The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and the musky fragrance of wild rosemary that grew in abundance around the abandoned vineyard. Élodie stood alone in the small clearing, the darkness swallowing her whole as the shadows of the Pyrenees stretched ominously above her. The crash of the British bomber, the final cry of its engine fading into the mountains, still echoed in her mind. The air had shifted tonight—fiercer, more threatening—and now, beneath the cover of night, she could hear the distant rumble of Gestapo patrols making their rounds.
The tiny village of Saint-Céleste felt like an island adrift in the chaos of war, its ruins barely clinging to the past. Once a place of solace, now a crossroads for secrets, grief, and forbidden hope. Every stone, every weathered path had been marked by the war's passage. The remnants of the vineyard—a symbol of endurance, like the villagers who had held on for so long—seemed to hum with the weight of untold stories. It was a place where survival had become an art, and love, like the creeping ivy, flourished in the cracks.
Élodie's breath caught as she saw him again—Liam Hart. Her heart raced, but it wasn't from the cold. It was the pull of something she couldn't define. The soft, faint glow of lantern light revealed the fragile outline of his body, broken and bruised from the crash, but there was something resolute in his gaze even in his unconscious state.
She could hardly breathe as she knelt beside him, fingers trembling as she gently pressed a cloth against the wound on his side. Her hands were stained, dirtied by the remnants of her hasty escape from the crash site, but they were steady, focused on the task at hand. There was no time to think about anything else. The urgency was too great. The Gestapo could be here any moment, and they had no way of knowing who might have heard the explosion.
"Liam," she whispered, her voice barely audible against the deafening quiet. His name was an anchor, tethering her to the present, to the responsibility she had sworn to carry. His dark hair, matted with sweat, stuck to his forehead. His lips were parted in shallow breaths, his body trembling from fever or shock, or both.
She could feel her heart racing as she looked around the clearing, nerves frayed as she listened for any signs of movement. The risk was growing with every second they stayed here. They couldn't afford to linger. But even as the thought of abandoning him crossed her mind, she couldn't bring herself to do it.
She had already lost so much to this war, to the darkness that seemed to follow her wherever she went. To abandon him now would be to give in to the despair she had fought so hard to push away. He needed her—and maybe, in this shattered world, she needed him too.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. She froze, her body tense, every muscle bracing for the worst.
A figure emerged from the shadows—a familiar one, but still a presence that tightened the pit of her stomach. Luc.
"Élodie," he said, his voice low but edged with the sharpness of concern. "What the hell is going on here?"
She didn't answer immediately. She couldn't. The weight of his eyes, the intensity of his gaze, felt like a blade against her skin. He was watching her—watching them. Her gaze flickered from the unconscious Liam to Luc, her heart betraying her with every beat.
Luc's expression tightened. "Who is he?"
The question was simple, but the implications were far from it. Élodie swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, every word she might say suddenly seeming like a betrayal.
"This man," she began, her voice faltering, "is an Allied agent. His plane was shot down, and I—I couldn't leave him behind."
There was a pause, a long one. Luc was no fool. He could see the way she hovered over Liam, the way she refused to look him in the eye for too long. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with an emotion she couldn't place.
"Is he worth this risk, Élodie?" Luc's voice was quiet, but it held an edge of disbelief. "You're playing with fire. The Gestapo could be here at any minute. What do you think will happen if they find him—and us—together?"
She straightened, meeting his gaze with the steel she knew she had to find. "I'm not going to leave him here to die, Luc."
Luc stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You're risking everything—our people, our mission, your life. For him?"
Her heart ached at his words, but it wasn't because of the anger in his tone. It was because she understood the hurt beneath it. The wound Luc was unwilling to voice, the one he had carried for far too long. She could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, in the way he wouldn't quite look at her, not like he used to.
"I made a promise," she said softly. "And I intend to keep it."
A long silence stretched between them. The crackling of the dying fire, the whisper of wind through the trees, the soft murmur of the earth beneath their feet—everything felt too loud in that moment. Luc seemed to consider her words, then, with a heavy sigh, he nodded. His expression didn't soften, but the tension in his body eased slightly.
"You're not doing this alone," he said, his voice quieter now. "We'll figure this out. But we move fast. We can't stay here any longer."
Élodie nodded, the weight of his words settling over her like a shroud. For better or for worse, the war had changed them all.
As she helped Luc lift Liam's limp form, Élodie felt the oppressive darkness of the Pyrenees close in around them, but she couldn't bring herself to regret this decision. Not yet.
The night was still young. And the war, with all its quiet horrors, would follow them wherever they went.