The men armed themselves and cocked their rifles, filing into formation as they approached the doorway. Holding her revolver by her head, the adjutant trod around the fire, securing her position closest to the entrance. She placed a hand over its handle and primed her firearm’s hammer, prepared to unveil the agents of shadow, when she felt a hand hold her back. Looking back, she was surprised to see her superior, who was often so reluctant to work except if it involved torture, give her a smile of assurance. His aide stood down, as did his troops, and swung open the door, its hinges screeching. A burst of the harsh winter wind flushed out the warmth within, and the young Rus stepped out, unbothered by the cold.
Before him was a messy trail cutting through the snow that led his eyes to the backs of two figures who had not gotten as far as he thought they would have. Still scurrying towards the forest in hope of finding safety among the trees, they clawed at the ground. They had not heard the door open behind them from where the fiend followed on as if he were on a casual stroll. His adjutant peeked around the corner of the doorway and watched as her commander climbed onto higher ground layered by ice and powdered rain. With a hand in his pocket and another revealing a revolver, the Rus stepped over the frozen corpse and crushed its skull beneath his boots before firing aimlessly at the spies.
The gunpowder erupted like the crack of a whip, but the smoke was light. A bullet whizzed over the spies’ heads and struck the trunk of a tree ahead of them. Although it was but a warning, they halted, petrified as if they had been trapped in ice. They turned around cautiously, their hands wrapped around the straps of the baskets on their backs. However, their small statures struck the Confederate, who wondered if they were soldiers at all when his answer became resolved as their faces came into the light.
The stalkers were just two village boys. They had blonde hair and were similar in appearance. One was a year or two younger than the other, who was in his early teens, and from a distance, it seemed like they were brothers. Judging by their attires, they were the sons of a village chief or a well-travelled merchant, but they were children nonetheless. It could yet be answered why they were even there in the first place, but the Rus was certain he could syphon out their reasons.
Lowering his weapon, the commander approached them, who dared not move. He glanced at both their faces, unchanged with fear, as their grip tightened around their straps, else their hands would quiver. Unimpressed by their composure, the Rus grabbed the youngest by his hair and pulled his head back suddenly, and the boy let out a yelp. The eldest’s eyes widened in fear and tears began to leak from the whimpers of the boy held hostage.
But seeing his inability to withstand any pain or threat, the Rus frowned when he appeared to have been proven wrong about their allegiances. “You’re no soldiers.” They seemed strange to him so he asked them, “Where are you from?”
They gave no answer. However, he was certain that they spoke the same language as he did. They simply refused to answer. It could have been out of fear that they could not find their voice, or it was out of stubbornness, but they should have said anything. The Rus pulled on the boy’s hair and head back until his neck strained and felt as though his scalp was being torn from his skull. When the boy let out a cry, it prompted the eldest to speak.
“S-Stellost, we’re from Stellost.” Stammering, he said.
The Confederate turned his head and released the boy from his grasp and let him fall onto the snow, his interest piqued by an intriguing response. He circled around their backs and read their every movement from behind, trying to uncover any more hints that could aid his knowing. But they were still, without a breath of a lie.
The commander slipped his revolver into its holster, which was buttoned up and locked, believing that he would no longer require its use. Standing beside the eldest, whom he towered over, the Rus cast a shadow over him. “What’s a Stelloster doing here?” He began to interrogate him, albeit with a soft and easy voice that he hoped would not frighten the already unnerved children.
“W-We were getting firewood…” The elder boy replied instantly as if he had planned to say it. “Then, we heard noises…” He added, believing that some honesty could help his cause.
But all his honesty did was buy a chuckle from the Rus. “Firewood? For Stellost?” The young man could not believe his ears, although the boys were unsure of why he found that humorous. “Why? For your family?” He asked them with a correct answer in his mind.
The youngest rose from the snow and remained kneeling, wiping his reddened nose and teary eyes. They looked at each other, and the eldest nodded on their behalf. Dismayed, their faces were gloomy, and only then did their act quiet the Rus.
Awkwardness overcame him, and his grin flattened. He fell silent. Crossing his hands on his waist and poking his cheek with his tongue, the commander glanced at them and thought, for the few times he had ever done so, as a moral member of humanity. The Rus crouched down to get a better look at their faces, which paled as the cold slowly crawled into their clothes. “And where is your home?” Out of heart, he decided to change his tone. Sounding less malicious and more mature, as if his personality had been swapped for another, the fiend asked them.
The eldest replied, his eyes fixed on his feet. “To the east of the town… a village on the outskirts…”
His words shook the Rus with realisation, but he hid his true reaction behind his unchanging expression. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted his troops gathering around the doorway, their fingers over their rifles’ triggers. They were anxious, ready to storm out of the hunter’s lodge at any given command. But, their attentiveness did not prompt any orders from their commander, who instead returned to the village boys, leaving his troops to stand down once again.
Fidgeting his fingers, he scratched out the dirt under his nails and looked up to them. “I’ll have wood and food sent to your home so you needn’t freeze out here.” The young Rus offered them more than the war could ever afford for those two boys.
Upon hearing his present, light returned to their eyes, but hope did not overflow them as it would one who desperately needed resources. The supposed brothers bowed in humility, hiding away their breaking facade.
“T-Thank you…” The youngest spoke, trembling from shivers.
His tone was less convincing than the other, but the Rus have long since had his suspicions. The thumps of their heartbeats quickened, growing ever more resounding against the calming wind. The quieting breeze did not help, and as if they were afraid again, their skin paled in panic. Yet, the Confederate commander ceased his doubts, ignoring their sudden flustering, and freed them from his interrogation that he thought must have frightened them enough.
With a smile, he maintained his unlikely tone of calm as he spoke to them. “Run along now.”
Without hesitation, the eldest of the pair took the youngest by his arm and lifted him up from the snow. They turned around and retreated in haste into the forest whence they came. Stumbling, their heavy breaths were clouds of white. Just then, did the Rus notice that their baskets were empty. But they had already been given his word of safety. After all, he reckoned that they were but harmless children.
The glint of his ocean blue eyes reflected the snow falling around him. When he was certain that they were gone, fleeing to wherever they may have hailed from if their answer had been a lie, the wind returned with a ferocity that passed into his navy blue hooded sweatshirt. His would-be exposed skin was insulated by a black top that explained how he was able to brave the cold. High on his waist, the handle of his revolver was ivory-white, strikingly contrasting his favourite colour palette. As he stood up, the snow trickled off his boots and trousers, the low sailing but visible currents drifting around him. He was tall and eighteen years of age, although oftentimes he would act younger than he was. When his adjutant returned to his side, she addressed him as a third general. One would not immediately think him to be of such a high rank, appearing as a boy playing a soldier. Without a care for formalities, none ever dared cross him in avoidance of his fiend-like grin. His heart was smothered in coal, black with the worst sins a man could ever indulge himself in. Still, the gods gave him existence and blessed him with aurelian, blonde hair, created in their image.392Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmudL2skc8D
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