Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
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At night, Sveta found herself drawn to the silence of the dark. Before her mother's death, the shadows of her room in her parents' estate always soothed her. In the corners of her bedroom, she could hide. In those few years between her baptism by fire in Rostov-on-Don and the arrival of Lavrentiy Beria, she'd cloaked herself in the shadows that would dance from candlelight.
On the Island, the men stayed in the CP as often as they could. If they weren't on the line, why put themselves in danger? Sveta understood it. She knew she should probably do the same. It would be much safer in bed in the Battalion CP than wandering halfway to the river. But at the CP, Harry would try to rope her into a poker game, Nixon would crack a few jokes, and Winters would play the mediator when they got into a scuffle. It always went that way.
Harry would let them go at it. Sometimes he watched it like a game of tennis. Nixon would get under her skin, she would make a snide remark back and ruffle his feathers, and he would do the same right back. Winters never looked pleased, but he often stayed silent until reminding them to take a breath. Usually starting with her, no matter what had instigated the scuffle.
So she preferred the dark. Night added a second blanket of security against any potential NKVD spies. The odds that he had one on the front lines was already small; having a spy that would be willing to walk around close to the front at night dropped the likelihood even lower. So here she could relax.
Sveta stopped by a set of trees that had yet to fall. Above her, a three-quarter moon shined down surrounded by a crown of stars. She smiled. What a funny thing, that peace and security and relaxation came from a place of such destruction and danger. But it did. She could breathe, here. She could breathe in the slightly wet grass from the recent drizzle of rain, the way the earth had been churned up by troops that day.
No Lewis Nixon to crack her recovering mask.
No Harry Welsh to stay silent as she squirmed.
No Richard Winters to play favorites for his friend.
Just her. Just Svetlana Alexandrovna Samsonova, the girl with a shattered soul and frightened mind. Just Sveta, alone.
She opened her eyes to look at the moon through the branches. The dark wood cut cracks along the pure moon, like the skin of a shattered porcelain doll. Her smile fell. Alone. Zhanna had decided Nixon and Winters were better to trust with secrets than her. Nixon and Winters knew better how to help her cope with the death of her parents. Sveta frowned. In fact, Zhanna rarely spoke to her these days; Skip Muck, Don Malarkey, Dick Winters, all better company for her than her fellow Russian.
Well, not fellow Russian. Zhanna wasn't really Russian. Not by blood.
A twig snapped. Sveta reacted on instinct. She pointed the sidearm that sometimes reminded her too much of an NKVD pistol straight at the looming shadow two meters away. She found herself staring down the barrel of another gun. Her whole body shook.
