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Both men’s lips were soft but also cracked and rough from exposure to sun and wind. When they touched, it felt almost painful. The texture of that caress embodied the struggles they faced. Tomasz's larger mouth enclosed the smaller. Alistair knew the strength of Tomasz’s arms, the safety of being carried against his chest. This kiss transformed that familiar closeness into something else entirely. He was being claimed in a way he had never known before. Warmth passed between them while the cold pressed in from every side.

The kiss only lasted twenty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. In that moment of complete stillness, with only the river and their breathing audible, time seemed to freeze. When Tomasz pulled back, his hand still cupped Alistair’s head, Alistair’s fingers lingered on his jaw.

Tomasz took his time letting Alistair go. Their embrace softened into a gentle, hesitant touch, like a memory of a kiss rather than the kiss itself. Then his mouth moved away from Alistair’s, toward his ear. He leaned in to whisper, his voice gentle: "Je te porte," he said. His voice was barely audible, barely more than a breath. "Toujours." I carry you always.

Alistair's response was not words. His fingers tightened slightly against Tomasz's jaw. His small body pressed slightly closer to the larger man's. He wanted to know if this moment was real. He hoped it was not a fever dream or a hallucination from a mind giving in to cold and exhaustion.

The cold returned as a palpable presence, a harsh reminder of the evening air's chill, their wet clothes, and the limited warmth of their bodies. They drifted back to a space where their mouths were apart, breathing the same air but no longer sharing each other's breath. Yet its truth persisted.

They lay in the reeds as the light continued its descent toward evening. Neither man spoke again. The moment was whole and clear. Tomasz kept his arm around Alistair's body. The officer's head turned toward the larger man, his face visible in profile against the fading light. And around them both, nature carried on. The river continued its work, the trees held their silence, the evening sky began its transformation toward night.

Tomasz sat with his arms around Alistair, his eyes fixed on the horizon and his heart maintaining its steady percussion against the officer's ear, holding the commitment that had been made and would be sustained: one more mile, two. And then another mile. And then another.

As long as there was breath to draw and a will to persist, as long as there was the possibility of carrying and being carried, they could endure. They could remain bound to each other through all that life placed in their path: the war and its senseless hostility, this arduous trek, and the absolute brutality of existence.

***

THE NEXT MORNING’S fog was the color of something that died and was returning to the earth. It clung to Tomasz's body as he emerged from the reeds, from the space where the river released them into the pale morning. It clung to Alistair too, wrapping around them both like a shroud, like a benediction, like the last remaining privacy they would be allowed.

The Polish soldier's feet left deep impressions in the mud of the roadside. Tomasz cradled Alistair’s small frame close in his arms, as if he were made of glass. He feared that even a moment's distraction would break him into a thousand tiny pieces. His coat hung open despite the cold. The officer's left arm drooped at his side. He draped his right arm across Tomasz's shoulder. His fingers curled gently against the fabric of the undershirt that lay beneath the open coat.

The fever's grip returned overnight. It caused Alistair's mind to splinter into a state close to delirium, but not full unconsciousness. The officer's lips moved in a continuous stream of French that resembled music more than language, more impulse than intention.

"Les cloches," Alistair whispered. "Elles sonnent. Elles sonnent toujours. Pourquoi ne s'arrêtent-elles pas?" The bells. They ring. They always ring. Why don't they stop? His words spilled out in a jumble. His eyes, when they opened, showed no recognition. They were not seeing the fog and not seeing Tomasz. They were not seeing anything that existed in the present reality.

Tomasz stopped speaking hours ago. There was nothing more to say. It had all been shown through carrying and refusing to set the officer down over the endless hours of movement that began at dawn and never stopped. His breathing was loud in the foggy silence. It was the sound of a man at his limit, with muscles pushed beyond any reasonable breaking point. Will and determination were the only things remaining that had not been consumed by exhaustion.

The tunic, still damp, was wrapped around Alistair's legs and tucked carefully around the splinted limbs. It served as insulation and as a final gesture of protection even now. In this threshold space the war seemed to have paused, seemed to be holding its breath, seemed to be waiting to see what would happen next.

They had not stopped since leaving the riverbank. The fire burned down to ash. Alistair's brief sleep, three hours, had been just enough to let his body recover the bare minimum to be moved. When Tomasz tried to stand to see if they might keep moving, his legs had surprisingly cooperated. But the officer was too frail to stay in the open any longer. The cold was a threat that did not need weapons to take its toll. Alistair's wet clothes and fever left him shivering. His exposed skin was pale and sallow, corpse like, revealing how weak he had become. He needed shelter, medicine, and care, things Tomasz was ill equipped to provide.

So, they kept moving. Tomasz had fashioned a crude pack from the remnants of the harness and filled it with their meager supplies. He secured it across his back. He held Alistair in his arms now. He slung his boots over his shoulder. His feet, still prickling from the river cold, had not yet recovered enough to tolerate the pressure of the leather. Walking barefoot on the mud road was easier than trying to force numb feet into an external constraint. His body understood this wordlessly.

Pain was irrelevant now. Tomasz drove himself forward, step by faltering step. Somewhere ahead, there had to be shelter, medicine, hands capable of doing more than simply holding Alistair together. Until he found them, he would keep carrying him. He had forgotten how to do anything else.

The road appeared slowly from the fog. It was not a main route. Authorities monitored the main roads, making travel on them risky and difficult to negotiate. This secondary road, a track connecting one ruined village to another, was more passable. Tomasz's instinct for geography and reading his surroundings served him well. Despite his exhaustion and the fever spreading from Alistair's body to his own mind, his sense of direction kept intact.

The sound came before the sight. It was the sound of an engine cutting through the fog. The mechanical rumble was unexpected. Tomasz's pace did not quicken. There was nowhere to run. The ascending sun was beginning to burn away the fog. To turn and flee would be to confirm himself as hostile and expose himself to fire. He made a slight adjustment to Alistair's weight. The officer's head tilted against his chest. Tomasz's hands trembled after hours of carrying. He shifted his grip just enough to keep it secure and maintain support. His breath came in controlled patterns. The fog continued its work of dissolving.

The jeep emerged as a cluster of darker shapes within the grayness. First, the outline of the grille came into view, followed by the windshield, and finally the entire angular shape of the military vehicle. It was slowing down. The driver spotted them.

With no place to hide, Tomasz stood firm, his massive frame a pillar in the middle of the road. He cradled the small body of the officer in his arms; his bare feet planted in the mud as he resolved to carry out his duty.

The jeep stopped twenty meters away, its engine still rumbling as the doors opened. Four soldiers dismounted in quick succession and spread into position. Rifles rose to their shoulders. One man moved toward the flank while another took cover behind the open door, using it as cover. Their attention fixed on Tomasz and the unconscious officer in his arms.

"Halt!" The command came in French. "Posez l'officier! Mains en l'air!"

Tomasz stopped where he stood. He did not raise his hands as they commanded. He kept both arms locked around Alistair, holding him close against his chest. His eyes moved from one rifle to the next as the soldiers spread around him. He watched the man at the flank, the one behind the open door, the fingers tightening near the triggers. Still, he did not move.

One of the soldiers shouted something to the others in French. The voice was young, uncertain, that of a man who had been trained in protocols but had not yet learned to trust his own judgment. The guns stayed leveled at him. Tomasz saw the tiny shake in the fingers clutching the triggers. They were afraid of him. The size of him. The way his massive frame filled the entire road, seemed to dwarf the jeep, seemed to suggest he was something more than human.

Alistair finally made a sound. It was not a word, but close. The officer's eyes did not open fully, but enough to show he was regaining consciousness. The shouting broke through his delirium, and he realized he had to respond. A faint croak came out, barely above a whisper. The effort it took was clear: his whole body tensed as he gathered all his strength to produce the word.

"Don't." His voice was destroyed, barely audible above the rumble of the jeep's engine. It was the sound of someone speaking from the absolute depths of exhaustion and fever. "Don't shoot. Please. I am Lieutenant Alistair Harrow, Thirty-Fourth Division. He's...with me."

The assertion hung in the fog. The English words, spoken by an officer, introduced a variable that had not been there moments before. The soldiers exchanged glances. They held their weapons steady, but the angle shifted. It appeared less aggressive and more cautious, lessening the threat of immediate execution.

One of the soldiers, older than the others, bearing the insignia of a sergeant, stepped forward. His face was visible now as the fog continued to thin. He studied Tomasz. His expression shifted from suspicion to something closer to recognition. He studied Alistair, whose head fell back against Tomasz's chest after the effort of speaking. His eyes were beginning to close again. The French trooper looked back at Tomasz. A change flickered on his face. Maybe it was understanding or a memory, or the stories and rumors he heard from his men, the legends born from the impossible.