Before him was a messied 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 to find safety among the trees, they clawed at the ground. They had not heard the door open behind them from where the fiend followed as if he was 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 very same model that his adjutant bore, the Rus stepped over the frozen corpse and crushed its skull beneath his boots. There, atop its caved head, he stood his ground and drew his revolver from his waist belt and fired aimlessly. The gunpowder erupted like the crack of a whip but the smoke was light. A bullet whizzed over their heads and struck the trunk of a tree ahead of them. Although it was but a warning, the two 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, it had struck the Confederate before he ever wondered whether they were enemies or not, that they had small statures unlike those of soldiers. His answer was resolved as their faces came into the light.
The perpetrators who had stalked them were just two village boys. They had blonde hair and were similar in appearance. One was perhaps 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-traveled merchant but they were children nonetheless. It could yet be answered why they were even there but the Rus was certain he could siphon out their reasons. Lowering his weapon, the commander approached them who dared not move and waited for their judgement to arrive. He glanced at both their faces, unchanged with fear, as their grip tightened around their straps else their hands would quiver without anything to hold onto. 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. A deepening fear began to surface and the eldest’s eyes widened in shock. 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.” When it seemed strange to him, he asked, “Where are you from?”
There came no answer, however he was certain that they spoke the same language as he. 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 gave an answer.
The Confederate turned his head and released the boy from his grasp and let him fall onto the snow, his interest piqued by an interesting response. Righting himself, he circled around their backs and read their every movement from behind, attempting to uncover any more hints that could aid his knowing. But they were still, without a breath of a lie. The commander retracted his revolver into its holster which was buttoned up and locked, believing that he would not require its use any longer.
Beside the eldest who he towered over, the Rus cast a shadow of his dreaded presence over his head. “What’s a Stelloster doing here?” He began to interrogate, 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. “Then, we heard noises…” He added believing that 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 what they said that the he found humorous. “Why? For your family?” As if entertaining himself, he asked with an answer in his mind.
The youngest rose from the snow and knelt, wiping his reddened nose and teary eyes. They looked at each other and the eldest nodded on their behalf. Dismayed, their faces were gloomed, and only then did their act quiet the Rus. An awkwardness overcame him and his grin was 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 what few times he had ever done so, as a moral member of humanity. The Rus crouched down to get a better look of their faces, paled as the cold slowly crawled into their clothes.
Out of heart, he decided to change his tone. “And where is your home?” Sounding less malicious and matured, as if his personality had been swapped for another, the good fiend asked.
The eldest replied, his eyes fixed to his feet, “To the east of the town…a village on the outskirts…”
His words smited the Rus with a realization but he hid his true reaction from ever showing on his expression. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted his troops gathering around the doorway, their fingers over their rifles’ triggers. They were anxious, at the ready to storm out of the hunter’s lodge at any given command. Watching for a signal, for any sign, their attentiveness attracted no orders from their commander who returned to the village boys, and once again, his troops had to stand down.
Fidgeting his fingers, he scratched out the dirt under his nails and looked up to commit, “I’ll have wood and food sent to your home so you needn’t freeze out here.” The young Rus offered more than what war could ever afford for those two boys.
Upon hearing his present, a light returned to their eyes, but hope did not overflow them as one who desperately needed the resources would. The supposed brothers bowed in humility, hiding away their breaking facade.
“T-Thank you…” The youngest spoke, tremoring from shivers.
His tone was less convincing than the other, but the Rus have long since had his suspicions. The thumps of their heartbeat quickened, growing ever more resounding against the calming wind. The quieting breeze did not aid their cause, and as if they afraid again, their skin paled in panic. Yet, the Confederate commander ceased his doubts, ignoring their sudden flustering, and returned them their freedoms from his interrogation that he thought must have frightened them enough.
Raising a smile, his unlikely tone of calm did not change, and let them be. “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 and retreated at 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 to himself, harmless to all. They disappeared into the depths of the forest where its foliage began to shroud their backs. Where the snow was thinner, the boys covered ground at a steady pace and hurried out of the Confederates’ presence before he could change his mind. 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 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 favored color palate. As he stood up, the snow trickled off his boots and trousers, the low sailing but visible currents drifting around him. He was tall, 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 high a rank, appearing as a boy playing a soldier. But even without a care of formalities involved in upholding his duty, none ever dared cross him in avoidance of his fiend-like grin. His heart was smothered in coal, black with the worse sins a man could ever indulge himself in. Still, the gods gave him existence and blessed him with aurelian, blonde hair, created in their own image.41Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD8g1IhrUAy
