He Who Comes In Peace [Moritz]

[Leeroy Atherton]

Country: Burnham-on-Sea, the West Country, England
Current Time: 11:27
Current Weather: Sunny with a hint of cloud, and with a light breeze. The mercury hovers around four degrees Celsius.

~ | O | ~ ~ | O | ~

She was not so badly battered that she couldn't stand at a door, or call for one of the other door supervisors if need be. They had no right to demand she stay home after she could stand again - that something would happen to Leeroy, and she would kill herself that time. Monty shouldn't have had that party at the inn; the troublemakers always skulked around when midnight came...couldn't he have known that? Had the man not been in business long enough to expect such a reaction? Why was everyone telling Leeroy she had been the foolish one, when events beyond her control had transpired in the first place? If it hadn't been for her, that Irish lad who had been there would have probably been killed by that raging Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Moritz Erichsen, he had called himself. Leeroy would never forget that name, or that face, or that rage in his eyes when she taunted him. It was the last thing she remembered before a flurry of pain, blood and splinters, and then nothing. The doctor had said she was lucky to not have been killed by the attack, and that the young altar boy had found her, lying in a puddle of her own blood and the Lieutenant nowhere in sight. Last she had heard, the army had found him wandering around, his bloody hands and the voices of witnesses at the party condemning him to whatever court-marshal they had in store.

The hiss of the running tap was silenced as Leeroy gently turned the handle. Her eyes wandered to the side of the house, revealed by the large window in front of her, where the bushy hedgerow her neighbours sustained blocked most of her view. She could see the roof and chimney of the couple beside her, and on occasion, the barking of their dog and the sounds of their children, but the leafy barrier did its job well. At the bottom, a line of wildflowers had been planted by the old owners, growing wild and tangly and full of weeds, despite Leeroy's best efforts. It would be a sight not missed by the Romanichal, who hoped that Monty could have the house on his property ready before the winter came. It was already nearing the end of September, and the winds over the Bristol were freezing that time of year! Leeroy might have been used to the cold, but waking up cold was not always a pleasant thing!

She lifted from the sink a plate to stack on the counter, dripping water and suds as it emerged from the water. She nearly dropped it, though, when a loud, almost furious banging came from her door. Her head abruptly turned, a slight bout of dizziness accompanying the movement, and Leeroy blinked slowly. The staff at the Traveller never knocked that way, unless something was terribly wrong....

Instinct kicked in, partial concussion or not. The plate was where it supposed to be in seconds, just as Leeroy was in the lounge and at the front foyer's entryway in the same amount of time. Halting, she balanced on one foot, feeling for the sheath on one leg that held her last resort - a sharp military knife, once thought to be a mere hunting knife. A matching one was in the sheath on the other leg, and if something required desperate measures, then Leeroy was more than able to do a fair amount of damage. It didn't matter to her that she was concussed, and that she should have been lying down whenever she felt dizzy - it was her duty. Just as a soldier defended Mother Britain, and all the territories she held in her power, it was her duty to defend her comrades and co-workers at the Traveller's Place Inn.

"Who bizt there?" Leeroy called out, putting her leg down. Her whole body was tensed, her hazel-brownish eyes focused intently on the door, as if she were staring down her next adversary. She was too used to such situations at the Traveller, and ever since being kidnapped and beaten to a pulp seven weeks prior, she had felt a little more on edge than usual....

[Moritz Erichsen]

The truth was, he could not stop thinking about her. The open, clever, daring and dynamic way with which she had spoken to him, her dusky hair and rough skin, her backbone, the sheer power she had displayed while defending herself and protecting others, the magnitude of her fearlessness, the almost masculine essence of her fortitude which he had never witnessed upon a woman before – and he could not forget her eyes; her dark, dark eyes. He had returned to the cold garret he had rented for the night despite the landlady having given him a dirty look upon his bloody and aggressive appearance on the threshold accompanied with a brisk tone easily quieted down once she realized he was a Lieutenant, and there was naturally nothing more to be said. At any rate, Moritz wished to take a cold shower and lay on the old, wooden bed for hours and hours, smoking a cigarette while looking up at the yellowed ceiling which had accumulated a great amount of humidity and smoke from previous lodgers; had he wished to have fallen asleep, he would have been incapacitated of such a simple act. Had he wished to forget the events having taken place several hours before, it would have required inhuman ignorance and indifference to achieve such torpor. But he had wished to do neither of these.

He merely wished he knew her name.

In vain did he attempt to figure out what it could have been, what sounded better to her attitude, what words could be formed to make a name so unpredictable, curious and surprisingly aggressive as she had been; as fascinatingly assertive, spirited and fiery as her heart had proved to be, and with the smooth retexturing of the transience of her untamed soul, often proud, sometimes fearful but always bold and unwavering to a degree he had not believed womanly possible. He was angered, he was enraged, he was surprised, but most of all, he was endlessly fascinated. The smoke flew in gray circles around him, and went up in the air, surrounding, encircling him in every way possible in the same way thoughts of her seemed to encircle his mind. He had been so viciously used to the frail, meek women who laughed at unimportant matters, chased after men for love and protection, who cared more for fancy dresses and rules of etiquette, who knew nothing about life and survival, about pain and misery, about poverty and power, about masculinity and authority, about dominance and deception, about the thrill of death. But she was different in ways that were strange and refreshing – she defied every natural law of female personality, and held her own ground as he had sought to crush it. And he did not even know her name.

Being a Lieutenant meant getting away from little events which caused people distress, such as the one at the Traveller’s Place Inn. There were certainly several scandals which the government felt obliged to cover – and for a good reason – one of which pertained to the fact of Moritz Erichsen being the illegitimate child of one Edinburgh & Leigh Member of Parliament, Graham Buchanan, and thus what caused a few people of political power to turn blind to his many deviations, minor scandals and improper behaviour, as long as such actions did not threaten public security and the general welfare of the state, for which precautions and drastic measures would otherwise have to be taken. Moritz, however, was hardly thinking over these matters during that cold night, but rather of how he could have been caught so off-guard by the appearance of that woman. He remembered the way she had been looking at him while she was sat a few feet away from him, covering her head with a hood to also cover her identity, her darker skin revealed through the sleeves, and her eyes illuminated with the lamp’s light from overhead – those hazel eyes which though looked darkly at him, curious, guarding, and anticipating, but ever so patient and wise. Why were they so wise? He hated that; he hated all the knowledge and astuteness revealed through her black, black irises, the feeling she could have an upper hand simply because she was more tolerant in human relationships, and he was a mongrel.

It was not difficult to find her address, a man of his rank could reach such trivial information without the remotest toil or trouble; and as he marched across the town’s streets that busy day’s morning, he only had one purpose in his mind. Find her. Tall and imposing, wearing the military uniform without the coat, for it was indeed a sunny day, he soon reached the road which lead to her house, and looked at it from afar. He stopped for one second to generally inspect the place in true military fashion, and then carried on walking across the gravel path and directly unto her threshold. His fist met the hard, wooden oak door once, twice, thrice, but he was impatient – hearing footsteps from inside, he suddenly straightened up, and the features in his face hardened, they became proud and resilient, as they always were; he, then, unconsciously turned his head sideways and glanced at his left arm, the very one he had slashed – which she had slashed – that evening, now completely patched up and almost as good as new, only it were not. It was still scarred, wounded, bearing marks that were never going to leave him, memories of people who were sown into his skin to haunt him for his crimes. He scoffed, and immediately looked at the door, growing progressively irritated by how slow she was in answering. “Open the door!” he barked in his gruff, raspy voice, and pounded on the wooden surface again. He heard her voice, and for some odd reason it served to irritate him furthermore. As though she had no idea who it could be; as though she had not suspected he would simply not let go of this so quickly, without explanations, without demands. “Open the door,” he clearly repeated in a brisk command, and punched it once more.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Of all the people who could be knocking on her door, from Monty Pryce to the great Mr. Churchill himself, it had to be him. Of all the people who were filthy, maggot-souled vermin in that world, who could wander the streets and did as they pleased, thinking themselves above the law and human decency, it had to be him. He, one Lieutenant Moritz Erichsen, who had gladly wandered into her bar and beat senseless her patrons, was now knocking on her door like he owned the world. Well, Leeroy wouldn't stand for that - this was her homestead, and by God, she would gladly throw the next poor soul off of it if it meant she could retain order, peace and quiet. As expected of her, Leeroy Atherton was very protective of any domain she was assigned to, and those who crossed her were happily turned around and out the door in an instant. Well, usually - sometimes the coppers had to be called if she couldn't overpower an unwanted person.

"How about 'ee bizt zayin' pleaze, firzt!" snapped Leeroy, hands on her hips. "Iv 'ee are goin' to bizt zuch a brute, than 'ee can turn around right manana, before I be callin' the copperz! An' quit poundin' on my door, 'ee blazted vool!"

Should Moritz's tirade of door-pounding cease, Leeroy would clear her throat, then raise her leg again. Withdrawing the knife from its holster, she slowly moved forward, peering through the peep-hole to get a look at Moritz. Seeing as the Lieutenant looked rather irritated, she only opened the door - but only a crack, rather than showing the "intruder" the entirety of her home. Her hazel-brownish eyes, always fierce and hard when she felt disturbed, glared back into Moritz's, who looked much the same. Of course, they were for much different reasons than hers, but that was not the point at that moment.

"May I be helpin' 'ee, Lieutenant?" the Romanichal said firmly, her voice bearing a slight growl. "'Ee have no right to be here at the moment. What bizt ye want, zir?"

And yet, even after her decidedly impolite bark from behind her house's door, she carried courtesy in the words she spoke now. Even though the man before her had gladly bashed in her head (which Leeroy could admit to tempting fate with, having mocked him back when he had mocked her), she would treat him respectively if he respected her space. This was her house, and he could not come barging in, even if he wanted to. If Moritz Erichsen wanted the Romanichal's attention, he would have to do it as a polite, calm human being would, or pull off at least something close to that degree.

[Moritz Erichsen]

“How about you shut up and open the blasted door!” he barked in response once he heard the recognizable voice from inside the house, instantly becoming further irritated once he was refamiliarized with what it meant to be near this being once more, and with that really strange accent and dialect of hers; though his father had been a Scot, he had only known Germany and lived in the country his entire life to be considered more of a true German than a British man, in reality. She was once more complaining on what a ‘brute’ he was – and he really was – but he was for the moment going to ignore such rudeness (laughably so) for the purposes of getting her to open the wretched door. He heard her clearing her throat from behind the surface of hard wood that separated them, and then – the smallest crack that allowed him a glimpse of her hazel-brown, hawk-like eyes which seemed to be penetrating through his black irises. She had that tone in her voice as she spoke which, however sharp, was never to be thought of as impolite, and he could not help but wonder: after their little escapade the previous night, how was she not enraged? How come she would not bark at him to get the hell out of her house, complain on his audacity on knocking at her door after the night he had caused her such trouble of mind and also physical harm – how could she be so kind? To Moritz such ideas of benevolence were unheard of, more so when it proceeded events inflicting impairment upon himself of any sort. She even went as far as ask him whether she could help him.

“I don’t need your help,” he simply snapped at her, and then by using his sheer force barged into the house, pushing his way through the door despite her having opened it only just a crack, and then entered as though he owned the damn place. He pulled the case from his front pocket and took a cigarette; as soon as it was lit, he breathed out the smoke and fully inspected the place with his carnivorous eyes, looking around him with great interest, his jackboots thudding against the brown-red wooden floor, as he made his way into the kitchen and back, proceeding to examine the living room next. It was really a rather simple, cottage house but for someone who had been used to living in the gutter, it felt like more than the average house; it felt like a home he would never have. He was silent, his shoulders relaxed and his facial features not showing such inexplicable irritation any longer – but quite strangely, a moment of inner peace. Something came up to his throat and choked him for a split second – he knew not what it was – but then he took another drag from the cigarette, and it was gone. It would come back. “Nice home,” he muttered underneath his breath, but it was more as though he was talking to himself. Then he turned around to face her, and pulled something from his other front pocket; with a sharp thud, it was placed on the wooden table against the wall. “I brought you some chocolate,” he told her, and when he glanced at her his black eyes were earnest, no longer cruel, no longer vindictive, but still indifferent; still cold and unkind.

It was almost childish, and he knew not why exactly he had to do it, but once an inner necessity had almost suffocated him in a pool of his own unconscious guilt, he had made his way into a store and bought her a chocolate bar. At any rate, he had chosen it knowing chocolate was good for one’s health; it contained antibacterial agents fighting tooth decay, it elevated one’s mood and helped to well-being, raised good cholesterol and caused relaxation – not that he cared for her share of relaxation or well-being, but he was particularly pleased with his choice in any way; Cadbury’s Freddo Frog. It was a children’s chocolate, shaped in a cartoon frog which was dressed on a standing position, white-chocolate flavoured. He liked it. He thought it was funny.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Leeroy didn't like being shoved aside. She tried to hold the Lieutenant back, firmly planting her shoulder into the door and using her legs to transfer weight, but he was trained to break down doors. Soldiers were finely-honed human weapons, with more knowledge of death and to kill than an average person might have - for every ten ways they could learn to knock something over, there were twice as many other ways to wipe its existence off the face of the world. The Romanichal stumbled back, managing to catch herself on the right-hand wall, feeling slightly more dizzy as she did so. Why did the boorish fool have to be so forceful? Had being in the military long enough made him think that smashing and pushing through everything in his way was a proper way to act in the real world?

"Oi! Git back 'ere!" snapped Leeroy, quickly walking after Moritz as he made his way through the rooms. "'Tis bizt private property, it be! Stop bein' zo beaztly, will 'ee?! 'Ey! 'EY!"

Leeroy began to stomp forward as the man came into the living room, but stopped, wincing slightly as she felt a sharp pain in one temple. With a quiet, irritable sigh, she stopped for a moment and rubbed it, just as Moritz complemented her house - which he was, frankly, fouling up with cigarette smoke. Leeroy did not mind if the patrons smoked in the bar - she could always tell a few to bugger off if the air became too stuffy and hazy to see through - but in her house, it was forbidden. The smell could be difficult to get rid of, and if anyone came to check up on her, smelling the foul odour Moritz's habit was spreading around, one might think Leeroy had taken up smoking tobacco herself. If that happened, she'd never hear the end of it from Monty, the cooks, and anyone else who decided to speak up!

Growling under her breath, Leeroy composed herself, and asked sharply, "Would ye be puttin' that out, please?" Moritz, however, had other ideas, and reached into his front pocket as he faced Leeroy; the woman quickly tensed, ready to take a fighting stance if need be. She relaxed, however, as the thing retrieved from Moritz's pocket was not some sort of firearm or blade, and rather, looked like a thin box of something. Leeroy raised her eyebrows slightly, eyes flickering over to the package, but not once did she relax.

"I brought you some chocolate," said Moritz, sounding surprisingly neutral, if not a little bit cold. His eyes portrayed the same emotion as well - in fact, Leeroy could swear he looked like her on a typical work day. Higher went her thin eyebrows, her muscles relaxing slightly, the woman keeping an eye on the man as she stood. There was nothing but silence in the room as she stared him down, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the nearby corner.

"...I zee," said Leeroy after much thinking. She quickly gave a coughed, "Ahem," into one hand, looking at the package again, biting her lower lip in another train of thought. Was this a joke? Some trick meant to mock Leeroy or make her do something she regret? If it was a peace offering, it wasn't the best of them; the Lieutenant had forced his way into her homestead, walked around as if he owned the place, began smoking without her permission, all so he could come and give her a piece of chocolate. Just what kind of person would think so...so ignorantly?

Leeroy walked over to the nearby couch, plopping herself down for a moment, knife still in hand. She holstered said knife, then took a breath and sighed, slowly standing up as to not aggravate her headache further. Walking over to Moritz - approaching from the side, of course, as to not seem confrontational - Leeroy passed in front of him and picked up his "gift". Glancing over her shoulder at him, she turned around, slowly examining what was in her hands. It was, indeed, chocolate - white chocolate, to be exact - and was in the shape, of all things, a cartoon frog. One might think Leeroy's eyebrows would raise even higher at this, but instead, she slowly nodded, and looked back up at Moritz.

"I be acceptin' yer givt," said the Romanichal, "but I still be mad at ye, remember. Now once again - what be ye wantin'...Lieutenant Erichzen, waz it?"

[Moritz Erichsen]

Moritz turned around and saw her wincing, her fingers pressing her temples in pain, and could not help thinking how he was, partially at least, the reason for such twinge; and … he felt good. Knowing he could, even on a physical level rather than a spiritual one, cause such an effect – any sort of effect – on a human being made him appear important to himself, significant, meaningful, an assortment of inner pleasures engulfed him and he knew the visit was not to be in vain. He blew the grey smoke into the atmosphere and watched her closely as she suddenly walked up to him and requested of him – bearing still that odd tone of courtesy that was ever curious to him – to put out the cigarette. He smirked, and shrugged his shoulders, his body language and facial expression showing as though he was telling her silently, “Why not?” and approached the porcelain vase of flowers on top of the table that stood a few inches away from him, against the wall. He extinguished the English cigarette by plunging it into the water, the ashes beginning a slow journey towards the bottom. He turned around at his own leisure, and looked at her; though his expression was neutral, a hidden smile lay in his eyes. He threw the wet cigarette on the table in his usual careless fashion. “Happy?” he grumbled at her in his hoarse rasp, and then continued to survey the house interior.

It was not until he placed the chocolate bar on the place that he really gave her all of his serious and utmost attention. She coughed; she stared at the package; she bit her lower lip. He pondered over what her reaction could be, but alas – he knew not the depths of his own being, had not travelled down the catacombs of his own dark soul to be able to remotely understand other people’s deep emotions. He was impatiently looking at her, with a fierce hunger shown through his coal-black irises, as would intimidate even the most adventurous of men, and was – could that indeed be – relieved once she gave her approval of his ‘gift’, as she called it, but he found it amusing she claimed her undying irritation towards him and his thoughtless actions. Nevertheless, what was even more interesting for him was to see her holding the knife in her hand – the very knife with which she had bore those scars across his arm the previous night, the very knife that had been sinned with blood and dark intentions. He stared at it intriguingly for moments to come, although, like an animal, he had at first furrowed his eyebrows once she had approached him, though sideways, with that piece of weapon. She once again asked him what he wanted from her, and his eyes retained that coldness about them – as he came closer, they grew fiercer, more intense and glinting darkly, his posture neither threatening nor friendly, his expression neither warm nor distant, and with irises bleak and ominous, but never menacing.

Once he was only but a few inches distant to her, he stretched out his hand and grabbed the chocolate from hers, bowing his head as he focused on his task; slowly and taking his own time, cold and white fingers worked around the wrapper packaging, carefully, and even delicately one could say, unwrapping the blue-coloured packet, eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowed upon dedication on this personal commission, the scratching sound of such an action piercing through his ears, the very meaning of this achievement resonating through his entire length, as he triumphantly finished the task. Freddo Frog having been undressed and revealed, he stretched out his hand once more, touching the chocolate not from its side lest she should be disgusted to eat something his hands had touched, but from the bottom on the crumpled wrapping – and offered it back to her. “Eat it,” he said in a neutral tone, his black eyes piercing through her own hazel-brown; it was an order, and one which he wanted of her to obey, most certainly a military order, an order given by a commissioned Officer which every inferior-ranked soldier would follow whether it was to their wish or not. Though he was not going to admit it to himself, so much less reveal to her, he was anxious on her response. “I want you to eat it,” he said slowly, the guttural texture of his voice filling the room as he stretched out his hand furthermore, bringing the chocolate even closer to her lips.

[Leeroy Atherton]

"OI! Not the vlowerz!" barked Leeroy, hurrying over with a grumble to sweep the wet cigarette off the table. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when she glanced into the vase, unimpressed by how Moritz had extinguished his cigarette; he could of used his foot, or asked for a bowl. Leeroy could feel the pain in her head growing as the Lieutenant's actions further drove her blood pressure up. The vase could be dealt with later; for now, she hurried over to a dustbin in the nearby kitchen, dumping in the used stick of tobacco and then returning her attention to Moritz. It was after this that she had noticed the chocolate, which led up to Moritz unwrapping the treat for her.

As the man stuck the sweet in her face, almost like a child would to a parent with something special and exciting, Leeroy glanced downward. She took a step back, as Moritz was stepping into her personal space, reaching forward to take the treat from him. Slowly and gingerly, she removed the chocolate frog from his grasp, inspecting up and down with her eyes for any sign of tampering. Once she was satisfied nothing showed on the outside, two fingers snapped off a piece of the frog, placing the bit of chocolate delicately in her mouth.

It was clear from her expression that Leeroy was not expecting the sudden rush of creamy flavour. The Romanichal chewed a little, eyes glancing upwards in thought. The average person, in those days, was not one to come across chocolate often; wartime rationing meant that sugar was scarce, especially with the enemy constantly sabotaging trade. It had been a good year since Leeroy had had her last bar of chocolate, and the taste was a welcome reprieve from the various vegetables and fish Leeroy often ate. She finished eating the piece of Freddo, giving a small swallow before a quick lick of the lips.

"'Z'good," said Leeroy, giving a small nod. "I can't be remembering the lazt time I 'ad chocolate. Thank ye very kindly."

Leeroy then offered the treat to Moritz, although she did not stick it in his face as insistently as he did to hers.

"Would 'ee like to be tryin' a piece yourzelf? You be kind enough to buy it, zo I don't mind zharin' the goodz. I can be getting you a plate to be putting a piece on, even."

[Moritz Erichsen]

Like a hyena eyeing the lions hungrily, waiting for a chance to steal the meal away from them, likewise Moritz was hungrily and openly staring at her, trying to find any sign in her face that would provide him with information on her inner feelings and true reaction upon tasting the delicacy. He watched her closely, insistently, and ever too curiously – she bit on the white chocolate, and as soon as her teeth smashed the frog, he could almost feel the crunchy taste himself, the sound of the bite; she swallowed; she licked her lips; and then she looked at him. A childish grin rose in his thin lips once she claimed it was good, and a triumphant gleam appeared in his eyes; he could not, however, understand why she thanked him. He had grown up in such abysmal circumstances, his childhood had been so utterly without any role model or caress, that such a display of elementary manners English society felt pre-disposed upon forcing its citizens to comply to felt utterly unnatural to him. All the more, he could not understand how she could have the courtesy to thank him when he had treated her in such a foul way. His face creased, as he appeared slightly confused over her words. “Don’t thank me,” he grumbled. “Last night I could have killed you,” he said, and to her generous offer of chocolate, he immediately shook his head. “No, it’s yours,” he stated. “It’s all yours.” Then he moved away from her, and into the living room, looking at it for the second time that day.

He stood against a tall, wooden side table, his hands touching the white linen tablecloth, sown in flowery patterns and small circular shapes that meant to be the sun; he supported his weight against the table, and without looking at her he kept his gaze fixed upon his fingers. It was been the main reason of his visit. “How much do you remember from yesterday?” he asked her, his voice dangerously low, but neutral nevertheless. “At the shelter, right after you passed out,” he explained. “Do you remember anything at all?” he wished to know, aching to find out whether she had heard his monologue of guilt, a weakness of the time; he wanted to relieve himself of the thought of having one person – her – bear witness to such a humiliating point of self-hatred. Alas, the years of war and attrition had stole him of his patience and ability not to feel his true sentiments over his condition, and the years of burying down his weaknesses had finally converged to a point in which there would be no absolution, in which he could not bury anything any longer, apart from his own carnal self. He did not turn around but remained static in his position, hands grasping the table’s edge, his body slightly curved towards the wooden surface, eyes resolutely fixed at his scathed and scarred fingers, which peculiarly followed the many different shapes of flowers, the anemone, the chrysanthemum, the gladiolus and the daffodils.

[Leeroy Atherton]

The Romanichal would have been lying if she said she was not surprised by Moritz. In that instant, he looked nothing like what she had seen so far; his cold aloofness to everything around him was replaced by childish delight. Why, it looked as if the man had climbed to the highest point in England himself, with how pleased and smug he was looking; perhaps he meant well after all...? But this man had nearly killed her - the doctors had even said themselves she was lucky she was not dead!

"Very well, then," said Leeroy as Moritz declined her offer, saying the treat was hers to eat. She snapped off another piece of chocolate, nibbling on it as Moritz told her not to thank him. He said he could have killed her, and he could have, but he hadn't - Leeroy acknowledged this by saying, "I be knowin' that. But 'ee be not, now a-did ye?"

Leeroy watched as Moritz walked about, coming to lean against one of the side tables, which held upon it a stack of books. On top was a Anglican prayer book, with a large tome on English history beneath - Leeroy had bought it from a salesman passing through, who had claimed the book to have once belonged to a library in London. Beneath that was an atlas, updated three years back, well-worn and a birthday gift from Leeroy's parents - Leeroy often flipped through it, always interested in the geography of the world. The woman would have offered them to Moritz for reading, but she hesitated; he looked to be more of the brawny type than an enthusiast in literature. She pushed the thought to the back of her mind as he spoke, raising her eyebrows slightly at the question.

"What be I rememberin'?" asked she. "Well, a vriend a-came over, a-helpin' me wit' work...read a vew thingz...got zome mail - "

Leeroy's brows suddenly furrowed.

"Wait...this be not about the incident, be it? That be nearly a vortnight ago, Lieutenant. I do be rememberin' ye and I talkin'...and then, I believe I zaid zomething to anger 'ee. I apologize, Lieutenant Erichzen - I be not meanin' to a-speak voully of 'ee's parentage, nor did I be meanin' to call 'ee 'a baztard'. It be very rude ov me, and I zhould 'ave a-kept my head about me. Pleaze vorgive me vor my outburzt."

Leeroy took another bite of chocolate, chewed and swallowed, then continued with, "I then remember 'ee vaintly a-vightin' me, and gainin' the upper 'and as 'ee did. I was a-beaten unconzciouz, but I be rememberin' voices...zomething about ztreetz, I be believin'. An altar boy be a-vindin' me, and the last thing I know waz me a-waking up in the hospital."

[Moritz Erichsen]

While she began to speak, Moritz noticed a few books lying upon the wooden shelf and curiously reached out his hand and pulled what appeared to be a rather large tome of English history; he had never been much of the reading type, and any reading he had amounted to in the past had merely regarded strategies and tactics in the military academy he had been schooled in, forced by the social services at the time. Nevertheless, he allowed his pale, thin fingers to journey across the leather-bound surface of the hardback but never opened it; instead, he placed it on the table, his hand next tracing an atlas of the world which immediately fascinated him due to his undomesticated, adventurous spirit. He pulled it open just as the woman was recalling her activities which were hardly of any interest to him; did she pretend she did not realize the essence of his question, or was she trying to fake ignorance in a needless attempt to save herself from having to face his wrath once more? But he was perfectly controlled, and had persuaded himself that being on the edge was not the solution in this case and how he should attempt to approach her this time in a more, perhaps, civilized manner – which had been the exact thing she had desired at the first place, he was certain.

Still, he opened the atlas and instinctively found the page of Germany, his eyes searching through the many places he had lived in and wandered about. “Yeah, this be about the incident,” he mumbled, and though he used her own dialect in what may have appeared to be a mocking approach, it was not; he was just tired. His fingers traced the named on the map: Kaarst, Bremen, Siegen … Once she explained herself he was relieved she did not remember anything from his confession – a relief enveloping his mind mostly and hardly surfacing in his facial features – but what was even curious to him was her request for forgiveness from his part on the account of her rudeness. He slightly wrinkled his forehead at this as he had his back on her, looking down on the book, the man who could not understand the concept of forgiveness, the notions of discourtesy and the call for humanity. Hearing the word ‘bastard’ spoken again made his insides do a back flip, but he did not react; she was being kind, calm and thoughtful despite his treatment of her, and he could not understand why. “Don’t ask for forgiveness,” he told her in a low, controlled voice as he turned around and looked at her with earnest black eyes; “I am not God.” His eyes glinted, his expression distant but not cold, as he then turned around and walked towards the couch with the atlas on his hand. He removed his overcoat and threw it upon the couch a second before he sat himself there, flicking the book open to the page bookmarked by his fingers.

He looked up at her. “Come, sit,” he invited her, his voice mild and low, “sit by me.” He then looked down on the book, and grimaced, his fingers tracing his true homeland. “I was never good at reading,” he plainly said, and scoffed lightly. “Some people swallow down books like it’s …” – he tried to find the words – “the easiest thing, but I never liked them. What’s the point of reading books when you don’t have anything to eat or clothing to wear?” His eyes travelled from one side of the map to the other, memories rushing through his head with each name he read. “Germany,” he said, his fingers tracing across the length of the country in the map; “I was born in Germany.” He raised his head and looked at her. “How does that make you feel?” he earnestly asked her, his voice a hoarse rasp, guttural but not angry and thus by vast contrast to his state when he had last met her; his eyes slightly narrowing as he expected the obvious reaction, the one he had received upon meeting his comrades for the first time.

[Leeroy Atherton]

"Don't ask for forgiveness. I am not God."

"I velt it be bezt to try," said Leeroy. "'Tis juzt a habit of mine." She was quiet once again after this, watching as he took her atlas. A small, inner part of her bristled, but she quickly repressed the feeling; his curiosity intrigued her. He was...investigating, it seemed. Searching his surroundings, whether it be out of arrogance or some hidden need. Leeroy's eyes never left her guest as he flipped through the atlas, his expression distant. He seemed to be recalling something, and Leeroy's eyes focused in on where his fingers were. That happened to be the page on -

"Come, sit, sit by me," he suddenly said. Leeroy blinked, snapped out of her reverie, but nodded and sat beside the man. His overcoat would be ignored for now; instinct told the door supervisor that something was going on. He had been nothing but vicious and spiteful that first time; what had caused this sudden turnaround? Was this guilt's work? Guilt could do a lot of things, Leeroy knew, but she couldn't help but be surprised even more. So many things were strange in this world - one of them happened to be this young man, bitter and crude, first nearly murdering her and then asking for her to sit with him.

Regardless, Leeroy did not say a thing. It was not her place to berate him further. He had been...courteous, and was attempting to make it up to someone he had wronged; greater men could not always have done such. And it sounded as if he had problems of his own, anyways; he said books were nothing to him if his other needs weren't filled. Was this a hint at something? Some sort of admission to an unpleasant past experience? If he was a victim of the Depression, it might explain his lack of tact. Anger, once rooted in the heart, kept wounds open and allowed them to fester, rotting a person from within. Leeroy knew this feeling - she had once had a taste of it herself.

"I was born in Germany. How does that make you feel?" he said, after tracing the country's map with his fingers. He looked wary of her reaction; Leeroy could understand why. Furthermore, it was becoming a bit clearer to her that Germany seemed to be a sort of...point for him. A sore point, maybe, or maybe he felt unhappy that he was no longer there. His reactions to finding the page suggested the memories were embedded deep in his mind - at least, that was what Leeroy thought.

She did not snap at or belittle him, as he might of expected. Instead, she said, with accent lessening due to her calming down, "Then that explains the accent. I be wonderin' if ye be from 'round 'ere, but obviously not. When did ye come from Germany? Ye have a slight hint of Scot to yer manner of speakin', so maybe as a young'un, correct? I mean, if 'ee don't mind me asking. 'Tis just that children 'ave a habit of picking up bits of accents."