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linndechirTitle: Freedom and Necessity
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
linndechir
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairings: Stiglitz/Hicox, Hellstrom/Stiglitz
Rating: R
Words: 2400
Warning: hand porn, mild dub-con
Summary: “None of us is really free to do what we want to do, Hugo.”
Author’s note: This was written for the Secret Hanukkah fic exchange on![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
100_scalps . mezzafredda asked for a hand fetish fic featuring Hicox, preferably with Aldo or Hugo. Hellstrom just insisted on sneaking in there to lend two more pretty hands. Thanks to onjuistheid for helping me with the ending.
“Now that you put it like that … I guess you do.”
Stiglitz glared at the lieutenant for another second before he decided to turn his attention back to his knife. He really had better things to do than talk to this patronising British officer, and he was rather glad when Hicox didn’t insist on pursuing their conversation further.
Just as the lieutenant was turning to leave, Stiglitz’ gaze fell for the first time on his hands, fumbling nervously with his cap. Long fingers, thin and frail, the fingernails perfectly manicured, unmistakeably an officer’s, not a soldier’s hands. So slender and delicate, and yet Stiglitz couldn’t help but remember that appearances could be deceptive, that the most slender fingers could be made of steel. He had seen hands like these before. Seen them, felt them, tasted them.
“Wait,” he said, suddenly switching to German. Hicox turned around and gave him a surprised look, one curved eyebrow rising. Stiglitz straightened a little on his chair, passing his knife to his left hand to free the right one. A tiny, barely visible gesture beckoning him to come closer, followed by a quiet hiss, “Close the door.”
Still over an hour until the rendezvous, the others were probably not paying attention anyway, but Stiglitz didn’t exactly want Wicki to overhear their conversation either. Hicox hesitated, obviously wondering whether it was a good idea to lock himself in one tiny room with a known psychotic killer. His fingers kept playing with the cap, shaking fingertips brushing the small eagle, wings outspread and not folded as in some older emblems, a predator ready to leave its nest and take flight. The emblem Stiglitz had loved and cherished since his childhood; the one he had sworn to defend when he had joined the Wehrmacht; the one he had betrayed when he had first laid hands on an officer.
The German uniform suited Hicox. And he had the courage to go with it - the door was closed and Hicox made a few steps towards Stiglitz, his pretty brow still wrinkled in confusion. The SS would be proud of a member like this one. Intelligent, distinguished, but still determined and strong. The kind of man who worked in the SD or the Gestapo. A man like the one who had come to him the night after he had been arrested. The derelict room they were in now reminded Stiglitz of his cell in the small French prison; and Hicox, alone, reminded him of the black-clad SS-officer who had visited him that night, disdainfully dismissing the guards’ objections to leaving him alone with their dangerous prisoner. And despite his confusion, Hicox showed almost the same self-assured arrogance as the young Sturmbannführer.
“You may remain seated, Feldwebel,” the mocking voice said, and the young officer smirked, very well aware that the chains didn’t really leave Stiglitz any choice. Blue eyes sparkled in amusement, and the pretty face looked all wrong under the black cap. Like a boy who had dressed up in his father‘s uniform, if it weren’t for the hardness in his eyes and voice. “I hope you understand that I can’t very well open these.”
Hicox stopped only a few steps before Stiglitz, looking down at him. He had pretty eyes. Blue, too. Hard as well, but more from determination and numb suffering than from cruelty. But Stiglitz’ eyes returned to the man’s fingers, now so close to his face. The knife was quickly sheathed again in his boot, the leather strap put aside.
Chains around his wrists and ankles were keeping him from resisting when those endless fingers moved closer and closer to his face, until the fingertips touched his cheeks, more tender than any touch he had felt in a long time … Soldiers didn’t bother with tenderness, but this officer with his girlishly soft hands seemed to map his face, as if to memorise it, finally moving to cracked lips, and despite himself Hugo’s lips parted.
His hand darted forward and grabbed Hicox’ thin wrists brutally, yanking the cap from his grasp and tossing it aside. Hicox tensed up and tried to free himself, and the sudden alert in the man’s eyes sent a shiver of excitement down Hugo’s spine. The lieutenant was well-built and certainly not weak, but he was no match for Hugo’s unbridled strength when the German got up and pushed him against the next wall, trapping Hicox between himself and the cold stone. Trapped like he had been trapped in those chains.
“What are you doing?” Hicox had to be nervous, his accent was too hard, too forced. Stiglitz’ fingers tightened around both his hands, holding him forcefully while the other hand rose to Hicox’ face, caressing his cheek.
“Don’t worry, Hauptsturmführer,” he whispered, savouring every syllable, and he took perverse pleasure in Hicox’ panicked, but pointless struggling. “I kill men, not uniforms.”
Fresh breath, the scent of expensive aftershave, the taste of good cigarettes and good wine, so different from the harsh bitterness of his comrades’ kisses. He moaned under those skilful lips, brushing his cheeks and throat first before their mouths met, passionately, but not violently. The Sturmbannführer never asked if Hugo wanted his tenderness, his passion. He gave it and took for granted that it would be appreciated.
Hicox seemed lost now, bewildered, not sure if he should calm down or panic. Stiglitz stepped closer to him until their groins touched, and a lecherous smirk spread over his face. Hicox’ startled gasp was swallowed when Stiglitz kissed him, a demanding onslaught on lips that proved to be no less sweet than his officer’s … but this time they wouldn’t move away and tease him. Stiglitz wouldn’t let him.
He growled in frustration when the officer straightened up and unbuttoned Stiglitz’ shirt, running teasing fingers over his chest. Cold air hit his bared skin, warmed only by those dancing fingers, absurdly nimble, fingers that were made for the ivory of a piano, not for guns and whips.
“You can untie me … I won‘t attack you,” he had pleaded, but the officer had only laughed.
“Freedom is the acceptance of necessity, Feldwebel, and you have been most unaccepting,” the Sturmbannführer had replied, and although Stiglitz had realised that this was some kind of quotation he was supposed to recognise, he was far too aroused to care. He wanted nothing more than to touch the man, kiss him, undress him, worship those divine hands, but the chains were so restricting that he could hardly lift his head, let alone sit up.
Hicox didn’t even try to move away. Once his initial shock had passed, he returned the kiss more intensely than Stiglitz would ever have expected from the uptight Englishman. He whimpered softly against Stiglitz’ mouth, but he felt still quite tense, as if he only waited for the right opportunity to free himself. Stiglitz grabbed his shoulders and slammed him so roughly into the wall that Hicox was a bit dazed, and without waiting for him to gather his wits again Stiglitz sank to his knees, uncaring if he would sully his uniform trousers.
He pulled one of these slender hands to his mouth, and with a thoroughness that didn’t diminish his passion he started lavishing it with kisses, caressing every knuckle, redrawing the blue lines of his veins, sucking on each finger, so eager to memorise the structure of the silky skin, its taste. He finally did what he had wanted to do that night in the cell, kiss the fingers that were teasing and torturing him, and when Hicox’ free hand grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, it felt no different from last time.
“You wanted to touch me, didn’t you?” An amused snicker as the Sturmbannführer knelt over Stiglitz’ face, one hand grabbing his short hair and supporting his head while he unbuckled his belt. He tasted sweet and clean, and Stiglitz would readily have given him what he desired if only he had been asked to. Instead the officer almost choked him, hands keeping his head in place, booted calves pressing against Stiglitz’ naked sides. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, never.
And it wouldn’t be, not today. Reluctantly he let go of Hicox’ warm hands and started to fumble with his trousers, but this time gentle fingers touched his chin and made him look up.
“We aren’t in a hurry, are we?” Hicox said a bit breathlessly, surprise mingled with warm desire in his blue eyes. So much softer than the raw need of scratching, tearing fingernails on the cool skin of his chest. Stiglitz put his hand on Hicox’ to keep it on his cheek, rubbing against it with a low, purring growl. He rose slowly to his feet, his body once again pressing Hicox against the wall, one arm slung around the slender waist.
“Archie, right?” Stiglitz mumbled, and his accent made Hicox chuckle a little, but he nodded. Hands sneaked under jackets and shirts, fighting through layers of fabric before they met shivering, hot skin. A tremor went through Hicox’ fingers when they brushed the scars on Hugo’s back, but he was hushed by a lingering kiss before he could ask.
“Herr Sturmbannführer?” Stiglitz started, desperately, pleadingly almost, after the officer had pulled back, still almost completely dressed, thin body stretched out on Stiglitz, the pretty face nuzzling his chest.
“You can call me Dieter.” A languorously whispered reply, lips moving against sweaty, rapidly cooling skin. Those pianist’s fingers leisurely sliding down Stiglitz’ muscled body, nimbly undoing his trousers; a few skilful keystrokes creating pure bliss, distilled into one last moan that echoed his name … Dieter.
Hicox kept kissing him, so very willing and pliant in Stiglitz’ arms. Neither of them wanted to undress in the cold room, especially not with nothing but an unlocked door between them and half a dozen other men, but whatever buttons their prying hands found were soon unfastened. Feeling his bare chest against Hicox’ seemed almost more intimate than closing his fingers around his cock.
Hicox’ fingers performed the same elegant dance on Stiglitz’ skin as the major’s had, with the same light-fingered nimbleness, but unlike his predecessor he never tried to tease and frustrate him.
The air was freezing, a delicious contrast to their burning skin, their mouths greedily competing to catch each other’s breath, and instead of numbing them the cold seemed to make their skin even more sensitive, tingling with every touch. Their shared pleasure and loss of control were more intoxicating than the physical sensations alone, and as perfect as these long hands were on his body, Hicox’ helpless shivering and panting was almost more satisfying. A violent kiss to muffle both their groans, biting each other’s lips, what bit of rationality they had left remembering that they needed to remain silent.
Hicox slumped against him, too weakened to keep himself upright, almost making Stiglitz stumble in the process. Their arms stayed wrapped around each other, heads resting on strong shoulders, lips quivering against slick skin. Their hands already started to tug on various bits of clothing in a rather pitiful effort to straighten them.
Stiglitz’ shoulders were strained, and he would have given much just to get up and stretch. Yet the discomfort was nothing compared to the smouldering burn of humiliation when the Sturmbannführer cleaned him up, the mocking, superior smirk back on his face, his long fingers nimbly straightening Stiglitz’ stained uniform.
Now that his needs had been taken care of, his old, hardly containable hatred flared up again, the blinding anger that had led him to killing thirteen officers. Watching the man buttoning his jacket, straightening his tie and stroking his hair back again, all of it with the same casual, composed calm that Gestapo officers displayed so often, even in the middle of interrogations. He looked so smug, so self-satisfied, so incredibly vain.
And then, just as he was about to knock on the door of the cell to call the guards, he stopped and turned around again, giving Stiglitz a thoughtful look.
“You know, I’m not sure I ever truly understood Hegel,” he said, and confusion made him once again look so very young. “It’s my duty to accept what is necessary, isn’t it? But if freedom is only the freedom to do my duty …” He sighed and shook his head. “None of us is free to do what we really want to do, Hugo. And we can only acquire a certain measure of freedom if we accept that.”
He walked over to Hugo and gently caressed his cheek, his fingers covered in sleek leather gloves. For the first time since he had entered the cell Stiglitz saw a genuine emotion in his cold, blue eyes: sadness. Any other time, any other place, and this could have been different.
Stiglitz didn’t feel angry anymore, but only empty when the Sturmbannführer abruptly turned on his heels and left.
“We should go before they start missing us,” Hicox said, staring at his reflection in a halfway clean window to comb his hair. Stiglitz tucked his shirt into his trousers and nodded. He refused to look at Hicox, but fortunately the lieutenant seemed to be as uncomfortable as he was.
Stiglitz felt quite unsettled when he thought of their upcoming mission. Part of him - the instinctive part that was rarely wrong - suspected that something would go wrong in this basement. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but still … even if everything went according to plan, he and Hicox probably wouldn’t have another moment to themselves, let alone more than that. There would be no other time for this to be different either.
As they left the abandoned house across the tavern barely fifteen minutes later, accompanied by an unsuspecting Wicki, Stiglitz couldn’t help but think that the Sturmbannführer had been right - in the end you didn‘t really have a choice. It didn’t matter whether you killed thirteen officers or did your duty for your whole life - you would never be free to do what you really wanted.
Stiglitz supposed that, deep down, he had always known that, even when his dagger had first cut through the black fabric of an SS-uniform. He had been a soldier all his life; soldiering was acceptance, not freedom. But accepting defeat had never been an option for him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Additional language geekery note, feel free to ignore if you don‘t care: About this sentence, “Freedom is the acceptance of necessity, Feldwebel, and you have been most unaccepting.” The first part is not an exact quote, but the sloppy translation of a very frequently used way of summing up what Hegel wrote about freedom. I had wanted to keep this sentence in German, because translating philosophy breaks your brain and always messes with the meaning, but it would just be very disrupting for most of you to have an incomprehensible German sentence with a footnote in there. For those of you who do speak German, however, I simply insist on adding the version I would have preferred: “Freiheit ist Einsicht in die Notwendigkeit, Feldwebel, und Sie waren äußerst uneinsichtig.” I think “Einsicht” has a much more intellectual connotation than “acceptance” - you can accept something without really understanding it, while “Einsicht” implies that you have thought about it, that you do not just outwardly accept something you have to accept, but that you really see why it has to be that way. “acceptance” can be passive, it can be the absence of resistance, while “Einsicht” really requires a thought-process. I apologise for the rant, but I had to get this out.
Author:
linndechir Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairings: Stiglitz/Hicox, Hellstrom/Stiglitz
Rating: R
Words: 2400
Warning: hand porn, mild dub-con
Summary: “None of us is really free to do what we want to do, Hugo.”
Author’s note: This was written for the Secret Hanukkah fic exchange on
100_scalps . mezzafredda asked for a hand fetish fic featuring Hicox, preferably with Aldo or Hugo. Hellstrom just insisted on sneaking in there to lend two more pretty hands. Thanks to onjuistheid for helping me with the ending. “Now that you put it like that … I guess you do.”
Stiglitz glared at the lieutenant for another second before he decided to turn his attention back to his knife. He really had better things to do than talk to this patronising British officer, and he was rather glad when Hicox didn’t insist on pursuing their conversation further.
Just as the lieutenant was turning to leave, Stiglitz’ gaze fell for the first time on his hands, fumbling nervously with his cap. Long fingers, thin and frail, the fingernails perfectly manicured, unmistakeably an officer’s, not a soldier’s hands. So slender and delicate, and yet Stiglitz couldn’t help but remember that appearances could be deceptive, that the most slender fingers could be made of steel. He had seen hands like these before. Seen them, felt them, tasted them.
“Wait,” he said, suddenly switching to German. Hicox turned around and gave him a surprised look, one curved eyebrow rising. Stiglitz straightened a little on his chair, passing his knife to his left hand to free the right one. A tiny, barely visible gesture beckoning him to come closer, followed by a quiet hiss, “Close the door.”
Still over an hour until the rendezvous, the others were probably not paying attention anyway, but Stiglitz didn’t exactly want Wicki to overhear their conversation either. Hicox hesitated, obviously wondering whether it was a good idea to lock himself in one tiny room with a known psychotic killer. His fingers kept playing with the cap, shaking fingertips brushing the small eagle, wings outspread and not folded as in some older emblems, a predator ready to leave its nest and take flight. The emblem Stiglitz had loved and cherished since his childhood; the one he had sworn to defend when he had joined the Wehrmacht; the one he had betrayed when he had first laid hands on an officer.
The German uniform suited Hicox. And he had the courage to go with it - the door was closed and Hicox made a few steps towards Stiglitz, his pretty brow still wrinkled in confusion. The SS would be proud of a member like this one. Intelligent, distinguished, but still determined and strong. The kind of man who worked in the SD or the Gestapo. A man like the one who had come to him the night after he had been arrested. The derelict room they were in now reminded Stiglitz of his cell in the small French prison; and Hicox, alone, reminded him of the black-clad SS-officer who had visited him that night, disdainfully dismissing the guards’ objections to leaving him alone with their dangerous prisoner. And despite his confusion, Hicox showed almost the same self-assured arrogance as the young Sturmbannführer.
“You may remain seated, Feldwebel,” the mocking voice said, and the young officer smirked, very well aware that the chains didn’t really leave Stiglitz any choice. Blue eyes sparkled in amusement, and the pretty face looked all wrong under the black cap. Like a boy who had dressed up in his father‘s uniform, if it weren’t for the hardness in his eyes and voice. “I hope you understand that I can’t very well open these.”
Hicox stopped only a few steps before Stiglitz, looking down at him. He had pretty eyes. Blue, too. Hard as well, but more from determination and numb suffering than from cruelty. But Stiglitz’ eyes returned to the man’s fingers, now so close to his face. The knife was quickly sheathed again in his boot, the leather strap put aside.
Chains around his wrists and ankles were keeping him from resisting when those endless fingers moved closer and closer to his face, until the fingertips touched his cheeks, more tender than any touch he had felt in a long time … Soldiers didn’t bother with tenderness, but this officer with his girlishly soft hands seemed to map his face, as if to memorise it, finally moving to cracked lips, and despite himself Hugo’s lips parted.
His hand darted forward and grabbed Hicox’ thin wrists brutally, yanking the cap from his grasp and tossing it aside. Hicox tensed up and tried to free himself, and the sudden alert in the man’s eyes sent a shiver of excitement down Hugo’s spine. The lieutenant was well-built and certainly not weak, but he was no match for Hugo’s unbridled strength when the German got up and pushed him against the next wall, trapping Hicox between himself and the cold stone. Trapped like he had been trapped in those chains.
“What are you doing?” Hicox had to be nervous, his accent was too hard, too forced. Stiglitz’ fingers tightened around both his hands, holding him forcefully while the other hand rose to Hicox’ face, caressing his cheek.
“Don’t worry, Hauptsturmführer,” he whispered, savouring every syllable, and he took perverse pleasure in Hicox’ panicked, but pointless struggling. “I kill men, not uniforms.”
Fresh breath, the scent of expensive aftershave, the taste of good cigarettes and good wine, so different from the harsh bitterness of his comrades’ kisses. He moaned under those skilful lips, brushing his cheeks and throat first before their mouths met, passionately, but not violently. The Sturmbannführer never asked if Hugo wanted his tenderness, his passion. He gave it and took for granted that it would be appreciated.
Hicox seemed lost now, bewildered, not sure if he should calm down or panic. Stiglitz stepped closer to him until their groins touched, and a lecherous smirk spread over his face. Hicox’ startled gasp was swallowed when Stiglitz kissed him, a demanding onslaught on lips that proved to be no less sweet than his officer’s … but this time they wouldn’t move away and tease him. Stiglitz wouldn’t let him.
He growled in frustration when the officer straightened up and unbuttoned Stiglitz’ shirt, running teasing fingers over his chest. Cold air hit his bared skin, warmed only by those dancing fingers, absurdly nimble, fingers that were made for the ivory of a piano, not for guns and whips.
“You can untie me … I won‘t attack you,” he had pleaded, but the officer had only laughed.
“Freedom is the acceptance of necessity, Feldwebel, and you have been most unaccepting,” the Sturmbannführer had replied, and although Stiglitz had realised that this was some kind of quotation he was supposed to recognise, he was far too aroused to care. He wanted nothing more than to touch the man, kiss him, undress him, worship those divine hands, but the chains were so restricting that he could hardly lift his head, let alone sit up.
Hicox didn’t even try to move away. Once his initial shock had passed, he returned the kiss more intensely than Stiglitz would ever have expected from the uptight Englishman. He whimpered softly against Stiglitz’ mouth, but he felt still quite tense, as if he only waited for the right opportunity to free himself. Stiglitz grabbed his shoulders and slammed him so roughly into the wall that Hicox was a bit dazed, and without waiting for him to gather his wits again Stiglitz sank to his knees, uncaring if he would sully his uniform trousers.
He pulled one of these slender hands to his mouth, and with a thoroughness that didn’t diminish his passion he started lavishing it with kisses, caressing every knuckle, redrawing the blue lines of his veins, sucking on each finger, so eager to memorise the structure of the silky skin, its taste. He finally did what he had wanted to do that night in the cell, kiss the fingers that were teasing and torturing him, and when Hicox’ free hand grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, it felt no different from last time.
“You wanted to touch me, didn’t you?” An amused snicker as the Sturmbannführer knelt over Stiglitz’ face, one hand grabbing his short hair and supporting his head while he unbuckled his belt. He tasted sweet and clean, and Stiglitz would readily have given him what he desired if only he had been asked to. Instead the officer almost choked him, hands keeping his head in place, booted calves pressing against Stiglitz’ naked sides. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, never.
And it wouldn’t be, not today. Reluctantly he let go of Hicox’ warm hands and started to fumble with his trousers, but this time gentle fingers touched his chin and made him look up.
“We aren’t in a hurry, are we?” Hicox said a bit breathlessly, surprise mingled with warm desire in his blue eyes. So much softer than the raw need of scratching, tearing fingernails on the cool skin of his chest. Stiglitz put his hand on Hicox’ to keep it on his cheek, rubbing against it with a low, purring growl. He rose slowly to his feet, his body once again pressing Hicox against the wall, one arm slung around the slender waist.
“Archie, right?” Stiglitz mumbled, and his accent made Hicox chuckle a little, but he nodded. Hands sneaked under jackets and shirts, fighting through layers of fabric before they met shivering, hot skin. A tremor went through Hicox’ fingers when they brushed the scars on Hugo’s back, but he was hushed by a lingering kiss before he could ask.
“Herr Sturmbannführer?” Stiglitz started, desperately, pleadingly almost, after the officer had pulled back, still almost completely dressed, thin body stretched out on Stiglitz, the pretty face nuzzling his chest.
“You can call me Dieter.” A languorously whispered reply, lips moving against sweaty, rapidly cooling skin. Those pianist’s fingers leisurely sliding down Stiglitz’ muscled body, nimbly undoing his trousers; a few skilful keystrokes creating pure bliss, distilled into one last moan that echoed his name … Dieter.
Hicox kept kissing him, so very willing and pliant in Stiglitz’ arms. Neither of them wanted to undress in the cold room, especially not with nothing but an unlocked door between them and half a dozen other men, but whatever buttons their prying hands found were soon unfastened. Feeling his bare chest against Hicox’ seemed almost more intimate than closing his fingers around his cock.
Hicox’ fingers performed the same elegant dance on Stiglitz’ skin as the major’s had, with the same light-fingered nimbleness, but unlike his predecessor he never tried to tease and frustrate him.
The air was freezing, a delicious contrast to their burning skin, their mouths greedily competing to catch each other’s breath, and instead of numbing them the cold seemed to make their skin even more sensitive, tingling with every touch. Their shared pleasure and loss of control were more intoxicating than the physical sensations alone, and as perfect as these long hands were on his body, Hicox’ helpless shivering and panting was almost more satisfying. A violent kiss to muffle both their groans, biting each other’s lips, what bit of rationality they had left remembering that they needed to remain silent.
Hicox slumped against him, too weakened to keep himself upright, almost making Stiglitz stumble in the process. Their arms stayed wrapped around each other, heads resting on strong shoulders, lips quivering against slick skin. Their hands already started to tug on various bits of clothing in a rather pitiful effort to straighten them.
Stiglitz’ shoulders were strained, and he would have given much just to get up and stretch. Yet the discomfort was nothing compared to the smouldering burn of humiliation when the Sturmbannführer cleaned him up, the mocking, superior smirk back on his face, his long fingers nimbly straightening Stiglitz’ stained uniform.
Now that his needs had been taken care of, his old, hardly containable hatred flared up again, the blinding anger that had led him to killing thirteen officers. Watching the man buttoning his jacket, straightening his tie and stroking his hair back again, all of it with the same casual, composed calm that Gestapo officers displayed so often, even in the middle of interrogations. He looked so smug, so self-satisfied, so incredibly vain.
And then, just as he was about to knock on the door of the cell to call the guards, he stopped and turned around again, giving Stiglitz a thoughtful look.
“You know, I’m not sure I ever truly understood Hegel,” he said, and confusion made him once again look so very young. “It’s my duty to accept what is necessary, isn’t it? But if freedom is only the freedom to do my duty …” He sighed and shook his head. “None of us is free to do what we really want to do, Hugo. And we can only acquire a certain measure of freedom if we accept that.”
He walked over to Hugo and gently caressed his cheek, his fingers covered in sleek leather gloves. For the first time since he had entered the cell Stiglitz saw a genuine emotion in his cold, blue eyes: sadness. Any other time, any other place, and this could have been different.
Stiglitz didn’t feel angry anymore, but only empty when the Sturmbannführer abruptly turned on his heels and left.
“We should go before they start missing us,” Hicox said, staring at his reflection in a halfway clean window to comb his hair. Stiglitz tucked his shirt into his trousers and nodded. He refused to look at Hicox, but fortunately the lieutenant seemed to be as uncomfortable as he was.
Stiglitz felt quite unsettled when he thought of their upcoming mission. Part of him - the instinctive part that was rarely wrong - suspected that something would go wrong in this basement. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but still … even if everything went according to plan, he and Hicox probably wouldn’t have another moment to themselves, let alone more than that. There would be no other time for this to be different either.
As they left the abandoned house across the tavern barely fifteen minutes later, accompanied by an unsuspecting Wicki, Stiglitz couldn’t help but think that the Sturmbannführer had been right - in the end you didn‘t really have a choice. It didn’t matter whether you killed thirteen officers or did your duty for your whole life - you would never be free to do what you really wanted.
Stiglitz supposed that, deep down, he had always known that, even when his dagger had first cut through the black fabric of an SS-uniform. He had been a soldier all his life; soldiering was acceptance, not freedom. But accepting defeat had never been an option for him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Additional language geekery note, feel free to ignore if you don‘t care: About this sentence, “Freedom is the acceptance of necessity, Feldwebel, and you have been most unaccepting.” The first part is not an exact quote, but the sloppy translation of a very frequently used way of summing up what Hegel wrote about freedom. I had wanted to keep this sentence in German, because translating philosophy breaks your brain and always messes with the meaning, but it would just be very disrupting for most of you to have an incomprehensible German sentence with a footnote in there. For those of you who do speak German, however, I simply insist on adding the version I would have preferred: “Freiheit ist Einsicht in die Notwendigkeit, Feldwebel, und Sie waren äußerst uneinsichtig.” I think “Einsicht” has a much more intellectual connotation than “acceptance” - you can accept something without really understanding it, while “Einsicht” implies that you have thought about it, that you do not just outwardly accept something you have to accept, but that you really see why it has to be that way. “acceptance” can be passive, it can be the absence of resistance, while “Einsicht” really requires a thought-process. I apologise for the rant, but I had to get this out.
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Re: P.S.
Date: 2010-01-06 08:43 pm (UTC)Re: P.S.
Date: 2010-01-08 03:59 am (UTC)I'm fluent in English and know quite a lot in Japanese. I was a translator for some friends when we went to Japan back in October.