell the position of her body combined with it's latest ordeal was shortly about to overwhelm her, that the comforting nothingness of unconsciousness was beckoning her. Her mind and body working to try and save her from experiencing any more of this horrific episode.

In the rapidly darkening scope of her vision she could see him smiling that hateful smile, his eyes glued to his handiwork and the wound she knew would leave her scarred for life. She saw Esmeralda smiling too, an equally unpleasant expression, one of enjoyment at her suffering but one edged with worry.

As Helmi slipped into unconsciousness, grateful as the pain began to lessen in her awareness, she swore she couldn't let him get away with this. She would hurt him, as he had hurt her. Even if it cost her her life, he would pay. One way or another. He would pay.

Wake up.

She hadn't been sleeping. Sometimes, out of pure exhaustion, she had allowed her eyes to close and dream of the dark even as it surrounded her. It didn't last long – every tiny sound, every movement in the night, and every creak of the farm were conspirators in the ambition of taking away pieces of her. Pieces of her sanity? Was she sane any longer? She could not say; it seemed to matter so little, now. She could not say when now was, regardless. She dared not get caught scratching marks, or keeping track of nights. Months, surely. At the very least, weeks. Wasn't it all a part of the same thing? Time. All she had was time, here, in this barn with the man with the crawling eyes. Lately, though, she wasn't too sure.

She shifted in the straw and its texture scratched at her skin. The blanket, such a thin barrier, was rough against her, too. A lifetime ago, she had taken pride in her skin and its paleness. It was probably her only vanity and not even a freckle was allowed to stay on its surface without an effort to remove it. Buttermilk and soaking, even once – horrifyingly – scrubbing with sugar before it was desperately expensive. It had only been a small amount and she had dreaded the waste, so she had never attempted it again. What did sugar taste like? Sweet. It filled the mouth; a lovely, round sensation. A forgotten rich, fattiness on the tongue – hot chocolate, bread with butter, bites of cheese that melted away beyond her teeth. How had she ever eaten so sparingly? A few morsels here, some tastes there. Much more familiar now was the taste of fear and the iron of blood in the back of her throat. The barn smelled of it with its sharp dust, its feral history. She could only guess its secrets, but he had to have chosen it carefully. Sufficient with water and food, far enough from others that no one came. Night or day, morning or evening.

It was morning now.

Eve tried her best to wait, and pictured the nail hidden in the straw beneath her.


“Wake up,” Daniel Monteux said. “Wake up, my darling.”

Their little garret room had filled with the early light of day and seemed etched in gold. She opened one eye, reluctantly; a graying blue that could penetrate most targets. Perhaps not Daniel. Perhaps he was inured to it, for he laughed and passed his hand over the naked curve of her side. His fingertip traveled down to the pattern of the quilt – a gift from her long-suffering aunt – and began to tug its edge, deliberately, to the swell of her hip. She groaned, laughing back, low and mellow and filled with sleep.

“Daniel, no -” Eve kicked out a slim leg at him from under the covers. “- ça suffit!”

“Wake up, then! I must go on to the station, and here you are in bed. What did you have in mind? Must have had a plan, no?”

She rolled her cheeks around in the pillows, elaborately, peeking back at him through the brunette waves of her hair. “Peut-être. What's the time?”

His teeth glinted in the lushness of his mouth. “Nearly mid-morning. Quite late for a young wife.”

“Mmm... yes, quite late. Shall I get you breakfast?”

He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his, eliciting another smile from her and a momentary shudder as his fingertips cradled the juncture of her neck. “No, for I have brought it here. I stopped to run a few carts for M. Bernard, earlier. I had some time.”

Daniel pushed away from her and strode across the small space, towards a crudely structured table and chairs. The rugged nature of the wood complemented the space rather than detracted, and on it was a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief and a steaming chipped cup. Eve sat upright, almost too quickly, and forgot momentarily about the sheet before tugging it up to cover her chest. She blinked owlishly and tucked back her hair before smiling in disbelief, taking in the entirety of the picture her husband had presented her. He stood like a schoolboy, his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers. His suspenders were loose, and his black hair trailed softly down into the deep brown of his eyes. Her heart seized, only for a moment. They were so unbelievably young.

“Is that, oh, mm -” Eve enhaled, closing her eyes. “Chocolate? Did you -?”

“Yes. Come, before it's cold. Bread, and butter, with thanks from Mme. Bernard. She said that Marguerite is doing much better now.”

Eve hitched up the sheet, left the blankets, and trailed across the cold floor. As lovely as their little space was, it was barely more than a small kitchen and bedroom. It all shared one corner, tucked away under the precarious eaves of a larger house that enclosed a downstairs shop space. She had inherited it from her parents, although it had been empty for years. It was only in the last year that she and Daniel had come from Paris – the countryside seemed much safer. 1942 was turning into a dangerous year. Better to count their blessings away from the city, even if she did miss their silver shop. She settled into one of the tiny chairs with a sigh, blissfully raising the steaming cup to her lips. He sat across from her and watched her with a smile, unwrapping the bread and pulling out his knife to slice off sturdy pieces. The butter was creamy against its flaking crumbs.

“Marvelous,” She sighed, lazy with pleasure. “And, Marguerite will be perfectly fine. Goats generally are – they eat anything.”

She held up the cup to his mouth and he sipped, running his tongue over the edge of a finger to catch a sheen of butter. “No doubt she will think twice before heading for the laundry line, then! Quel bordel! Well, then. The train goes, soon, for the last shipment we shall retrieve and then I'll be finished. Ready to open in a few weeks?”

“Daniel, it is such a long trip and I think we are perfectly fine with the product that we have,” Eve set down the last of her bread, toying with it.

“Never, I won't hear of it. It belonged to your maman and she would have wanted us to make use of it,” Daniel said, dusting stray crumbs from his hands. He stood and shrugged back into his suspenders, pulled on his jacket and hat, jingled his pockets. “Ah, oui – here, go buy a book from Mme. Martin. I shall return this evening and we can walk down to the pub, don't worry about a thing.”

Eve laughed as the coins tumbled carelessly onto the table, standing up from her chair to embrace her husband. The sheet slid down her body and the skin she kept so pale seemed luminous against the rough canvas of his pants, the darker olive of his hands. Daniel muttered a curse and let his fingers travel again to her waist, the flat of her navel, and finally the softness of her thighs. His tongue had finally given up and slipped past the tender heat of her lips, beyond her teeth, into the honeyed and wet of her mouth.

The train whistle blasted.

“C’est vraiment des conneries -”

“Oh, go, Daniel. I must make up the bed and be off. Come home and kiss me then, yes?” Eve was laughing and embracing him again, pushing him off with her fingertips.

“You minx, I shall have you for this. Perhaps dinner in. Be good, ma belle, I'll be back.”

The door to the flat slammed and Daniel's hurried, happy footsteps echoed down – away, away, away, and then gone.


Wake up.

She had been awake. The familiar morning noises had begun – so different, but so easy to recall now. He was moving around the yard, she could hear him. Her stomach tightened relentlessly and her fingers flexed. Soon, now. Very soon now. The time for weeping about it was over and the time for planning was over as well. Only a very small bit of time, only a moment. If only she could have time to put on the dress - But she could clutch it, tightly, as she ran. If she balled it up tight enough, it may not even snag. For miles, she would have to run – for miles, she would run. He would give her the drink, first. The coldness of the well water on her tongue would revive her and propel her. The blue of her eyes would see through him. He would be a shadow on the wall, and she would fly through the door. She mustn't seem different. She mustn't seem excited – she wasn't, it was too bleak. It was so thin a margin... But it was still something.

He was in the barn. She didn't pretend to be asleep – he was sharp and she had tried before. It had been painful. She tried very hard to not recoil when his legs came into view, and failed. Her tongue wanted to run out, parched and desperate. She needed water badly, but she would wait. He was in no particular hurry, though, and so she tried to keep her eyes on the roof above. She had gotten her fill of looking at him, trying to catch some humanity from him like a sieve. So far, she had found nothing there, and so chose no interaction. It always ended the same – she would cry, she would weep, but the only word she could seem to form was the same. Daniel. Oh, Daniel. But then she would remember that his heart would break, that it would destroy him, that she was full of shame. She would never...

The rope adjusted and she was lowered to the floor, not gently. A barely repressed sound of surprise came from her mouth as the inertia gripped, and then slackened. He crossed to the water – there was a sound of sloshing, against the dipper. She was momentarily frightened. Was he not letting her down? It had happened before. Was it all for nothing? But no, he reconsidered. The pulley let out only a minor protest and then he came for her. She schooled herself, pushing her gaze to the floor. Whatever happened, it mattered little – he loosened the ropes and shoved the cup of water at her. She drank the water, glorying in its restorative liquidity, carefully rolling her ankles and wrists in hidden circles. She had done it before. The lack of circulation was debilitating. She couldn't let it stop her. The water wouldn't cramp her stomach, either – the drinks were slow.

He wouldn't give her time to breathe. The cup rolled from her hands, down to the straw. She made to pull on the dress she was allowed; the blanket had slipped from her skin. She was thin now, thinner than before, and her precious complexion was old with bruises. But no – she tried to slip it over her head, and he began to move towards her. No, no, no, not ready. She was scrambling in the straw, then, backwards. That should have been enough – she knew enough not to fight him, to stay still, it would make it worse otherwise. If he had been without a limp, she never would have found the time or the tenacity. But, all she had was time. There – left corner, dark against the barn floor and hidden amongst the pieces of straw.

It was a nail – closer to a stake, but too small to be considered such. Rusty and perhaps crumbling, but enough to penetrate. She palmed it then, as his shadow crossed over her, and her heart jumped like a weight into her throat. How could she breathe through it? Here – and with a cry, shriek, horrid sound of rage and violation and wretchedness – she grasped the nail and stabbed it into his bad leg. She couldn't know how bad it was – she shook free from as much rope as she could, roll roll roll out of the straw, crawl-getup-scramble-walk barn door. The dress was forgotten. She burst from the barn into the morning sun, too terrified to sob, her limbs pinwheeling and careening over the chilled grass. It was cold – it was too cold, she could never make it far.

The treeline was close. Eve barreled through the property, and the power of her fear chugged in her veins like a demon. She felt a sting in her toes and knew she had torn a nail. The sticks would be worse. The underbrush would be worse. It wasn't until she stepped on the first branch that Eve began to weep, without sound, before her lungs protested. After that, she just ran.

Essex, England - June, 2009

Adam was...

What was he? Insatiably curious about just what the fuck he'd been reading through the night and as the sun had begun to come up, yes. It had become clear as he read that they were the diaries of someone, though the writer of course never used their own name. They knew who they were, after all. He had taken to picturing the man in the picture he'd seen in the attic as he read, though it was a short time before he'd even realized he'd begun to do this.

And then, with that man firmly in place, the others began to fall into place as well. There were two of them in this first book, girls he addressed with different terms, though it became clear that they were the same two women. It was two pages of reading before he stopped and went back to the beginning of the book to start there. What had started off as bored reading meant to get him to sleep had turned into something he was sat up straight in bed, eyes wide and attention rapt.

So, curious, yes. But as the pages had turned, so many other things passed through him. He wanted to be repulsed at what he was reading, he wished he was, and yet...

The women were described in such a detail that picturing them was no harder than imagining any other character in a book he'd read, and it made him wonder what the point of all of it was. Copious notes were scribbled down, documenting their reactions, their responses, the way they sounded. How they felt. It was a strange thing for a man to do when he was the one experiencing it all, because it all seemed to Adam a hard thing to forget.

More than once, he'd set the book down on the bed, open still to the page he'd been on, and just stared at it in the poor light of his room. A battle had flared up in his mind as he read, a little voice telling him he shouldn't be reading any of this, shouldn't be responding to any of it even as he grew hard beneath the sheet that covered him. It was terrible, brutal and vicious, and he was frightened of the way it...

Aroused.

He didn't like the word normally, hated it especially now, and yet found he couldn't escape it. He would squeeze his eyes shut, breathe slow and steady and try to focus his mind on something else until he no longer created an obscene tent out of the thin cotton of the sheet. And then he would pick up the book again, drawn to it like metal to a magnet, and he would be hard again within minutes. Sometime not long before the sun poked above the horizon and began to lighten the shades drawn tight over his window, as he read about the way he'd used the Finnish woman as she hung upside down, he gave up the fight and accepted it. He didn't know what it said about him, what it meant for his future sexual encounters or what it said about him as a person, but the insistent throb of his cock was no longer possible to deny.

At the last page, he read of the branding of the same Finnish woman - Helmi was her name, though she'd only been called that a time or two by the author - and then snapped the book shut. He couldn't stop thinking about the trunk full of books that were sitting in the attic, now calling his name. He couldn't stop thinking of the description of the two women and the way they felt as the man fucked them, both. He wanted to climb the ladder again, retrieve more books and plow right through them just as he had this one, but he had to exercise some restraint. His grandmother would be up soon, if she wasn't already, and he couldn't be caught going up there. It would have to wait until tomorrow night.

Slipping the book in the drawer of his bedside table, he switched off the light. A hand moved under the sheet, closed around the length of his cock, and began to move quickly, urgently. In the darkness of his closed eyes, he found himself somewhere in Germany, in a barn with a pliant Gypsy and a bound Finn...

He slept until late into the afternoon, until his grandmother banged on his door to see if he was "still alive in there." It was a moment, just a small pocketful of seconds before he remembered it all, and he stared at the closed drawer next to him with sleep-clouded eyes.

"Yeah, grams.. yeah," he called at last, turning his eyes to the door, "I'm alive. Just.. let me get dressed."

"Fuck," he added, more quietly, knuckling the sleep from his eyes.

The day seemed to find a new, more tortuously slow gear than the ones previous, the time seemingly passing with all the urgency of a dying turtle as he waited for the obscenely early hour of her bedtime. Once she disappeared into her room and her tv began to rattle the walls again, he began the wait to make sure she wasn't coming out. He lasted almost ten minutes before he was climbing the ladder carefully, quietly, flashlight and book in hand.

He cut a straight path to the trunk, and opened the lid without hesitation. The volumes all sat within just as they had before, revealing none of the terrible secrets they held within their bound pages. With hungry, dark eyes he took stock of them, estimating their number to be at least a couple dozen. Days worth of reading, and he could scarcely even begin to imagine what must be in the rest of them. He wanted to take them all, find a way to drag the whole trunk down to the room with him, lock himself a way, and try to find the first one so he could read them in order. The only thing that stopped him was the idea that his grandmother might come in and see the trunk.

Surely she knew what was in it, right? With a shake of the head, he slammed the door to that train of thought, locked it tight, and dropped the key in a mental Mariana Trench.

Six of the journals were stacked carefully in his hands, and with a resigned sigh he stopped there. Now that they were in his hands, he was eager to get back to his room and start reading again. Using his foot, he closed the lid to the trunk, and made his way back towards the shaft of light from the open attack door. A few minutes later, and he was back in his room, the door locked, and the books stacked up on the floor by his bed. With a deep, unsteady breath, he reached down and took the topmost book, and opened it to the first page to begin reading...



Near Cuxhaven, Germany - October, 1940

It was another morning, with no indication of anything to set it apart from any of the last few dozen before it. The French girl - the only one here currently - had been with him for some time, and he had begun to consider moving her into the house. She was not quite there, not broken down enough just yet that her risk to him would be minimal, but he was earnestly watching for the signs now.

Pausing outside the barn door, he stretched his back and flexed the muscles in his bad leg. It had been a late night, later than planned, but he had allowed himself to grow lazy in his documenting and took the opportunity to make up for the lost time. The nights were cooler now, as well, and he always moved more slowly in the morning, until the sun had a chance to burn off the chill in the air. He carried a small basket with him, a chunk of crusty bread and some cheese inside for her breakfast, and this was set on the ground so he could pull open the barn door.

The fight, at least, seemed to have been broken from her, and this was still the first week he had allowed her anything besides water. Water, and him. It was a marvel, the things desperate hunger would drive a person to willingly, even greedily consume. The lesson had to be repeated a few times in the past, but he knew the roulure was aware of the weight she'd shed in her time here and he doubted she'd be happy to remain so thin. He liked her with a little more softness to her body as well, the way she'd been when she first arrived to him, and would be happy to see her return to that state.

A slight, cool breeze floated past him and into the interior or the barn as he bent to retrieve the basket of food. He was silent as he entered, certain she would've been awake before he'd even had the opportunity to cross the distance to her. Walking through his limp, the basket was set down by the cold, dead remains of the fire he'd left burning for her last night. He crossed to the barrel of water, and stood near it, considering her dangling, naked form. He would have her, of that surely there was no question even in her mind, and the only real variable would be when. He had nearly crossed to her then, used her mouth as she hung and let his seed be the first relief her throat knew this morning, then reconsidered. Her mouth would be wetter, her lips slicker, after she'd had a drink. And then, he had quite the day planned for the little chatte.

The rope that had held her up was unwound, and she was lowered a bit. He stopped it there, with her still a short distance off the ground, his eyes moving over the reduced curves of her body. He reconsidered, nearly hoisted her back up and tied her off, and then relented. Lowering her to the ground fully, he returned to the water and dropped the dipper below the surface, filling the cup with water. Some spilled as he made his way to her, the mangled muscle in his leg made smooth strides all but impossible, but it was still almost completely full by the time the cup was pushed into her hands. The ropes were loosened, and she was freed from them. She would be making her first trip to the basement today, into a cold darkness that would swallow her screams before they even made it out of the walls of the house.

The cup slipped from her hands, clattered to the ground with a hollow tin sound, and his jaw clenched in irritation. The cheese was stolen from her mouth before she'd even had a chance to put it there, it was as quick a decision for him as if it was a reflex, and his hand clenched into a fist. He moved towards her, caring not if she was trying to pull on her dress even as he hit her, when the dress was dropped and she began moving back. He stopped short for a step, blinking in surprise.

"Well, well," he said, a bit bemused as she found the wall behind her, "What ideas have you dreamed up overnight, la chienne? Too many for your little head, surely."

He paused, and cast a humorless, sickly inviting smile down at her.

"Why don't you tell me about them? No?" The questions were rhetorical, the time left for her to answer nonexistent. "Scream them for me, then."

He took a step towards her, another, and then she was moving. Too late, he saw something in her hand. Too late, he realized it was a nail, old and long forgotten, but destined now to find a home in his leg. Too late, he knew he'd walked right where she'd wanted him to. Rage and pain embraced within him, and as he fell to the ground, landing ungracefully on his shoulder and hip while both hands clutched at his bad leg, he roared at her. She was running, without the nail, without the dress, without even so much as a glance back at him, she was running for the door and disappearing through it.

"Come back here!" he roared again, this time expelling words instead of the guttural fury of the last time, "Come back here you cunting bitch or I'll feed you to the fucking dogs!"

She wasn't coming back, he knew it as well as he knew anything. Not without being forced to. He had to get her back, or risk losing everything. His research here, it was important but secret, unappreciated within the military, and he knew it was only because it was small and unknown that he was allowed to proceed. A naked French girl turning up suddenly, though, would raise too many questions and shine attention on him he was not yet ready for.

She could not be allowed to make contact with anyone.

With his teeth clenched together, he closed his hand on the nail and pulled it slowly free from his leg, groaning at the pain that rifled through him. Blood wet the leg of his pants, making the cloth warm and sticky against his skin. Her forgotten dress was the nearest thing to him, and so he snatched it up, twisted it tight, and then looped it around his leg. The white was stained red instantly, but it at least seemed to stem the flow of blood. The fabric was tied tight, and carefully he climbed back to his feet. The constant pressure also meant constant pain, but he vowed it would be nothing next to hers. Standing upright again, he welcomed the pain; let it fuel him.

Grabbing up the cup she'd dropped, he made his way to the barrel, taking the opportunity to test his balance. He managed the trip without toppling, then pushed the cup into the water. Drinking quickly, knowing he'd need the water for what was to come, he filled the cup again and drank once more. The dipper was dropped back into the water with a muted splash, and leaning still over the barrel, he turned his head to the gaping, empty barn door. Spitting on the ground, he turned from the water and stalked to the open door.

The ground, still wet from the early morning dew, was soft underfoot as he stepped out of the barn. A quick scan of the horizon showed her already out of sight, and so his attention was turned to the soil. His footprints from the morning were clear, leading from the big house across the yard to the barn. Hers, barefoot, weighing so much less, took a short time to suss out, though they were unmistakable once he'd located them. He followed the path she'd left, head bent as he walked alongside them, until their direction became more certain. His eyes followed the ground as his head lifted, until he found himself looking at the tree line in the distance. And smiling.

She had run for the trees, and he could hardly blame her. She was smarter than he gave her credit for, clearly, though there were things for which she could not plan for. The vast, cold waters of the North Sea waiting for her on the other side of the expanse of trees were chief among them, and it would prove to be her undoing. With an uneven, tottering jog, he made for the tree line, and already he was planning for her return. A welcome back party was in order.