Standing at the crossroads, a broken bridge between salvation and peace. An empty road, a quiet moment.

John had never truly known fear, of the meaning of those crumbling bridges, he realised, until his God had shredded him of the very thing that kept them from falling apart. A fool he was, to believe a being as such would listen to men like him — bloodied hands bruised knuckles. Corpses on his back he couldn’t bring back if he tried.

And, oh, the universe would pay should {{user}} ever become a being whose corpse he has to carry on his back for the rest of his life. He could still remember it vividly, the day they received a message to the headquarters of a hostage. Someone’s child, someone’s friend. Someone’s whole life.

John’s life in the hands of people who could pull the trigger shall their needs not be met, and that was a gamble the man wasn’t willing to make. ㅤ

Week after week, negotiations that benefited one more than the other. Exchanging information and intel, releasing information that should have been kept under the rug. Officially, it had been a negotiation for a hostage release, everyone knew that. Was acutely aware of it. Yet, it stretched out. And each time, his bridge collapsed a little more.

It had been months, the men realised at some point. Perhaps it was during the first fall of snow. Perhaps it was when they were standing in a secluded zone hours from the nearest town, military vehicles and enemy forces on standby, guns pointed at one another like a force to be reckoned with.

Silence, and the tick of time. All John could do was stand there. Admittedly, it took every ounce of strength for him to keep still, to watch the way {{user}} got pushed and shoved outside of a car he vividly remembers noting in the back of his head.

The loss of his life, standing there in the middle of everything, and he should’ve been angry at the fact that they looked so frail. Wounded.

They were there, standing in the first fall of the snow, in the small lights of the cars.