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____‡_______‡___ Keep the earth below my feet For all my sweat, my blood runs weak Let me learn from where I have been Keep my eyes to serve My hands to learn ____‡_______‡___ Jorgen's life had been a whirlwind before his capture 18 months prior. He had worked tirelessly to help the rebels with the wounded, refugees trying to evade capture were an endless stream into his small and well-disguised clinic. There had been no time for indulgences such as liquor, no time for anything beyond the necessities of survival. In truth, he had not known true freedom since he had entered his 3rd decade of life. Following capture, he had seen many brutal and horrid things. Had watched his people die in horrific and barbaric ways. Why he had not gone with them, been released from his life of horror and comforted in the great beyond...he still did not know the answer to that. Perhaps it was his body's resilience...it seemed no matter how invasive the experiments, no matter how painful or how cruel...his body just wouldn't give up. Before the war, Jorgen had always taken great care to maintain his physical condition. He was, after all, a doctor. Perhaps it was that health that prolonged his death. He had been so close, though. So very close the last time. Oh, how he had prayed for release. But then, he had woken in this new and current horror. The feel of her hands on his was enough to stop his frantic grasps. It was the first time in nearly two years he had felt a gentle touch on his skin, and the sensation caused a reaction much like a slap to the fact to him. He froze, that chocolate gaze dipping to her fingers, wrapped so delicately around his own. He peered at them like a man waking from a long and fitful dream, the wonder etched in his expression almost heartbreaking. He released the breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding, and slowly rose his gaze to meet with hers as she questioned him. Oh, why couldn't she just take him? Why couldn't she just get him to her camp? Did she not know there was not time for this babbling? "The Germans. The Nazis, of course! Can't you see that there isn't time? If they know I am alive, that you are helping, they will kill us both!" He reached up to brush the hair from his brow, the look of frantic hope painted in thick layers across his features. "I am Subject 104 of Froslev Camp. I do not know where I am, or how I got to be here. All I am sure of is that if I do not hide, I risk capture...and I cannot go back. I cannot. You are American...surely your camp accepts refugees. Please, please direct me there. I beg of you." His eloquent accent was spiked with notes of fear, of the type of desperation only a person who is convinced of imminent death might possess. |