I'll Bring You Back Home To Them! [Open]

[Heidi]

There is nothing left for you there, Adelheid.

The words were not true.

Her raven was a liar.

She was dressed in the plainest clothes she could find: a warm coat, a plain blouse, a skirt and boots. Though her memory of those days had grown faint from repression and other experiences, she tried to mimic the "poor little village girl" look she once had. Her dark, soft eyes even tried to hold that youthful cast, though her hard life had made them sterner, more sharp and cunning than before. Her mind had grown, as had her body, even though it bore the scars of abuse - a slight limb, a faded x-mark over her nose, missing bits of fingers and toes, and whitish marks on her face and lips from frostbite scarring. Her side with the slowly-healing rib also sometimes bothered her, causing her to lurch as the sensitive nerves complained; said rib, thankfully, had repaired itself otherwise. Perhaps these lent themselves more to her urchin look, but Adelheid, Heidi, Addy, "little girl" - whatever people called her those days - was mostly uncaring.

The only thing she cared about was getting back to France.

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Adelheid, by all accounts, was the final legacy the Bevan children had left behind. Rhys Bevan had perished in an African battle, David Bevan had disappeared in that same continent's deserts, and little Jim had run from home. Despite her shyness, her stubbornness, her many runaway attempts and her lack of an English vocabulary, the remaining Bevans had loved her. They had fed her, clothed her, coddled her and given her more parental attention than she had ever known; they even had a dog she played with, but could never remember his name. Despite all this, however, she felt alone, isolated, surrounded by people who knew their own countrymen and language, and who recognized her as an outsider. Being born out of wedlock didn't help either.

There was no purpose in her life anymore. She had found the blessed green land, only to find that it was no more special than any other green part of the world. As time passed, she grew lonelier and more disillusioned, until one day, upon looking at photos, she realized something: she had seen Jim before. And it had been in a German prison cell, somewhere far back in time, in her mind.

Jim was somewhere in Germany. She knew it, she was sure of it. That was why she was going after him, as well as to bring closure to her life and bring her family back together. They were happy with her, but she could see that they missed Jim terribly, and maybe Jim would understand Adelheid. Maybe he could understand why she ran away, and why she felt sad, and what it felt like to be lost and alone in the world. There was also another boy, Robin, that was the nephew of that nice Herr Ealing; he had disappeared because of the Nazis during the war. Maybe she could find him too, and bring them all back home! They couldn't say Adelheid was a bad girl if she did that!

And now, she had found a port to depart from, having several small boats that were probably easy to sneak on. It had taken a few days, several nights sleeping in fields and dodging the local lawmen, but at last, she had got away from her grandparents - again.

[Tristan Herman]

The beginning of Summer.

A very unique time of year. At the tail end of spring. All the Earth has grown, sprouted out of childhood, and into maturity. All the flowers begin to reproduce, spread, and flourish, and the trees stand tall, and firm, with broad, deep green leaves to coat the edge of the canvas that is the sky.

A unique time in that all the death and misery of winter is long past. The biting cold has come and gone from claiming the lives of all the flowering beauty, and all that was once depressing and dark now bursts with color and life.

A unique time of year, surely. Even more so, a unique time in life. Especially for “Smi-”...for Tristan. He had just barely escaped the fate that had awaited him at the hands of the Soviets. The seething mass of Volksturm that still sheepishly clung to Berlin, defending with rocks and sticks at this point more than likely, could inhabit the small, worthless square mile of dirt surrounding the Reichstag as much as long as they pleased; he would have no more part in it.

Unaccustomed was the best word to describe his feelings as he stood on English soil; he again had to thank his abusive father for forcing him to learn English at a young age, as it had helped him to pass off as Dutch long enough to escape through France and into England. He and Jace had planned it long in advance. When their superiors surrendered, they weren't going to be prisoners of war. And Jace needn't be tried for what he'd done any longer; he had made amends just fine over the past few years.

Tristan shuffled down a berthing of the English transport vessel; it would figure that the Tommies would be his savior after he'd killed so many of them. Funny thing, war.

He was proceeding to his shared cabin, ready to disembark after being in port for some time. He shouldered what few possessions he had left, and made his way back down the corridor. Thinking of all he had left behind, he realized that his Family was still at home in Koenigsburg, and the Russians were liable to, well, kill them. A part of his hear told him to go back and finally do something that would make his father proud by saving his life. Or at least his mother's. The other, more sensible part told him that his father deserved a good treatment by the Soviets.

But it was of little importance anyhow. He was in England already. All that remained was a voyage across the Atlantic to America, and then-

The still very much alive soldier in him noticed what was, apparently, stealthily executed movement out the corner of his eye; chalk another up to peripheral vision. The form had darted across the cross-corridor just to his left, toward the hold.

A stowaway? It wasn't his concern. Was it? Again, the inner soldier said to investigate; rules exist for good reason.

Moving briskly down the way, he turned and made his way to the ship's hold, only to find (naturally) a labyrinth of boxes and trunks, with various other, more obscure items (an entire Kubelwagen, for instance). Tristan's eyes darted about the compartment, searching again for the form. A touch of movement on the far side; they moved quickly.

”Hey,” Tristan hollered out in accentuated English, ”You were not so successful as you intended...come on out.


[[Is this satisfactory?]]

[Heidi]

OOC: Very much so.

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It wasn't too hard to find her way on. The throng of refugees, emigrants and discharged soldiers piled on like trash in a heap. Only, they weren't trash, and Adelheid couldn't believe she had just made the comparison. Shaking her head to free it of cynical ideas, she tucked herself neatly into a small crowd of people heading on. Silently, wordlessly she moved, even as a man at the ship sorted through the necessary papers. As he was distracted with the identification of a war bride and her husband, Adelheid stepped around, moving in tandem with a small group of children and their mother. They were just getting up the boarding stairs to the ship, and Adelheid followed them on the fringe. In minutes, she was aboard.

Now she had to find a place to hide.

Having practised the art of seeming cute and innocent, Adelheid strolled around the ship's deck as if bored. She'd start attracting attention soon, as little girls were not supposed to be wandering about like strays. Everyone was heading for their cabins after a few minutes more; Adelheid could start there. While everyone slept in a hammock, she'd probably stow away in a crate.

Unfortunately for Adelheid, once she managed to get down there and poke around (how did she manage to do that so much?), she got cocky. Feeling comfortable in the dank dark, she began to sneak less, her shoes clopping a little louder on the floorboards. Her hands ran over the trunks and cases, the chests and alcoves, looking for something she could squeeze behind or into -

"Hey, you were not so successful as you intended...."

She froze, and made not a sound.

"Come on out."

That brief flash Tristan would have seen accompanied a silent ruffling, Adelheid's skirt brushing against a trunk as she tried to fit into a dark corner.

[Tristan Herman]

A brief glimpse of cloth, and a slight shifting of cargo betrayed the stowaway once more. He treaded forward, approaching a small cropping of crates and luggage. A large steam-trunk landmarked the assortment, covered in worn leather, with sheared belts and battered metal-work.

Tristan stood before the assorted geometry, and craned toward the transgressor. An “old” girl. Old not in age; longevity was no longer something he matched to experience in any linear fashion. She was so “old”. A girl who had seen more than her share of who knew; her eyes were the most betraying. The organs themselves were not the tell. In fact, they were quite beautiful for one so young. But the flesh that held them in place was…darkened. Almost black with suffering, it seemed. Were he given a mirror, Tristan could easily have been observing a juxtaposition of himself. She had so very many scars.

Why would she be going back to the war, though? Youth that appeared barely out of or into puberty; that had not even crossed the biological threshold of adulthood?

His appearance was not one to be encountering anyone her age with either. He had only bathed the night prior on the vessel for the first time in three months. He hadn’t yet been given the opportunity to shave or trim his dark hair, so he looked akin to some kind of brazen alcoholic with far too many stories to tell and scars to display; shamefully, it might be added.

Gut reaction demanded he report her. But this wasn’t the Wehrmacht. And it was not the war any longer. She must have a reason for going back. And at her age? Of some import as well. Tristan finally addressed her in rather clunky, formal-sounding English.

”You have not a ticket to go to France with?” He inquired.