Work Text:
Kock, Poland, 6 October, 1939
Gilbert stared at the empty square.
“Where is he?”
The soldiers exchanged glances. “We don’t know, sir.”
Gilbert looked at them and took a breath through his nose.
“Well, go find him.”
Feliks slid the last few feet down the hill and landed hard on his ass.
He stayed there for a moment, half sitting against the slope. The ground was uneven beneath him, his legs stretched out below him.
His legs felt heavy. Heavy and numb, as though someone had replaced them with two particularly unhelpful pieces of furniture.
Feliks pushed himself forward, bracing his hands against the ground and trying to get his feet underneath him. Nothing happened.
“Oh, come on, not now.”
He pushed harder against the ground. His legs gave a weak, useless twitch.
He let himself fall back against the slope. There was no point trying again.
Then he heard voices above him. Footsteps moved through the undergrowth at the top of the hill.
Feliks looked up. He pushed one hand against the ground anyway, more from instinct than hope.
They were coming closer.
His breath caught. He closed his eyes.