Chapter 2
Artois, 1943
As he stepped from the cool night air into the warm, smoke-filled tavern the drinkers watched him warily, afraid. There was nothing strange in that. In this time and place, everyone was afraid. The marks upon his skin meant nothing to them: he was a stranger.
Besides, they were far more afraid of the one who walked in a few minutes later. Smart black uniform with red details. Bolts of lightning at his throat, glinting in the fire-light. The patrons glanced furtively to the door, checking to see how many guards protected him. None. It was dangerous for one who wore a red band upon his sleeve to wander alone into a French establishment. He wasn't afraid. Too arrogant and proud to be afraid of these peasants.
He found the scarred man sitting alone in a darkened, secluded corner and sat, uninvited. Seeing that he was to go unacknowledged, he waited for a tankard of warm beer to be brought and finally spoke.
"Have you thought more on our offer?" His accent was slight, but his voice was cold and emotionless.
"Not really."
Instantly the officer was angry, and the man smiled softly that a reaction was so easily gained.
"You have to make a choice!" The statement was made with force, but his voice remained low, so that no one else heard it.
"Why?"
The short answers did nothing to soothe the officer's anger, but for a moment he looked confused, as if not understanding the answer. How could anyone refuse to make the choice?
"You have to choose a side. You know this." He took a sip of the beer, trying to compose himself while hiding his confusion. The foul liquid did not help.
"Why must I choose a side in a war in which I do not believe? A war in which neither side is right?" As if on cue the gaslight flared dramatically as he spoke, illuminating the dark swirls upon his cheeks and for a moment the officer was transfixed by the intricate marks. His hand moved to his own cheek involuntarily, felt the unblemished skin, and fell away as he pulled himself from the reverie.
"A time will come when you will be forced to choose. You will not be able to simply sit and watch. You will be called to fight!" His voice rose a level now, and some drinkers stopped their conversations to glance worriedly at the shadowed corner.
"I very much doubt that. I'm unnecessary, at best. Neither side has any real desire for me to join them. Neither side trusts me. I can't blame them, but it suits me very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, Lieutenant, I have somewhere to be." He poured the whisky down his throat - a poor blended stuff, but such things were unavoidable in times of war - and rose from the table. As he made for the exit, watched furtively by the curious drinkers, the officer made no move to follow. He sat for a moment, nursing the insipid beer, before pushing the glass aside, splashing brown liquid onto the worn wooden table. The owner came too quickly to wipe the spill, fearing the wrath of the already perturbed Lieutenant.
Glaring at the well-meaning Frenchman, he stood, dropping a few francs onto the damp table. As he stepped out onto the cold street he heard the chatter and noise of the bar rise again, to the level it had been at before he entered. He had become accustomed to the wary silence which followed wherever he went.
He glanced up and down the almost deserted street but none of the faces he saw were scarred, only cold, hungry and afraid. His quarry had vanished into the shadows.
***
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