"Vorsichtig!" Heinrich whispered as he slowly crawled towards the front, squeezing past a fellow soldier. The tight space between the dimly lit tunnel walls offered little room to manoeuvre. Silently signalling to the men behind him, he waited patiently at the edge. His knuckles turned white as he affixed a bayonet on his trusted Gewehr rifle. His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, rivalling the soft thud the enemy's shovels were making on the other side of the dirt wall. 

The ground quaked every so often as French artillery roared several feet above them on the surface. Dirt slipped from the roof on to his cheeks as the hastily erected unstable foundations strained against gravity. The sound of the shovels stopped and Heinrich's breath refused to escape his throat. Instinctively he pushed the bayonet towards a nearby wall just as a tunneler burst through from the other side. Loud shouts erupted and blood splattered on his face as the sharp metal tore through wool and flesh.

His gun got snagged in the collar of a tumbling corpse. Arms were upon his throat instantly as he kicked and clawed blindly trying to reach for a fallen shovel to defend himself. As his vision began to turn black, his hand fingertips away from the wooden handle of the shovel, a shrill whistle resounded through the tunnel.

The sound confused him immensely. Whistles were blown to signal an assault above the ground. Not in the tunnels beneath the trenches. The whistle seemed to continue for eternity and Heinrich realised the sound was coming from somewhere far far away. Unable to restrain himself he watched helplessly as his training failed him and he lost himself to the whistle completely.

Heinrich sat up straight with a jolt. He panted loudly and shook his head trying to shake himself free of the nightmare. His sweat-soaked undershirt clung to his skin as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes just as the shrill sound echoing in his ears subsided. Confused and still somewhat out of breath he gazed in front of him and saw someone sitting in a chair beside his bed with a whistle in hand.

Blinking several times to adjust to the darkness, Heinrich noticed two things. The man was none other than Thierry Bouchereau, the curious Frenchman he had met earlier that day and he held Heinrich's own rifle pointed at the bed.

"I did not think you still suffered from the night terrors Professor. It was an agréable surprise when I witnessed you tossing and turning uncomfortably in your sleep, perhaps triggered by the earlier events of the day. I considered letting you suffer but I was really looking forward to continuing our previous conversation. Hence, the whistle."  The man smirked and gestured to the ivory whistle delicately held between his fingers.

Heinrich held the man's gaze as he subtly tried to reach for something on his bedside table to defend himself with but the man simply raised his gun and shook his head in disapproval. Reluctantly, Heinrich slid back on to the bed and sat up against the wall. With a steely resolve in his eyes, Heinrich scoffed. "Kill me if that is what you are here to do. You will not hear me beg."

"Mon Dieu! Such fierté. As expected of a Reichsgraf of the Imperial German Court." The Frenchman chuckled in response. Heinrich stiffened as he realized just how much the man knew about his past. "I can see the curiosity burning in your eyes. You wish to know who I really am don't you? And why I haunt you so? Very well, listen carefully." The man sighed and began his tale.

22nd April 1915
2nd Battle of Ypres
 

Relieved that the rains had let up after a constant downpour over the past four hours, two soldiers sat smiling in the muddy French trenches. "If I'd have known all I would see is mud, fog and rain, I would have stayed in Birmingham Thierry." One of them nudged the other as he joked. "And missed out on this delicious food Andrew?" Gesturing to the barely edible gruel they held in steel cups in their hands, Thierry teased.

The two men born too far apart to have ever met under usual circumstances. One the son of a British farmhand, the other the son of a French priest. One had joined the war to earn a steady living for his wife and son, the other was forced to join by his father to 'remove the devil's hold on his mind.' War had brought them close and they had bonded the way only men dancing with death daily could do.

Having spent months eating together, dodging bullets together, laughing and crying together as they held each other close through the harsh Belgian winter, they had developed a strong affection for each other. The precise kind of unholy affection, Thierry's father had hoped the war would scare out of him.

"After we've beaten back these Krauts, you've got to come back to my farm in Birmingham. My son, the cheeky little bastard would love to hear stories about the war. You could tell him about how we eventually slew The Grimm Reaper." Andrew said as he rested his head against Thierry's shoulder. Thierry gulped nervously and felt his breath quicken as it always did whenever Andrew was close. Still, the mention of The Grimm Reaper sent a shiver down his spine. The legend of The Grimm Reaper was growing more and more mythical each passing day. No matter where you served on the French front the stories of the German Count, the stormtrooper who harassed the allied armies incessantly, were abundant. Some talked about the time he scaled cliffs and snuck in to sabotage supplies, while others mentioned the tale of the tunnel he dug to cripple the French artillery. The stories must have had some truth to them for when the British intelligence had found out that The Grimm Reaper was stationed on the other side of the no man's land at Ypres they placed a significant bounty on the sharpshooter's head. A bounty, Andrew was determined to claim despite the risks. 

Superstition got the better of him and he decided not to give more life to the myth lest the reaper find him. Instead, he attempted to distract Andrew with a separate sensitive subject. "I doubt your wife would want to hear about some of the stories." He replied with a sombre smile. Andrew turned to face him and gazed into his eyes with profound helplessness. They both knew that the world would never accept them for who they were. So this war, dreary and bleak though it was, was nevertheless an escape from their own sad realities and therefore something they were grateful for.

Andrew parted his lips to respond but he heard Thierry's belly grumble loudly. The two men chuckled as the awkwardness was broken. Leaning back, Andrew poured the contents oh his cup into Thierry's and said. "Looks like you need this more than me." The Frenchman chuckled and took a reluctant sip of the gruel only to come up looking rather puzzled. "I'd swear I could taste ananas et poivre... uh pineapple and pepper?" He said.

Andrew rolled his eyes and was about to offer a witty retort when he suddenly froze for somehow he felt the taste on his lips as well. His chest begun to throb with a piercing ache and out of the corner of his eye he saw the fog taking on a yellowish hue. "What in God's name..." He began to whisper but the moment he opened his mouth he felt his throat beginning to clench as the yellow fog entered his lungs.

Gunfire erupted near them and they stood up to return fire as well. Beside them, men were falling steadily, clawing at their own eyes and throats in muffled shrieks. A bullet brushed past Thierry's cheek drawing blood. The Frenchman fell to his knees in shock as all around him the frontline broke. Men ran away in horror, while those too weak to run collapsed in agony. 

Through the dense yellow smoke, Thierry saw a silhouette approach. Cloaked in a dark German uniform with a white flower pinned to the lapel, the man approached calmly with a rifle in hand. His face was covered in an implement made from leather and glass. The strange appearance of the man walking unaffected through the poisonous smoke, flanked by similarly demonic soldiers behind him made Thierry wonder if all his sinful desires had caught up to him.

The demon in the lead pointed towards him and the one behind approached with what looked like an implement similar to the ones they wore on their faces. Thierry realized they meant to capture him alive. Somewhat relieved, he looked to his side, searching for Andrew. His heart leapt to his throat as he saw the man desperately clutching his neck as he struggled to breathe. Immediately he pointed towards Andrew. With tears streaming down his face he pleaded that they save his life instead.

The demon jumped into the trench and knelt beside the dying Andrew. Staring deep into Thierry's eyes with an unrepentant gaze, he stabbed his bayonet through Andrew's neck, stood up and walked away along the interior of the trench. Thierry felt his heart shatter and all fight left him as the strangers following the demon brought the implement to his face. The last thing he remembered before he passed out was the nameplate pinned on the Demon's chest.

Written in bold white was the word he had come to fear in the past and the word he would come to hate from here on out.

GRIMM

A single tear slid down Thierry's cheek as he paused to stifle his emotions before continuing considerably more curtly.  "The French Army rescued me sometime after that, but by then I was a broken shell of a man. Every night I would cry myself to sleep moaning the loss of my beloved Andrew in a Parisian hospital bed. My father came to visit me, but so appaled was he by my lamentations for another man, that he severed all ties with me. The army discharged me soon after on medical grounds from my injuries and I travelled to Birmingham to Andrew's farm and family. There too I received a cold reception. Rumours of his affection for me had reached them and his wife, distraught over her husband's death, didn't take too kindly to such malicious stories about her good Christian husband's ungodly acts during the war."

Wiping away the tear with the back of his palm, he refocussed the rifle on Heinrich and added. "After the war ended in your loss, I dedicated myself to seeking out the demon who had slain Mon amour, seeking out The Grimm Reaper. It took me quite some time but I finally managed to unearth the address of your family estate. But when I arrived, I did not find a Reichsgraf's mansion, I found a museum owned by the government. So, my search began anew. I bribed, blackmailed and threatened till I found out that you had been captured and upon your release gone into self-imposed exile in America. I found out the demon was masquerading as a scholar and I had to see it for myself."

His eyes burned with rage and brimmed with sorrow as he finally asked the question he had waited so long to ask. "Why me? An ostracized child with no family to speak of. Why did you not save Andrew? A husband, a father, a gentle soul. WHY?"

Heinrich moved forward till the barrel of the gun was pressed firmly against his chest. "Our orders were to capture someone alive. The man you speak off was too far gone. The gas would have killed him before we could take him back to the rear. Killing him instead of letting him suffer for a few more moments was a mercy."  His cold voice echoed through the silent room. Locking eyes with Thierry, he asked.  "Will you give me the mercy of an early grave Herr Bouchereau?"

Thierry contemplated quietly for a few moments then shook his head. "Though it was what I intended when I came here, watching you suffer in your dreams convinced me otherwise. You will not earn the sweet release of Death. Letting you live with the ghosts of those you've slain is a far crueller fate." Tossing the gun to the floor he bent and pulled out a knife strapped to his boot. "As is robbing you of the life you've built for yourself here. After all, what good is a Professor who can't voice his opinions." 

A sadistic gleam shone in the Frenchman's eyes as he licked his lips. "I laced it with ananas et poivre so you may taste just what Andrew did before he died."  With those words, the man lunged. While Heinrich may have been okay with accepting death for his sins, being maimed was something he could not live with. Instinctively he attempted to dodge. The blade slashed his shoulder and Heinrich flinched momentarily before decking the man with an elbow right to his jaw. Thierry collapsed on to the floor and Heinrich fell on top of him. The knife came in for another slash, but this time he was ready.

Clasping the man's wrist, he pinned the knife above Thierry's head. Straddling the man's waist, he pushed his forearm into his enemies neck. Memories of the past assaulted his brain as he fought past the tears welling up in his eyes and squeezed the life out of the man beneath him."Shh, stop fighting. Andrew awaits you on the other side." He whispered softly as his fingers dug into the man's throat. With a final smile, the man mouthed the words 'Thank You' and just like that Heinrich Grimm had reaped the soul of another soldier who had been dragged into The Seminal Catastrophe that had been the great war.

He wanted nothing more than to just pass out in exhaustion as the emotions overwhelmed him but the wetness on his fingers made him acutely aware of the blood he was steadily losing. A single glance told him the cut was deep, perhaps to the bone. Grabbing the bedsheet, he pushed it against his arm as he struggled to his feet. Putting pressure on the wound he made his way over to the telephone. 

It didn't matter to him if he lived through the night. He should have died in France. Everything after it had always been extra. What mattered to him was correcting a wrong. He had to ask for it before he passed out from the blood loss.

Clenching the receiver he dialled the number he had been given and waited until someone picked up. "My name is Heinrich Grimm. I was told to contact this number if I ever wished to call in the favour Louis Mezzo owes me. Yes, the same place as last time." He would ensure that Thierry was buried in Birmingham beside Andrew. The Frenchman would find peace.