Prologue
[June 7th 1940, France]
Greatness lasts forever. But forever begins on a normal day.
The commune of Cieux is as normal a place as any other in the department of Limoges, situated right between La Rochelle and Clermont-Ferrand. It is a place with a decent population, inhabited by people who were just that; decent.
With snow white stones forming the structure of most of its buildings and these distinctive red mudbrick tiles over their roofs, no one expected it to become a field of fire and flesh. Bodies piled on the streets as curtains of fire and smoke rose to the heavens, and a carpet of debris and blood spread through the commune.
The pale stone and brick houses were the canvas of this massacre, with the walls turned to black coal, scattered across the desecrated streets, barely leaving a singular house intact. Some of them were adorned with the guts and blood of innocent people who had asked for nothing and done nothing to deserve this, spreading crimson and ruby all over the town.
Overseeing the desecration of the commune, the artist, or rather the scientist, of this destruction walked the Iron Heart, Reinhard Heydrich, high-ranking SS officer, between a group of victims and the half-dead. His footsteps resonated across their defiled homes and stores of bodies, sending waves of frightening disturbingness into their hearts as the Devil walked through their roads. Besides the wailing and stifled voices of the survivors, covered in wounds, soot, and dirt, perhaps their own or that of their loved ones or neighbours, his deep and empty blue eyes inspected them like they were livestock.
“Separate the men, women, and children. And send any elders, the sick, and any other undesirables on buses on their way to the camps.”
His polished green suit was pristine in comparison to the vileness that surrounded him. His long black cloak wrapped around him like a shadow, hugging his long and slender body like a dark armour. His long face was adorned with an impenetrable gaze, his blue eyes a bit narrow and his blond hair neatly tucked beneath his army cap. His stride across the field of fire and blood seemed unbothered by the scene before him, as if he had seen worse and would’ve been willing to do even worse.
“Yes, Herr Heydrich!” saluted three men, dressed in a similar fashion, yet decorated with far less medals strapped upon their chests.
“What shall I do with the rest of them, Herr Heydrich?” questioned one of the captains, a wool mask over his mouth and nose, but a distinct burn scar all over the right side of his face.
The Iron Heart nodded and stopped in front of one of the few still standing edifices of the commune, the local church. His stare inspected the building closely till his eyes rested upon the multicoloured mosaic.
He knew what they called him, what they said of him; Iron Heart, monster, devil, unfeeling, colder than hell frozen over. They were right, perhaps. But they didn’t understand the full picture. Who could? Those who only see life through the lens of mortality couldn’t possibly understand the plans of those who live through forever.
He mused over the flames that took over the commune dancing across the colours of the glass as he watched the creation. Depicting Christ’s crucifixion as he is stabbed by the Roman centurions as the blood trickled down his ribs and unto the earth.
“Keep them here, we will need them for the ritual soon. Continue to move forward with the attack… and send word to the Ahnenerbe.”
