Very Important Authors' Note: Good and bad news regarding this fic, but TLDR: we're ready to finish publishing...with a catch.

But first, sad news lol. My (Silmarilz1701's) health just isn't getting better enough for me to commit to finishing my last 8 or so chapters of our remaining unpublished content. We were hoping it would get there, but it just isn't right now for various reasons.

Good news is, AdamantiumDragonfly and I have come up with a system of uploading that we think should work. She's got hers all done, and I have most of mine done, so we're going to be resuming regular updating. Any time there is a Sveta chapter that is unwritten, we'll be including a detailed summary of what would've been the events at the end of the previous chapter (the only exception being this one, where we'll start with a summary as well). That way the story remains consistent and you aren't given only like a paragraph of summary where usually you'd get narrative.

And all of this is in the hopes that at some point over the next couple years, my health situation WILL improve enough that we can go back and fill in the missing moments with actual narrative, not detailed summary from our outlines.

Hope this is a good compromise. I know a lot of people were waiting patiently and I'm sorry this is the best we can do.

IN ME YOU SEE THEM

The sunlight hurt her eyes when Sveta stepped out of the barracks after days in that dark cell. Almost immediately, a wind blew fierce across her exposed cheeks. Though the blue skies with their white clouds like soft pillows looked inviting, the pain of the breeze distracted her.

Who knew freedom could hurt so much?

Was it freedom really, though? Could someone call stepping between shadows to hide from the darkest of evils freedom? Beria had set her up to take the fall for that assassination. Somewhere, somehow, he had to be behind it.

As Sveta stood moved up the stairs of her barracks, she listened to the rhythmic pounding of her American leather boots on wood. Even without the wind, being in those walls chilled her to the bone. There was nowhere to hide, no crevice where Beria would not be able to find her.

Anger surged through her as her hand gripped the metal doorknob to her room and swung the door open. She didn't really know what it was fury bubbling up inside her like a fire. It should've been hurt, should've been pain at the sight of the empty bed where Zhanna's effects used to sit.

While they had let Sveta rot in a cell, Zhanna had fought to get her out. While they had let Sveta rot in a cell, Zhanna had accepted a promotion. While they had let Sveta rot in a cell, Zhanna had decided it necessary to tell Corporal Liebgott, of all people, about the NKVD and their connections to the Gestapo.

Summary: Sveta gets out from her imprisonment cleared of charges but not cleared of the condemnation of public opinion. After all, the charge was dismissed on lack of evidence, not because anyone in the brass truly believed Sveta was innocent. Aside from the medics, the rumor mill has ensured that the enlisted treat Sveta with wary distrust. Nixon's no help, who's also dealing with mounting PTSD-fueled alcoholism. But the most important result of this framing attempt is Sveta's anger with Zhanna. Sveta remembers all the moments she put herself in danger to keep Zhanna safe, to keep her out of Beria's grip, and finds herself betrayed by this woman, this friend, in her moment of greatest panic. She's also deeply hurt that Zhanna is in the enlisted's and officers' good graces while Sveta is now on the outs. That leads us to...

...the final days of rome...

Zhanna had bought as much time as she could but the impending promotion had loomed over her, growing steadily closer until she was stuffed into her dress greens and forced before Sink in the most informal gathering she could muster.

Zhanna had never really valued military bars and citations. Yes, she had accepted Smokey's charity of a purple heart and she had the unit citation that was given to all of Easy Company for their work in Normandy but Zhanna hadn't set much pride in her American medals and pins. Her 2nd and 1st Lieutenant bars weren't worn in the precise manner that she had seen some of the others wear. The only pride she had taken in a piece of her uniform had been her pilotka, the red insignia of Russia striking against the fabric, but that had fallen victim to Sobel's greed. She hadn't seen it since.

These Captain's bars, pinned on her dress greens collar didn't mean that she was a great leader or particularly skilled in battle. They weren't an honor nor did they offer a great swell of pride inside Zhanna's chest, warming her face and ears. They were simply metal. Cold, shiny, and heavy on her shoulders.

They were the sign of the deal she had struck, time she had spent, and the price she had once again paid for Sveta's safety.

Dick watched her from the crowd of few officers who had gathered to see Sink stoop down and pin a promotion on her unworthy shoulders. He had shaved, gone was the shadow across his cheeks that made him look unkempt. Dick Winters looked just like he had when they had first met in Benning but he didn't look at her the same.

Maybe he didn't think she should have used her leverage with Sink or maybe he thought she should have left Sveta in that prison?

Dick had never pretended to understand why Zhanna did what she did for Sveta and Zhanna didn't pretend to care. Zhanna had always done what she had to, followed orders until she couldn't and then bent them when she couldn't. That was life and life was a cruel master.

Zhanna's hand snapped to her brow in salute, though saluting to an American who had indirectly placed her comrade in the garrison for suspected treason didn't feel right. But the slivers of metal on her collar made Zhanna even more of a traitorous Russian and she was just playing the part.

Turning, the smattering of applause sounded dim in her ears, Zhanna's eyes fell on Nixon. He hadn't been happy about her involvement in the investigation, particularly after their conversation in the Officer's Club.

His mouth was drawn into a tight line, brow furrowed as he studied her, as if the puzzle was more complex than he had realized. He hadn't wanted her involved. He had wanted her to turn against Sveta, to be the victim twice over to the Samsonovs. Nixon would never understand that while her family may have died in the Samsonov name, Zhanna lived because of it.

Looking around the room, Zhanna saw Welsh, Speirs, Peacock and several other familiar Easy Company faces but no Sveta. She hadn't watched.

Zhanna had been ready to fight for Sveta's sentence but as it turned out, she didn't need to. At least, not as hard or as long as she had expected. She had been prepared to fight tooth and nail, to fulfill the promise of protection and loyalty but in the end it wasn't needed.

Dick hadn't provided any more information, Speirs had lost his fight to duty and obligations, and Nixon refused to budge so Zhanna had to resort to other measures, the small amount of power that was afforded to her. There were some advantages to being a Russian, liaison, and one of the only females in the company.

Zhanna had only a few chips in her favor. She had made bargains before with less leverage, and her mind was already weighing the deal, any possible deal. She used her good standing with Sink to wheedle her way into the MPs investigation as a translator. She was, of course, fluent in it. "Better than any American you have on staff."

"I'm afraid you would seem to be a conflict of interest,"

"I have lost many things in this war, sir. Samsonova might have been my countrymen but the Gestapo is no friend of mine."

Sink had been more than willing to take her proposed terms, upon one condition. Her pushed aside promotion was brought forward.

'We are out of time, Casmirovna," Sink had said. They would be transferring soon, saying goodbye to Mourmelon and moving out to Germany. Not interested in promoting officers in Hitler's backyard, Sink had wanted Zhanna to be recognized and bedecked as soon as possible.

Zhanna agreed.

The trial of Svetlana Samsonova was held together by one transcript. A single document that, upon further inspection, didn't refer to Svetlana at all.

Samsonov.

Not Samsonova.

Whatever accusations crumbled like sand when Zhanna placed the newly translated document in the hands of Sink. Sveta was released an hour later.

"Who would have thought?" Welsh said, extending a hand. "Our little Casmirovna made Captain."

Zhanna dipped her head, accepting Welsh's congratulatory handshake. She was getting used to the Americans and their quirks by now.

"Captain," Dick said, dipping his head. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Major," Zhanna said, softly. Did he really mean it or did he know she had used Sink's appreciation for her own gain? He probably did, judging from the steady eye contact of his icy blue eyes. They weren't cold but Zhanna couldn't help a shiver, all the same.

"Shame Samsonova couldn't make it," Nixon said, joining the group, and glanced around the room as if looking for the dark braids of the sniper. "You two going out to celebrate later? Or is she still-"

Still what? Sleeping on the floor of their shared billet, rooms away from Zhanna? Leaving before sunup to hide in some distant corner of Headquarters or Battalion?

"Nix, ease up, will ya?" Welsh shook his head.

"Congratulations, Zhanna," Nixon said. "Well done."

Well done. Yes, well done Zhanna. She had gotten her only remaining piece of the place she had called home safely returned to her. Well done, Zhanna. She had made Captain with no real leadership experience, only a handful of field kills and a single shot left in her rifle. Well done.

"Don't listen to him," Winters said, as Nixon and Welsh wandered off, searching for a drink or some kind of trouble.

"I don't think anyone does," Zhanna let out a breathy laugh. It sounded choked and painful.

She looked up at Winters, her boots not giving her enough height to look directly in his eyes. She had only met his gaze, eye to eye, in that foxhole. Insticnitv;ey, she reached for her rifle strap but it wasn't in its usual place on her shoulder. It was tucked inside her bed in the commandeered house that she shared with Sveta.

"Nix is just worried about his next combat jump," WInters said, leading the way out of Sink's office and into the house that had been taken over as HQ in Dormagen, the little village in Germany that had been their first stop.

"I see," Zhanna said, her boots were louder on the floors than she had intended. She tried to soften her foot falls.

"He knows you deserve this," Winters's strides were longer than hers and, instead of letting her fight to keep up, he stopped. She reached his side again, CP bustling with the efforts of occupation and movement into Germany.

"Of course," Zhanna said.

Of course she deserved to be the same rank as Sveta. She, a Polish Jew, deserved to be the same standing as Sveta, the Red-born daughter. Of course she did. Well done, Zhanna.

Winters's eyes didn't seem to want to defend Nix. They were saying something, something that Zhanna didn't recognize or understand. Was that pride?

Pride in a fellow soldier's accomplishments, surely, but the steadiness of his gaze and the slight twist of his lips were too intense. Zhanna's body flushed under the wool of her uniform and in the sunlight that streamed in the windows.

"I should go find Sveta," She breathed, turning sharply on her heel.

Sveta had been avoiding Zhanna, that much was obvious. After all Zhanna had done for Sveta, it seemed that rumours had spiraled and their source was a direct tie to Sveta. And there could be only one possibility. Zhanna regretted breaking apart in front of Liebgott and she regretted every mentioning what Nixon had told her to him. But regrets didn't erase mistakes.

Though Svetlana was free from the cell, she found herself on trial in a more hostile environment. Liebgott's fury was a swift judge and Zhanna only wished she hadn't been the one to light the match.

Soon, all of Easy Company knew that Svetlana's father was in league with the Germans and all of Easy Company had reverted to their old habits: distrust and hatred.

But only against Sveta.

Zhanna was widely regarded with pity, a new feeling.

"She lost 'em all in Bastogne," Liebgott had said, shaking his head in the sympathy he had developed after learning Zhanna, like himself, had Jewish ties. "And now she finds out Samsonova's family's been working with the Gestapo?"

"Jesus christ," Grant had uttered.

Loyalty from anyone other than Sveta felt foreign and to have it appear in the absence of her friend was disheartening. They had never been one to apologize. They would simply rise and start over, as if the words weren't said. Sveta hadn't addressed her drunken accusations of treachery and disloyalty and Zhanna didn't say anything about not telling Sveta about her losses in Holland. They left so much unsaid and kept going. They kept moving. They kept pushing because they weren't here to fight each other. They were going home.

Or, Sveta had been. Zhanna didn't know where she was going now. Her feet directed her towards her billet but beyond that, when the white flags were raised and the treaties signed, where would Zhanna go?

Back to Russia where she would only be a ward of the powerful Samsonovs, destined to be anything but herself? Or did she dare dream of a safe corner without her parents with her own garden and her own life?

That was assuming she saw the end of this war.

"I'm not dead," Zhanna muttered under her breath. "Not yet."

She would extend the hand to Sveta, find her, and apologize. Zhanna had breached her trust. Zhanna had broken her promise.

Sveta wasn't in her usual nest of cushions and blankets in the parlor, when Zhanna pushed open the door to the home they had acquired for their stay. Maybe she wasn't gone?

Listening carefully in the entryway, Zhanna's heart beat the only sound in her ears until she caught the rustling of movement on the floor above her. Sveta hadn't left. Zhanna had a chance.

Her feet were soft on the staircase, despite the weight of her boots, and she strained her ears to catch the sound of any movement or approaching footsteps. Zhanna wasn't dead and she wanted a chance at a life after this war. This wasn't the end, not yet.

A smile spreading across her lips at the idea of bridging this gap, finding that closeness they had once occupied together. Zhanna had lost Buck, Skip, and Alex but she had a chance to get Sveta back. That was the most hope she had felt blooming in her chest since Aldbourne's quiet streets.

The door was cracked and there was the sound of sharp, heavy breathing beyond. Zhanna's hand pushed the smooth wood beneath her palm, the hinges creaking slightly as the door swung open and she stepped inside.

A smile, fading quickly from her lips, melting. It sent cool rivers and frozen shivers down her spine as the heat from Sveta's gaze sent away the peaceful reunion and deep-felt apologies that Zhanna had entered the room with. Had they been left at the door or were they ever there?

The room was dimly lit by only the flickering flame of a candle, that reflected off of Zhanna's dress uniform and it's newly minted Captain bars. They sent beams of light dancing across Sveta's darkened face. The pinpricks of gold didn't penetrate the pitch black deepness of her eyes. They weren't the color of whiskey she had drunk into a stupor. They weren't the softened brown of fresh earth in newly tilled gardens. If Sveta had ever been Zhanna's friend, there wasn't a trace of her now. Sveta's eyes were dark like her father's. Their eyes.

Had Sveta's eyes ever been her own? She had claimed to see the world through her own eyes but maybe this darkness wasn't a new thing. Maybe she really did view the world and Zhanna from her father's lens.

Maybe they had been like that all along.