A little crack ship in honor of Hallows Eve.
"Prisoner 117," the jailer called in Russian. The crowd parted and two guards stepped forward, dragging a prisoner between them. The مالٹا, نارنگی jumpsuit he wore was little مزید than mud splattered, blood stained rags. His hair, once a gleaming, wavy golden blond, was darkened and matted. The penitentiary guards threw the boy into the mud at the jailer's feet. He groaned and coward like a wounded animal.
"Filthy razboynik*," the jailer spit, speaking in his language. "You are nothing of use to us any longer. آپ have refused to give us any information that we desire. And now, آپ shall die."
The jailer pulled a pistol from his کوٹ and pointed it at the prisoner.
"On your feet," he ordered.
The boy pulled himself onto his hands and knees.
"On your feet!"
No response. The jailer nodded to the two guards, and they grabbed the boy under he arms and pulled him up like a rag doll. The young captor kept his head down.
"Any last requests?"
"How about a smoke, sér*?" His voice was hoarse and tinted with a thick accent as he responded in Russian.
The jailer chuckled. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and gave it to the prisoner. He held up the flame of a lighter to the end. The prisoner looked up, مرکت, ایمرلڈ green eyes suddenly glowing, and blew a بادل of smoke into the jailer's face. The man stumbled back in surprise.
The prisoner twisted from his handlers' grips, raised his hands, and blasted them with green orbs of energy. They flew back into the crowd of gathered guards, who were momentarily stunned.
The boy turned and sprinted to the gate. He blasted an orb at it, leaving a gaping hole, and leapt through it without hesitation.
Yells and shouts followed him as he sped downhill. A roar began in the distance and grew louder as the boy approached the tracks. He sprinted faster, barely keeping his footing on the steep hillside.
A train approached, the clank of the wheels rattling the night. The boy counted the cars as he neared them. The seventh approached, doors wide open as promised, and leapt into it. He scrambled to get inside and was pulled up سے طرف کی two strong hands.
Exhausted from the rush, he slumped against the دیوار as the adrenaline drained away and pain began to throb from his wounds.
The boy took his eyes off the view if the fading asylum on the ہل, لندن and to the girl who had pulled him into the car.
The blonde's stormy grey eyes glistened as she leaned forward.
"Hello, Aurum*," he croaked before her lips pressed against his. Warmth flooded him and the burning of his wounds were momentarily replaced سے طرف کی a cool bliss.
Aryess pulled back all too soon.
"Hey, Argentum*," she breathed. "Glad to have آپ back."
"Good to be back," Aleksander said. He cupped her cheek and pulled her into another kiss.
razboynik- brigand (Russian)
sér- sir (Russian)
Aurum- Silver (Latin)
Argentum- سونا (Latin)
"Prisoner 117," the jailer called in Russian. The crowd parted and two guards stepped forward, dragging a prisoner between them. The مالٹا, نارنگی jumpsuit he wore was little مزید than mud splattered, blood stained rags. His hair, once a gleaming, wavy golden blond, was darkened and matted. The penitentiary guards threw the boy into the mud at the jailer's feet. He groaned and coward like a wounded animal.
"Filthy razboynik*," the jailer spit, speaking in his language. "You are nothing of use to us any longer. آپ have refused to give us any information that we desire. And now, آپ shall die."
The jailer pulled a pistol from his کوٹ and pointed it at the prisoner.
"On your feet," he ordered.
The boy pulled himself onto his hands and knees.
"On your feet!"
No response. The jailer nodded to the two guards, and they grabbed the boy under he arms and pulled him up like a rag doll. The young captor kept his head down.
"Any last requests?"
"How about a smoke, sér*?" His voice was hoarse and tinted with a thick accent as he responded in Russian.
The jailer chuckled. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and gave it to the prisoner. He held up the flame of a lighter to the end. The prisoner looked up, مرکت, ایمرلڈ green eyes suddenly glowing, and blew a بادل of smoke into the jailer's face. The man stumbled back in surprise.
The prisoner twisted from his handlers' grips, raised his hands, and blasted them with green orbs of energy. They flew back into the crowd of gathered guards, who were momentarily stunned.
The boy turned and sprinted to the gate. He blasted an orb at it, leaving a gaping hole, and leapt through it without hesitation.
Yells and shouts followed him as he sped downhill. A roar began in the distance and grew louder as the boy approached the tracks. He sprinted faster, barely keeping his footing on the steep hillside.
A train approached, the clank of the wheels rattling the night. The boy counted the cars as he neared them. The seventh approached, doors wide open as promised, and leapt into it. He scrambled to get inside and was pulled up سے طرف کی two strong hands.
Exhausted from the rush, he slumped against the دیوار as the adrenaline drained away and pain began to throb from his wounds.
The boy took his eyes off the view if the fading asylum on the ہل, لندن and to the girl who had pulled him into the car.
The blonde's stormy grey eyes glistened as she leaned forward.
"Hello, Aurum*," he croaked before her lips pressed against his. Warmth flooded him and the burning of his wounds were momentarily replaced سے طرف کی a cool bliss.
Aryess pulled back all too soon.
"Hey, Argentum*," she breathed. "Glad to have آپ back."
"Good to be back," Aleksander said. He cupped her cheek and pulled her into another kiss.
razboynik- brigand (Russian)
sér- sir (Russian)
Aurum- Silver (Latin)
Argentum- سونا (Latin)
Those Eyes *.*
Precious child
