A Scripta

For some of Luther's backstory.

August, 1942

Ten men stood in the lobby of Wewelsburg castle, handing their coats off to the lower-ranking SS men dressed in formal whites.

"I could get used to this," said one, brown-haired but with red, almost glowing eyes.

"Don't," snapped a handsome blond. "We're here because the Reichsführer-SS wants us.”

An older member of the ten men, with milky white eyes that would normally mean he was blind, focused those eyes on one of the white-clad boys. The young man swallowed and looked nervous.

“Ges,” said another blond, this one with a short beard.

Ges only grinned ferally and turned to him. “Blut.”

Blut blinked slowly, shaking his head. “Stop.”

“Heil Hitler, mein Herren,” came a voice at the foot of a set of stairs. They turned to see a man in a black SS uniform, unlike the field gray they wore. They all turned and answered the officer, offering the stiff-armed salute.

The man came over and looked at the handsome blond. “Good to see that Rommel released you, Reichsführer der Schlachtfeld.”

“He is preparing for the final thrust into the Nile, Obersturmbannführer,” he replied. “Another couple of months and the Tommies will be eliminated.”

“So we have heard, that is excellent news. Come with me, gentlemen?”

The ten men followed the young man down into the depths of the castle. The air grew cooler and thicker. A young member of the group balked, but Blut put a hand on his shoulder and they continued down stairs and stone tunnels. The largest of them had to squeeze sideways through the doorway.

Finally, they came upon a large round room. A multi-armed swastika was in the center of the floor. The Reichsführer der Schlachtfeld shivered. Magic.

The Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler, stepped out from an alcove. He wore a fake smile pasted on his face. Himmler and the Reichsführer der Schlachtfeld hated each other, and their animosity came off in waves. “Luther,” Himmler said, calling him by his first name, offering his hand.

Luther refused it, looking up into Himmler’s watery blue eyes with his own steel grey ones. “What do you want of us?”

Himmler took it back, looking like he actually expected Luther do that. “Your men will be embarking on the greatest excursion any man has ever done.”

“Heard that before,” muttered the twin brother of the man who had said he could get used to being waited on. He spoke in English, and only two other men in the room knew what he said. Their eyes laughed, but they kept focused on Himmler. The small man accepted the translation from Blut in his mind, who then used his telepathic ability to disseminate it among the rest of the men. The twin brother coughed for a moment as Himmler continued on:

“Luther, you and your Jagerverbande are going to go back in time.”

The room was silent. The big man to the rear rumbled, “You’re serious.”

“He’s very serious,” said Luther, studying Himmler. “How far back in time?”

“We are thinking maybe three years. Knowing what we know about you now, we could have utilized you on the Eastern Front.”

Luther glared at him. “You had us then! You could have used us THEN!”

Himmler blinked like a cow. “We did not.”

Luther seethed. “No. You did not.”

The two men glared at each other. Finally Luther snarled, “When is this wondrous journey expected to take place?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.” He motioned to the vault. “You will stay here, meditate and prepare yourselves.”

“Wait,” said the big man, “Nothing to eat?”

“You must be pure when undertaking such a difficult journey.”

Luther rolled his eyes heavenward. “Twelve hours won’t kill us. We’ve gone through worse.” The men nodded, and Himmler looked them all over.

“Stier, the man who is a bull.” He said this to the large man in the back, the one who mentioned not eating. “Eule,” he went over to the young man, “the mind reader. Feuer and Pfiel, the fire user and the sniper.” He looked at the two twins.

“Blut, he who reads auras. Ges, he who works in the shadow. Messer, the knife thrower;” he nodded to a young man. “Sani the healer,” he said this to a very pretty blond man. “Wolf, the rabbit’s foot.” This was offered to a man who refused to cut his hair, but had it pulled back in a tight pony tail – entirely against SS regulations, but he seemed to always get out of any punishment detail. “And Luther. The immortal.”

Luther’s eyes narrowed. “I think you are misinformed.”

“Oh no,” Himmler said with a smile. “The Führer told me.”

Luther couldn’t counter that with anything – he had been the one who told the Führer himself.

Himmler gathered up his coat against the chill air of the vault. “Be prepared and vigilant, gentlemen, for tomorrow you ride.”

He and his entourage of five left the room, leaving the ten men to stare at each other in disbelief.
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Glossary: (All ranks, titles, and German words are real except otherwise noted)

Reichsführer der Schlactfeld (Overlord of the Battlefield - fictional) Reserved for Luther only, the title was presented to him by Hitler in 1941 during the first invasion of Russia.

Reichsführer-SS. Reserved for Heinrich Himmler, leader of the SS.

Obersturmbannführer – Lieutenant Colonel in the SS. Abbreviated Obstbf.

Tommies - slang for British/Commonwealth soldiers.