Chapter Text
The Austrian Alps were a wondrous sight that few had the privilege of experiencing in their lifetime.
And it was one that König was most familiar with, having grown up in this very region. He was born in a little rustic village that sat at the foot of a large mountain, not too far from the city of Klagenfurt—only to leave it behind at the age of seventeen. The year he joined the military and forever altered the course of his life.
Still, walking these lands remained second nature to him. Exploring the tall mountains, trudging through the dense and robust forests, all the while avoiding their furry inhabitants—it had all come back to him naturally the moment he set foot back in his homeland after all those years. And he, for one, knew better than anyone else just how dangerous its landscapes could be to the unaccustomed man.
More precisely, during the winter.
His mask flapped ferociously in the violent winds, which would occasionally obstruct his already limited vision. But his hands were so cold, and his movements so sluggish, that trying to hold it in place was simply futile.
Things weren't supposed to go like this. He had fought hard and sacrificed much to get to where he was. He wasn't supposed to be so goddamn incompetent!
One of his hands flew to clutch at his left side as another pang of agony shot through his body like an arrow, the white-hot pain licking at his bones like a ravenous hyena. The slightest wrong movement increased the pain tenfold, making him dread each and every step that he had to take.
Navigating these woods in a blizzard was already difficult enough on its own, though with all this snow… he might as well have been trudging through liters upon liters of wet cement.
A humiliating blend of pain and frustration left his throat in the form of a long groan. It was a pathetic sound, especially for the hardened soldier that he was supposed to be. At least the howling winds surrounding him had the decency to muffle his shame a little bit, making it much less of an earsore.
He had foolishly assumed that fighting on his own turf would make things a lot easier. That just because he had grown up in this very area, and therefore knew the territory better than anyone else—be it the hostiles or his men—it meant that he had a considerable advantage over everyone.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Not only had it been a naïve assumption on top of being a rookie mistake, but overestimating himself had also meant lowering his guard.
They died. So many of his men died because he got cocky. Arrogant. And as for the rest of his men… they were likely lost, just as he was. Assuming they hadn't already succumbed to the cold, or worse.
After all, they didn't know the area as well as he did.
Even more ironic was the fact that he was lost himself. It didn't matter how familiar he was with the region, or how often he had gone hunting in these woods as a teenage adrenaline junkie. Not when he hadn't actually set foot in Austria for years. Let alone in the winter, when its mountains were covered in a layer of snow almost half as tall as he was.
He sluggishly raised his free hand to his eyes in a feeble attempt to shield them from the blizzard while the other remained firmly pressed against his wound. This damn wind had been hitting him from every side for what felt like hours, and he knew it was only a matter of time until he became a part of the landscape...
After stopping in his tracks to force himself to focus, König attempted to get a better look at his surroundings. And hopefully spot any sign of civilization beyond the tall trees. Something, anything, that might serve as temporary shelter while he took a look at his wound...
...but he saw nothing. Nothing aside from this hellish white vision everywhere he looked.
This winter wonderland was a sight he once enjoyed as a chubby little boy stuck in his own head—not so much anymore as a gravely injured mercenary, let alone a mercenary who had been separated from his unit. Because once winter settled in, this mountainous land became as deadly as it was glorious.
In his native Austrian Alps, white winters were almost always a certainty. Then came the snowstorms much like the one he was dealing with, which often followed close behind. And with them came their white infernos.
From the ground to the trees, to the mountains, even to the damn sky itself. Not to mention some of the local fauna that would also don a special coat, like hares or stoats, and even certain birds like grouse…
His steps slowed while his heartbeat quickened. His vision blurred, and the trees around him began to spin. There was so much—too much snow… and as he glanced down at his winter camo-clad legs, he realized that they might as well have fused with it already.
The weight of the medkit he carried on his back taunted him. All he needed was a place to hide from the winds. A large rock, a den, a cave—anything. He couldn't risk pulling out his supplies now, not when the blizzard was still going so strong. Not while he couldn't feel his fingers. Not while the trees had him surrounded, circling around him like vultures... watching him…
He couldn't… afford to risk anything.
His legs quivered, and he was left with no other choice but to reluctantly lean against a nearby pine tree before his knees could give out. He could almost feel the slumbering giant glaring down at him, laughing…
Closing his eyes, König tried to focus, and most importantly, remind himself of his priorities.
Shelter. Warmth. Keeping pressure on his injury.
...
Damnit. Damnit all! How could he mess up this badly? When did he get so careless? This was unlike him!
Last he checked, his walkie-talkie was busted, and his fingers were too damn cold to fiddle with the damn thing anyway. He was hungry, he was thirsty—and fuck, he was so damn cold. The only comfort he had was knowing for certain that he was walking down the mountain, not up… oh, and also that he at least wasn't walking around in circles thanks to the thin but nearly constant crimson trail of his own blood that he was leaving behind.
Yeah… at least he had that. After all, it wasn't like he could rely on his footsteps much, as they were likely being muddled by the local wildlife. Deer, marmots. Chamois. Ibex.
Wolves. Bears.
He hoped that the latter had already gone into hibernation. Otherwise, in his state, combined with the freezing temperatures and his near-zero visibility… he was not sure that he could win a fight against an angry territorial marmot.
"Scheiße…"
His free arm snaked around the pine tree he had been using as support. And as he pressed more of his weight against the trunk, he could almost feel its bark scraping at his cheek through the fabric of his mask.
Inside his chest, his heart was beating like a jackhammer, threatening to burst through his ribcage. It hurt. It hurt to breathe. His legs were killing him. The ground underneath his feet was shifting, just as the world around him was beginning to spin…
His eyes narrowed at another tree that stood a few meters away from him. Had his field of vision gotten smaller? Or was it because of the mask…? Everything was so dark…
Eventually, the arm he had wrapped around the tree gave out. He barely had time to bring it to his side before he collapsed onto his knees, falling headfirst into the thick layer of snow.
He was exhausted. His ears were ringing so loudly that he could barely even hear the howling winds anymore. And his body… his body burned from head to toe, and felt scalding hot where he had been shot. Worst of all, all this warmth didn't even have the decency to offer respite from the cold.
A few harsh coughs tore from his lungs. And stained the center of his white camo mask with red from the inside.
He clutched at his chest, his breaths coming out labored. Wheezing as he fought for oxygen… fuck, he could barely even breathe anymore. He had lost so much blood… and why was the snow moving? Was it breathing? Fuck, it wanted him dead too, didn't it?—
He tried to get up. Then tried again. But the snow only held him down.
Crawling with one arm it is.
While being on a slope was helping greatly with this humiliating task, now his vision was obstructed for good. It didn't matter where he looked: right, left, down, up—the only things he could see were the white snow and the equally white sky.
And to make matters worse… it took little to no time for the hellish substance to seep through his gloves, his mask, then the rest of his supposedly waterproof gear.
He never knew that it was humanly possible to feel this cold.
And now, much like his surroundings… he couldn't tell where the snow began or where his body ended anymore.
"G-Gottverdammt…" he sobbed, frustrated beyond belief. He was such a sorry excuse of a human being… he had failed, he had failed in every sense of the term—his men, his mission, his mother… himself.
He allowed his forehead to fall against the ground underneath him.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from beneath his mask, muffled by the snow. And he didn't stop.
If his father could see him… oh, he would mock him. He would mock him, scream at him that he was right, that he didn't have what it took to be a soldier. That only real men belonged in the military, and that no amount of training could ever man up a pansy like him.
Laughing uncontrollably was all he had left. That old bastard could burn in hell for all he cared…
"Nicht genug Rückgrat, hm, Vater…? Sag mir das noch einmal ins Gesicht…"
The first thing he noticed was the smell.
Strong. Fresh. Invigorating, just like pinewood. It was a scent he was already deeply familiar with, having grown up in an old Alpine village far away from city life. In fact, it would've been a pleasant smell to wake up to, had it not been for the nausea that had settled in his stomach sometime during his sleep. The strong smell only worsened it.
Still, he couldn't help but tentatively take in the scent just a little bit… and by doing so, he thought he caught a whiff of smoke lost among the crisp tones of the woodsy aroma.
That would have been when he noticed the second thing: the soft and gentle crackling of a fireplace, coming only a few meters away from where he was resting. Likely the thing that was responsible for this pleasant warmth.
He didn't open his eyes. He was too exhausted to care, and besides, there was this very uncomfortable throb behind his eyes that single-handedly convinced him to keep them closed.
...
In fact… his entire body ached—no, it burned. The comfortable warmth had quickly become overwhelming. His skin was uncomfortably damp. And every inch of his muscles was at the mercy of sharp stings, like a thousand little needles mercilessly poking at his flesh.
A quiet groan escaped his lips. He was hurting all over... even his hair hurt.
And despite all of that, somehow… he was actually cold. Freezing, even.
The third thing he noticed was the shivers.
He never thought it was possible to feel simultaneously hot and cold, at least not to that extent. Having chattering teeth while soaking in a pool of your own sweat was… a disorienting experience, to say the least. And definitely not a pleasant one.
He tried to move. Lift his arm, roll onto his side, anything. But his body was so abnormally heavy that he felt like his bones had turned to lead. As though gravity itself had tripled in force for the sole purpose of keeping him pinned to the bed.
Yes, the bed… the fourth thing that he noticed. It wasn't exactly comfortable: too firm for his aching back, and way too short to fit the entirety of his legs. Its edge pressed against the back of his knees, and he could feel the rugged wooden floorboards under his soles.
Unsurprisingly, something was also covering him, and working overtime to keep him warm. A blanket, he realized. Light, soft. Thick. And yet, so delicate….
That's when it suddenly hit him: he could recognize that texture anywhere.
Sheep's wool.
The corners of his lips twitched upwards at the realization. His mother had stuffed him into many a woolen sweater back when he could still wear normal-sized clothes. A fond memory that was now little more than a relic of his childhood, so far behind in the past that it now felt little more than a fever dream.
Now, he would very much like to say that his actual fever was the fifth thing he noticed, but he had acknowledged it the moment he noticed the shivers that would occasionally course through him. Instead, what he heard was the muffled sound of rustling fabric occurring above him—
—immediately followed by the sight of you. The young woman who was adding another woolen blanket on top of him.
His brows shot up in surprise. The room was dark, so he could hardly make it out, but eventually, he noticed that you were wearing a strange dress. One that wasn't unlike a dirndl, actually. Only yours had long sleeves, and a very unfortunate lack of cleavage… although your pretty face made up for it. All you needed was a few beer mugs in your hands and it would be perfect.
His chapped lips slowly stretched into a big and lazy grin.
"Ist… ist heute die Wiesn?" He held his smile as he spoke, even though his throat ached from being so dehydrated. "Dann heb mir ein paar Bier auf, ja… ?"
He could go for a beer, alright… his throat felt as though he had swallowed a spoonful of molten metal.
Eye contact was inevitable the moment he opened his mouth, and your reaction was instantaneous. Your eyes flew wide open just as your hands jerked back, as though you had burned yourself on a stove—and you clumsily stumbled back, nearly tripping over your feet.
Frowning, his fingers twitched at the sight of you moving away from him.
"He, Hase… komm zurück. Ich… ich beiß' nicht." His voice was hoarse as he spoke, and he slowly lifted his arm, fingers stretching out toward you. "V-versprochen."
He was genuinely trying to be reassuring, but the slightest movement made him feel like an elephant was pressing its foot onto his ribcage. So, he reluctantly allowed his arm to drop back onto the tough mattress for the time being.
"Komm und setz dich zu mir, kleines Häschen," he grinned lazily, and his eyes were hooded from sheer exhaustion. "Dieses Bett ist so kalt, komm her und wärm mich…"
Though after seeing that his kind words weren't actually working, he decided to switch to a different approach.
"Wer… wer sind Sie, Fräulein?" He attempted again, but it was a severe mistake. Speaking in his state was painful, and he had said too much. It led him to a bout of coughing so severe that he felt like he was about to spit out his lungs. Still, he pushed through, as he needed to at least know where he was. "Wo sind wir…?"
He didn't know if it was the sound of his voice, him reaching for you, or his frantic coughing, but something he did had startled you. To the point where you had felt the need to retreat into the corner of the room that was opposite his bed.
Said room was dark, save for whatever little light came out of the tiny fireplace and the candle on his bedside table. But he still managed to make out your hands, which were nervously clutching at a piece of fabric coming from the top of your dress. Your lower back was pressed against the wall, while the rest of your body was coiled in fear.
And the sight of you fearfully staring at him left him puzzled and frowning in confusion.
He was known to be intimidating in his field. That was a secret for nobody—his whole persona was part of the job, after all. So it was no surprise that he would be terrifying to a civilian, let alone to a young woman like yourself. It was to be expected, in fact. He still remembered that time when his teammates had to reassure the hostages he had single-handedly rescued that he wasn't himself a terrorist, back when they took down that Al-Qatala trafficking cell in Berlin. He remembered the fear in their eyes so vividly.
But still… was he truly that scary that it would leave you cowering in fear like a cornered little rabbit?—
"O-oprostite, gospod."
His brows jumped upward in surprise at the sound of your voice, and he held his breath as he watched you take a small tentative step back toward him.
"Nisem… nisem želela vas užaliti."
His shoulders tensed up while his tired brain acknowledged the unknown, though not unfamiliar, language. One he had heard many times in the past, having grown up near the southern border and all.
"Scheiße," he muttered under his breath. That wasn't… that couldn't be Slovene, could it?
His head dropped back onto his uncomfortably firm and uneven pillow. Had he seriously gotten so lost that he had crossed the border? Into the Karawanks? Just how far did he walk? For how long?
And where was he, anyway?
What was the deal with this room? Had it not been for the tiny stove, he would have deduced that you had brought him to your attic. Or your junk room. But something about it felt off.
And the howling winds outside were worryingly loud. The fire in the stove was barely holding on.
Still, rather than asking you anything else, he quietly watched, curious, as you hesitantly approached him again. He also watched as you readjusted the blanket over his bare and bandaged torso. Stared at your youthful yet already calloused hands as they made sure that every inch of him below his chin was covered—
A short but sudden gasp left him when it hit him, startling you yet again.
Sixth thing that he noticed.
His lack of mask.
His arm shot up, snatching your wrist before you could pull away from him another time. Doing this caused a sharp pang to stab at his side like a dagger, although it was little more than an annoying mosquito bite, which he simply brushed off as a mere inconvenience. Instead, he forcefully pulled you toward him, eliciting a frightened little yelp from your lips.
"Wo ist meine Maske?—"
His hand was grasping at the lace of your collar as he sat up on the bed, using his other hand as leverage. You sure had some nerve, taking off his mask without permission—
—although the pain that followed immediately shut him up. Hot blood began to seep through his fresh and pristine bandages, and he felt its wet heat pooling up under the woolen blanket that was covering him.
And this time, he couldn't tough it out. The pain left him hissing sharply through gritted teeth as it stabbed through his waist like a sharp blade. Both his hands jumped to his side, while you, again, flinched at the sound of him raising his voice just a tiny bit before you hurried to check the damage.
"Wo… wo ist meine Maske, Fräulein?" he asked again, only in a much quieter tone this time. Skittish little thing, you were.
Amusingly, instead of replying, you gently pushed against his shoulders, a silent demand that he lie back down on the bed. You were frowning, and you had a little crease forming between your two brows—likely in concern, or perhaps frustration.
"Pro… prosim, gospod. Ne delajte nenadnih gibov. Ranjeni ste."
Your voice was so… quiet. Almost a murmur. And despite the fact that he didn't speak your language, he still felt inclined to listen. There was something about you that was just so captivating, and it wasn't just your cute little mug. Perhaps it was in the way you moved around the room, careful not to trip over your long dress and fall—or perhaps it was the way you spoke, mindful to keep your voice down, likely in case he had a headache. Which he did. Fuck, he really did.
Meanwhile, you gently rolled the blanket a little further down his waist and had a look at the extent of the damage. And like a good little combat medic, you did not even flinch at the sight of the bandages that were now more blood than linen.
As he observed you gently peel the soiled gauze off his waist, he couldn't help but notice that you refused to use anything but the tips of your fingers to work on his wound. Not only that, but you kept pausing, as though you were hesitating at every step.
His eyes moved up until they landed on your face. You did know what you were doing, right…?
The bloody bandages were removed, and after a few minutes of cleaning the wound and applying a foul-smelling ointment over it, you began wrapping new ones around his waist. Neither of you paid any mind to the acrid smell of the cream-like paste you had applied to his injury, and instead, König focused on monitoring each and every one of your movements. Which were, again, slow and uncertain. As though you feared that he would snap at you again, and were ready to back off at the slightest sign of aggression. Or even just a simple reprimand.
His brows furrowed as he stared at your wrist, the phantom feeling of its shape still lingering in his palm. He did not actually hurt you, did he?
His eyes narrowed on you again, taking in the sight of your form leaning over him as you secured the bandages.
Oh.
You… you were actually trembling a little.
And now he felt like the biggest asshole.
"Ehm… do you know English?" he tried again, this time ditching his mother tongue entirely. "Please, forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you… I can be a brute sometimes."
You did not react aside from sparing him a quick glance. Not quick enough for him not to notice the fear in them, though. Sighing, he continued,
"I'm sorry I spooked you, miss," he added, his voice laden with guilt. "I just… I just feel naked without my mask. You know? I never go without it."
To be fair, he was naked under those blankets. Naughty little thing, you had removed his boxers and everything…
But the truth was that he had simply become so used to the damn thing that he might as well have forgotten what it was like not to wear it. It had become a second skin, an actual extension of himself. He couldn't explain it. Perhaps some shrink out there had written a paper on the subject, likely linking the attachment one might have to certain belongings to trauma, or some bullshit like that. Not like he cared anyway.
And yet, as stupid as it might have sounded, he felt so much more comfortable with the mask on. Less… exposed. Vulnerable.
It was something he would never admit to his men. Not only would it ruin his image, but he also had a reputation to uphold—and besides, they would just laugh at him if he told them.
Besides, it was also part of his whole persona—only a select few people at KorTac had seen his real face. As for the merc group's enemies, his real identity might as well have been a legend. And it had always been one hell of an ego boost to him.
But he wasn't with KorTac anymore. And it wasn't by staying here, getting pampered by some wannabe nurse, that he would get back on the field.
Or find his men, if any of them even survived.
Instinctively, he tried to look outside the window on the wall opposite his bed. Unfortunately, the curtains were not just drawn, but also opaque—making it impossible for him to see whatever was happening outside, especially in such a dim room.
But he could hear the howling winds outside. Still going strong. So strong that the walls around him were shaking a little.
König swallowed thickly. He needed to get back to them… assuming any of them were still alive. How long had it been since he…?
König finally looked back at you, expecting—no, hoping for a reply. But you only gave him a puzzled look before you immersed yourself back in your work.
No English either, then.
There was little else he could do besides watching you work your magic while you checked his other injuries. He was a bit concerned by the lack of antiseptic, or of any sort of proper medical supplies for that matter, but at least you were hygienic: using boiling water from the tiny fireplace in the corner of the room and washing your hands regularly… it was better than nothing. Maybe you had used his own supplies while he was asleep.
"Samo še malo, pa bom končala, gospod," you said as you appeared to speed up just a little—hastily securing the bandages before your eyes flickered between several spots across his torso and shoulders. His, on the other hand, remained focused on your face.
What he wouldn't do to understand what it was that you were saying…
In the end, the bandages were changed within a few minutes. And now that it was out of the way, you were carefully placing the blankets back into place over his body.
"Počivati morate, gospod. Poskrbela bom za vas, medtem ko boste spali," you murmured as you gazed down at him with a gentle smile, readjusting the blankets for what felt like the tenth time since he'd woken up. Whatever it was that you had said, the sight of your beautiful smile put his mind at ease.
He supposed it wouldn't hurt to rest his eyes for a little longer before he could probe you with more questions.
"Was auch immer du sagst, mein Schatz." He yawned before he allowed the world to fade to black again.