Chapter Text
Things weren't supposed to go like this. He had fought hard and sacrificed much to get where he was. He wasn't supposed to be so goddamn incompetent!
König clutched at his left side as another pang of agony shot through his body like an arrow, the white-hot pain licking at his bones like a ravenous hyena. Each step that he had to take filled him with dread, as the slightest wrong movement only made the pain so much worse. Navigating these woods in a blizzard was already hard enough, but with that amount of snow, he might as well be trudging through liters upon liters of wet cement.
A humiliating blend of pain and frustration left his throat in a long and drawn-out groan. It was a pathetic sound, especially for the supposedely hardened soldier that he was. At least his mask and the howling winds muffled his shame a bit, making it less of an earsore.
He had foolishly assumed that fighting on his own turf would make things a lot easier. That just because he had grown up in this very area, and knew the territory better than anyone else—be it his unit or the hostiles—it would give him a considerable advantage.
Not only had it been a naïve assumption on top of being a rookie mistake, it also meant that he had lowered his guard.
They died. So many of his men died because he got cocky. Arrogant.
Because of his royal screw up, half of his unit had died. As for the rest of his men… they were likely lost, just like he was. Assuming they hadn't already succumbed to the cold, or worse.
After all, they didn't know the area as well as he did.
Even more ironic was that he was lost himself. It didn't matter how familiar he was with the region, or how often he had gone hunting in these woods as a teenaged adrenaline junkie. Not when he hadn't actually gone back to Austria in years. Let alone in the winter, when its mountains were covered in a layer of snow almost half as tall as he was.
He sluggishly raised his hand to his eyes in a feeble attempt to shield them from the blizzard. The damn thing had been hitting him from every side for what had felt like hours…
Forcing himself to focus, König tried to get a better look at his surroundings, and hopefully spot any sign of civilization beyond the tall trees. Something, anything that might serve as temporary shelter while he mended his wounds…
... but he saw nothing. Nothing but white that spread as far as the eye could see.
This winter wonderland was a sight he once enjoyed as a chubby little boy stuck in his own head. Not so much anymore as an injured mercenary separated from his unit.
Once winter settled in, the mountains of the Karawanks became as deadly as they were glorious. Because winter meant snow, possibly even snowstorms just like the one he was battling with—and snowstorms meant that everything became white. From the ground to the trees, the mountains, to the damn sky itself. Even some of the local fauna would adorn a special coat, from stoats to hares and even that one fat bird that looked like a chicken, whose name he's already forgotten. What was it called again? A grouse… ?
His steps slowed while his heartbeat quickened. So much snow… he couldn't even tell where the horizon ended and the sky began anymore.
And the trees… leaning over him, circling around him like vultures… he needed to get away from the trees…
The weight of his medkit he carried on his back taunted him. All he needed was a place to hide from the winds… a large rock, a hole, a cave—anything. Because he couldn't risk pulling out his supplies now, not when the blizzard was so strong. Not while he couldn't feel his fingers. Not while the trees were watching…
He couldn't… afford to risk anything.
His legs quivered and he reluctantly leaned on a nearby pine tree before his knees could give in. He could almost hear the slumbering giant glaring down at him, laughing…
Closing his eyes, König tried to focus. Remind himself of his priorities. Shelter. Warmth. Injuries…
...
He had lost sight of everything, and not just because of that damn snow.
Damnit. Damnit it all! How could he mess up this badly? When did he get so careless?
His walkie-talkie was busted. His fingers were too damn cold to fiddle with his radio. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and fuck, he was cold—the two only comforts he had were the fact that he was walking down the mountain, not up… and of course, knowing that he at least wasn't walking around in circles thanks to the nearly-constant crimson red trail of his blood that he was leaving behind him.
Yes… at least he had that. After all, it wasn't like he could rely on his footsteps much, as they were likely getting tussled by the local wildlife. Boars, deers, gophers. Chamois. Ibex.
Wolves. Bears.
He hoped that the latter had already gone into hibernation. Because otherwise, in his state, combined with the freezing cold temperatures and his near-zero visibility… he wasn't sure he could win a fight against a territorial gopher.
"Scheiße…"
His arms snaked around the tree he had been using as support. He could almost feel its bark scrape at his cheek through the fabric of his mask—wait, had his field of vision gotten smaller? Or was it because the mask… ?
Eventually, his arms gave in. He collapsed onto his knees, sinking into the thick layer of snow until it reached his waist.
He was exhausted. His ears were ringing so loudly that he could barely even hear the howling winds anymore. And his body… his body burned from head to toe, felt scalding hot where he had been shot… and all this warmth didn't even have the decency to offer respite from the cold.
A few harsh coughs tore from his lungs. Stained the center of his white camo mask with red from the inside.
He clutched at his chest, his breaths coming out labored. Wheezing as he fought for oxygen… fuck, fuck, he could barely even breathe anymore. He had lost so much blood… and why was the snow moving? Was it breathing? Fuck, fuck, it also wanted him dead, didn't it… ?
He tried to get up. Then tried again. But the snow only held him down.
Crawling it is.
While being on a slope was helping greatly with this humiliating task, now his vision was obstructed for good. It didn't matter wherever he looked: right, left, up—the only things he could see were white snow and white sky. And to make matters worse… it took little to no time for the hellish substance to seep through his gloves, his mask, then the rest of his supposedly waterproof gear. He hadn't even realized that he could feel colder than before until now.
Or perhaps he was just so cold that he couldn't tell where the snow and his body began anymore.
"G-Gottverdamnt…" he sobbed, frustrated beyond belief. He was such a sorry excuse of a human being… he had failed, he had failed in every sense of the term—his men, his mission, his Mutti… himself.
He let his forehead fall onto the ground underneath him.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from beneath his mask, muffled by the snow. And he didn't stop.
If his father could see him… oh, he would mock him. He would mock him, scream at him that he was right, that he didn't have what it takes to be a soldier. That only real men belonged in the military, and that no amount of training could man up a sissy like him.
He was just laughing now. That old bastard could burn in hell for all he cared…
"Nicht genug Rückgrat, hm, Vater…? Sag mir das noch einmal ins Gesicht…"
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Strong. Fresh. Invigorating, just like pinewood. It was a scent he was already deeply familiar with, having grown up in an old Alpine village far away from city life. In fact, it would've been a pleasant smell to wake up to, had it not been for the nausea that had settled in his stomach sometime during his sleep.
Still, he couldn't help but take in its scent just a little… until he thought he caught a whiff of smoke lost among the crisp tones of the woodsy aroma.
That would be when he noticed the second thing: the soft, gentle crackling of a fireplace, coming only a few meters away from where was resting.
He didn't open his eyes. He was too exhausted to care, and besides, there was this very uncomfortable throb behind his eyes that single-handedly convinced him to keep them closed. In fact… his entire body ached—no, it burned. His skin was uncomfortably damp, while every inch of his muscles was at the mercy of sharp stings, like a thousand little needles mercilessly poking at his flesh.
A quiet groan escaped his lips… he was hurting all over. Even his hair hurt…
The third thing he noticed were the shivers. He didn't know it was possible to feel simultaneously hot and cold, not to that extent. Chattering teeth while soaking in a pool of your own sweat was… a dishorienting experience, to say the least.
He tried to move. Lift his arm, turn onto his side, anything—but his body felt so abnormally heavy that it was as though his bones had turned to lead. As though gravity itself had increased to pin him into place on the bed…
Yes, the bed… the fourth thing that he noticed. It wasn't exactly comfortable, too firm for his aching back, and way too short to fit the entirety of his legs: its edge reached the back of his knees, leaving his calves and feet to dangle. He could even feel the rough and wooden floorboard under his soles.
Unsurprisingly, something was also covering him and working overtime to keep him warm. A blanket… light, soft. Thick. And yet, so delicate….
That's when it suddenly hit him: he could recognize that texture anywhere.
The corners of his lips twitched upward. Sheep wool.
His Mutti had stuffed him into many a woolen sweater back when he could still wear normal-sized clothes. A fond memory that was now little more than a relic of a long bygone era: so far behind in the past that it felt more like a fever dream.
Now, he would very much like to say that his actual fever was the fifth thing he noticed, but he had acknowledged it the moment he noticed the shivers that would occasionally course through him.
Instead, what he noticed was the gentle sound of rustling fabrics above him—
—immediately followed by the sight of you. The young woman who was kindly adding another woolen blanket on top of him.
His brows raised in slight surprise. The room was dark so he could hardly make it out, but eventually, he noticed that you were wearing a strange dress… which wasn't unlike a dirndl, actually. Only with long sleeves and a very unfortunate lack of cleavage… though your pretty mug made up for it. All you needed was a few beer mugs in your hands and it would be perfect.
His chapped lips slowly stretched into a big and lazy grin.
"Ist… ist heute die Wiesn?" He held his smile as he spoke, even though his throat ached from being so dehydrated. "Dann heb mir ein paar Bier auf, ja… ?“
He could go for a beer, alright… his throat felt as though he had swallowed a spoonful of molten metal.
Eyecontact was inevitable the moment he opened his mouth, and your reaction was instantaneous. Your eyes blew wide open just as your hands jerked back as though you'd burned yourself on a stove—and you clumsily stumbled back, nearly tripping over your feet.
Frowning, his fingers twitched at the sight of you moving away from him.
"He, Häschen… komm zurück. Ich… ich beiß’ nicht." His voice was dangerously hoarse as he slowly lifted his arm, stretching his fingers out towards you. "V-versprochen."
He was genuinely trying to be reassuring, but the slightest movement felt like an elephant was pressing its foot onto his ribcage. So, he allowed his arm to drop back onto the tough mattress, and, after seeing that his kind words weren't working, he decided to switch for a different approach.
"Wer sind sie, Fräulein?" He attempted again, but it was a mistake: speaking in his state was painful, and it led him to a bout of coughing so severe that he felt as though he was trying to spit out his lungs. Still, he needed to at least know where he was. "Wo sind wir… ?"
He didn't know if it was the sound of his voice, him reaching out for you, or his frantic coughing: but something he did had startled you. To the point where you had retreated to the corner opposite to his bed. The room was dark, save for whatever little light came out of the tiny fireplace and the candle on his bedside, but he managed to make out your hands, which were nervously clutching at a piece of fabric coming from the top of your dress.
The sight made him frown. He was known to be intimidating in his field, so it was no surprise that he would be terrifying to a civilian, let alone to a young woman like yourself. But still… was he truly that scary that he'd leave you cowering like a cornered little rabbit?
Though before he could say anything and try to calm you down, you surprised him by being the next one to speak.
"O-oprostite, gospod." You squeaked before you finally decided to approach him again, one hesitant step after the other. "Nisem… nisem želela vas užaliti."
His shoulders tensed up, and his eyes widened in surprise at the unknown though not unfamiliar language. One he had heard many times in the past, having grown up near the southern border and all.
"Scheiße," he muttered under his breath. That wasn't… that wasn't Slovene, was it?
His head dropped back onto his uncomfortably firm pillow. Had he seriously gotten so lost that he had crossed the border? Just how far did he walk? For how long?
And where was he, anyway?
Rather than asking you anything else, he quietly watched, curious, as you hesitantly readjusted the blanket over his bare and bandaged torso. Stared as your youthful yet already calloused hands made sure that every inch of him below his chin was covered.
A short but sudden gasp left him, startling you yet again. Sixth thing that he noticed.
His lack of mask.
His arm shot up, snatching your wrist before you could pull away from him another time. Doing so caused a sharp pang to stab at his side like a dagger, a mere inconvenience he simply brushed off for the time being. Instead, he forcefully pulled you towards him, eliciting a frightened yelp from your lips.
"Wo ist meine Maske?—"
His tone was demanding as he sat up on the bed, although the pain that followed immediately shut him up. Hot blood started to seep through his fresh and pristine bandages, and he felt its wet heat pooling up under the woolen blanket that was covering him.
And this time, he couldn't tough it out. He was left hissing sharply through gritted teeth, his free hand jumping to his side at the pain, while you, again, flinched at the sound of him raising his voice just a tiny bit before hurrying to check the damage.
"Wo… wo ist meine Maske, Fräulein?" He asked again, only at a much quieter tone this time. Skittish little thing, you were.
Amusingly, instead of replying, you gently pushed down on his shoulders, a silent demand that he lay back down on the bed. You were frowning, a little crease forming between your brows—likely in concern, or perhaps frustration.
"Pro… prosim, gospod. Ne delajte nenadnih gibov. Ranjeni ste."
Your voice was quiet, almost a murmur. Despite the fact that he didn't speak your language, he could only listen. Meanwhile, you gently moved the blanket a little further down and had a look at the damage, all without even flinching at the sight of the bandages that were now more blood than linen.
As he watched you gently peel the soiled bandages off his waist, he couldn't help but notice that you refused to use anything but the tip of your fingers to work on his wound. Your movements were practiced, and yet… weirdly hesitant. You did know what you were doing, right… ?
The bloody bandages were removed, and after a few minutes of cleaning the wound and reapplying a weird-smelling ointment, you began wrapping new and fresh ones around his waist. Your movements, again, were practiced though uncertain. You knew how to do it after all, yet it was as though you feared that he would snap at you again.
His brows furrowed as he stared at your wrist, the phantom feeling of its shape still lingering in his palm. He didn't actually hurt you, did he?
He then looked at you again.
Oh.
You… you were actually trembling a little.
And now he felt like the biggest of assholes.
"Ehm… do you know English?" He tried again, this time ditching his mother tongue entirely. "Please, forgive me, I didn't mean to hurt you… I can be a brute sometimes."
You didn't react aside from sparing him a quick glance. He continued,
"I'm sorry I spooked you, miss." He added, his voice laddened with genuine guilt. "I just… it's just that feel naked without my mask on. You know? I never go without it."
To be fair, he was naked under those blankets. Naughty little thing, you had removed his boxers and everything…
Only he had gotten used to wear that damn thing so often that he had forgotten what it was like not to wear it. As stupid as it might have sounded, he felt so much more comfortable with it on. Less… exposed. Vulnerable. It was something he would never admit to his men. Not only would it ruin his mystique, but he also had an image to uphold—and besides, they would just laugh at him if he told them.
Instinctively, he tried to look outside the window on the opposite wall to his bed. Unfortunately, the curtains were drawn, and opaque, making it impossible to see whatever was happening outside, especially while being in such a dim room.
But, he could hear the howling winds outside. Still going strong.
Damnit. He needed to get back to them… assuming any of them was still alive. How long had it been since he… ?
He finally looked back at you, expecting—no, hoping for a reply. But you only gave him a puzzled look before you immersed yourself back into your work.
No English either, then.
There was little else he could do besides watching you work your magic while you checked his other injuries. He was a bit concerned by the lack of antiseptic, or of any sort of proper medical supplies, but at least you were hygienic: using boiling water from the tiny fireplace in the corner of the shed, and washing your hands regularly… it was better than nothing. Maybe you had used his own supplies while he was asleep.
"Samo še malo, pa bom končala, gospod." You said as you appeared to speed up just a little. Hastily securing the bandages before your eyes flickered between several spots across his torso, his shoulders.
What he wouldn't do to understand what it was that you were saying…
In the end, the bandages were changed within a few minutes. And now that was out of the way, you were carefully placing the blankets back into place over his body.
"Počivati morate, gospod. Poskrbela bom za vas, medtem ko boste spali." You murmured as you gazed down at him with a gentle smile, readjusting the blankets for what felt like the tenth time since he'd woken up. Whatever it was that you had said, the sight of your beautiful smile put his mind at ease.
He supposed it wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a little longer before he could probe you with more questions.
"Was auch immer du sagst, mein Schatz." He yawned before he allowed the world to fade to black again.
Translations (optional) (google translate jumpscare)
-
"Scheiße…"__ "G-Gottverdamnt…"
→ Shit… / G-Goddamnit… -
"Nicht genug Rückgrat, hm, Vater… ? Sag mir das noch einmal ins Gesicht…"
→ Not enough backbone, huh, Father...? Say that to my face again... -
"Ist… ist heute die Wiesn?" ___ "Dann heb mir ein paar Bier auf, ja… ?"
→ Is it Oktoberfest today… ? Then save me a few beers, yeah…? -
"He, Häse… komm zurück. Ich… ich beiß’ nicht." ___ "V-versprochen."
→ Hey, bunny… come back. I… I don't bite. P-promise. -
"Wer sind sie, Fräulein?" ___ "Wo sind wir… ?"
→ Who are you, miss? Where are we… ? -
"O-oprostite, gospod." ___ "Nisem… nisem želela vas užaliti."
→ F-forgive me, sir. I didn't mean to offend you. -
"Wo ist meine Maske?" ___ "Wo… wo ist meine Maske, Fräulein?"
→ Where is my mask? Where… where is my mask, miss? -
"Prosim, gospod, ne delajte nenadnih gibov. Ranjeni ste."
→ Please, sir, do not make any sudden move. You are wounded. -
"Samo še malo, pa bom končala, gospod."
→ Just a little more and I’ll be finished, sir. -
"Počivati morate, gospod. Poskrbela bom za vas, medtem ko boste spali."
→ You need to rest, sir. I will look after you while you sleep. -
"Was auch immer du sagst, mein Schatz."
→ Whatever you say, my treasure.