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This story is based on the Nazi Storm Troopers of WWII, who were known for their brutal attacks on Jewish homes and communities, and partook a strong part in Hitler's horrific military force.

We tend to forget that these were all real, living people, who made choices, who followed, some who may have enjoyed their jobs. It wasn't just the politicians. They couldn't have made the decisions they did without the support of millions.

This story is also not an attempt to glorify the acts of Nazi Storm Troopers, but to shock you with their perspective––offering a face behind the mask. 

Read with caution. Read with curiosity. Read with remembrance. 

- Mad

- -

This story is mature for references of gore, trauma, anxiety, and depression. 

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They never talk about the nightmares.

The glory come alive, the swing of the sword, the charge into a battle, the smoke that turns to honey in the sky...all of those are described in such precise detail that one could close their eyes and it might as well be a memory. But they never talk about the...after. After the parties, after the bonfire, after the medallions, after the hard slaps on the back and drunken laughter––when you walk home, alone, and as soon as the door closes it's like a silent knife cutting off air. The long minutes as you wipe the blood off your shoes, each drop a different scream. The dryness in your throat as you force yourself to drink some water and gods-dammit, be a grown-ass adult and keep it down. The quiet darkness that watches you as your weary bones sigh in relief while you lie in bed. A man who was never afraid of anything...piss-his-pants-terrified of the back of his eyes. Always on the verge of broken.

..They never talk about the nightmares.

Please.

He crawls through the underbrush, the moon filtering down in slender bricks of light. They flash in his eyes, skimming along his prodding feet as he feels the terrain beneath worn, leather boots.

Something rustles to his right––2 o'Clock, he hums as his ears twitch curiously. With a flick of his wrist, his sword shoots out with a sching! A violent, ink-streaked extension to his right arm as he takes off after his prey. Giant, sky-scraping trees tumble by in his masked vision while thousands of glowing insects and vegetation are activated by the touch of his foot on the ground's veiny roots, lighting up a path of iridescent starlight. He is careful around crossed trees, where violet fire dances along its green bark, another world sparkling behind a dangerous mirage, or mushrooms whose thick, venomous fibres offer enclosure from the suffocating night. Though his breath pounds through every molecule of his body, it is silent on his lips, just as his boots muffle every sprint and leap, like a dancer's shadow.

Please.

He is efficient. Quiet.

And deadly.

As he had always been. But how many hearts had he silenced? How many screams had he muffled? How many tearful eyes, huddled communities, and brave souls had he cut down? All with a wicked smile and a sense of altruistic pride in his bones as he wiped the scarlet blood off of his trusty sword.

Oh gods, please.

He was great at what he did. A master at the trade, like a rabbit who could leap miles. Even better, he never did it for the money or the fame. Unlike his colleagues––O'Brien, Linstone, and Carmin, to name a few-–he had never looted, taken advantage of desperate families, nor been cruel or utterly heartless during the kill. After all, however evil and loveless he believed these creatures to be, they still had eyes that wept tears (however fake), voices that called for help (however untruthful), and skin that felt pain (however deserved), and they bled all the same, anyway.

At this, something in his blood sparked. Something he had been feeling for a while now––a long time coming, and only recently was able to recognize it:

Guilt.

It dragged him down into the earth, flailing and weak. It crushed his bones, chewed on his skull, tore out his tongue and cold, iron heart. It threatened to bury him in a sea of darkness till eternity forever.

Don't be gone.

But Brucha would have none of it. She was the one that taught him to open his eyes. To look past the wall of evil and see the fear behind it. That one appearing different from others did not inhibit their capability for love and emotion and kindness. Despite their passion for the skies, a species driven into the confines of the ground was a species of resilience.

I can't live anymo––

A vine lept out, curling around his ankle in a sharp caress as if marking its catch. His other foot left the ground as he brought the captured foot up towards his body in a horizontal twirl. The vine weakened its grip, he swung his free leg around to the ground just as his sword came down on the seething, fiery plant. His feet dropped into a crouch as his sword, black as crow, slammed into the dirt.

Get up on your damn feet.

Every village, king, and queen knew his name. He was Death's Shadow, a tale told by the safety of the fire, one of fear but one that kept everyone safe. Children dipped torn cloth in ash and wrapped it around their round, apple cheeks to imitate his faceless mask. And if one of such high skill had a bit of fear to his name, so be it. He was doing the Gods' work, after all.

But that changed. No, that swerved on its axis, threw gravity into a Bingo! iron cage, shook it up and blended his brain into smooth buttercream while twisting it it like a moist rag.

Excruciating. It had taken him a while to actually realize. He was completely changing his entire life's code, but it had been in a blink of an eye in which something had clicked. Locked into place. And it was seeing the bone-wrenching miserable sadness in a parent's eyes as they buried their mutilated child. It was seeing the ribs of a brother, whose stomach looked more like a cage than bone and fat. It was seeing the deadness in one's face, someone who once knew hope and had long given up.

And he was responsible for all of it. Because even if he wasn't the one who had particularly ruined these people's lives, how many others had he? How was he any different?

You aren't. You're pathetic. Don't you dare ruin this, too.

"Please," he whispered through cracked, bleeding lips, and it sounded more like a cry than a plead. "Please."

Finally, he caught up with the creature, could see right at the moment when its fluttery wings disappeared.

..Into the ground.

He dropped to his knees and scampered over the juicy leaves and fat flora, glowing insects hovering around him, flashing like an alarm, and his blood was rushing, exploding into brilliant, electric stars and––

There! Move, move, move move movemovemovemovemov––

He wrenched the tarp back, revealing a circular darkness, then threw himself within, shutting off all light. Glittery, rainbow dust drifted through the hollow and he sighed in relief at the sight as he skidded down the tunnel, his black cape spiralling behind him. When was the last time he had slept? Eaten? It didn't matter. He just had to make it, he didn't want to think about if––

He smelled it, before he saw it. That was the thing about killing fairies. The stench. Like strawberry shortcake and candied honeycomb, the opposite of the horrific sight lying before him.

His knees gave out.

But he didn't break.

He shattered. 

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If you would like to learn more, I have put some trustworthy links in the comments. Please remember this is a safe space and refrain from commenting anything that might be hurtful or offensive. Educate yourself instead. 

Hope you enjoyed and had a meaningful experience while reading. <3