Those who live by the sword, Die by the sword 1/?
anonymous
February 10 2009, 09:48:23 UTC
A/N consider this an intro if you like. Im very very sorry this isn't the main story yet, i was meaning to post the whole thing at once. But author-anon wasn't expecting to have the flu,and shall go recover instead.Thats also why this is so short, I'm really not up to much more
This was it. He had had enough. This was the third time in the month this had happened. Feliks had returned home again to find his Liet collapsed on his steps, scarlet dripping down onto the pavement from his gashed uniform. Once again, he’d had to place him in his bed to recover, hardly the reason he should be there. Feliks still had no idea how he had got himself there each time, and Liet himself was hardly in a fit state to explain. But Feliks had an active imagination, and it wasn’t a stretch at all to see him dragging himself all the way to Warsaw.
It was sick.
It was wrong.
Something had to be done.
Preferably before the bloodstains ruined his last set of sheets.
And so Feliks made up his mind. Now was not a time for scheming and fake letters. It was time to pay Ivan a visit.
A fever burned in his eyes as he prowled the house, searching for weapons, finally selecting a Stechkin APS and laughing lightly at the irony as he grasped the Russian gun. This would be all he needed, and with this thought the fire burning in his eyes dimmed. It would not be easy after all, even he wasn’t imaginative enough to think that Ivan would go down without a fight. But he had his reasons. In fact he was walking towards one right now.
The door creaked slightly as Feliks kicked it open, eyes only for the…remains of his…friend?...life?...Love? How do you even define something that never really had a name?
Because some things are just too horrific and degrading to be described, Feliks drew a veil over the appearance of his Liet, stopping only to gently brush a feather-light kiss over his red-flecked forehead, touching his chapped lips and the trickle of blood leaking out from the corner of them with a white shaking finger. Liet’s salt-rimmed eyes fluttered slightly, but didn’t open.
Dragging the door behind him, Feliks left the room, own eyes filling with saltwater. Without thinking, he found himself walking mindlessly towards a glass cabinet. Acknowledging it, something within him froze, to not ice, but steel. With a high scream he whirled and his boot connected with it, shards of glass flying in a beautiful, destructive dance, before shattering, some slicing his palms, and one nicking a singular cut through his left eyebrow. As the blood dripped into his eye he reached in, grabbing the sword that brought him and Lithuania victory at Grunwald.
What was it that Liet used to say? Pergalė?
God willing, Pergalė.
And with that thought still in his mind, he marched his way straight to Ivan’s front door.
By the Sword 2/?
anonymous
March 1 2009, 00:03:53 UTC
The house was dark, although this meant nothing, for although it was dark it did not mean that the household was asleep. For one thing, Feliks was sure Ivan never slept, for another it was possible it was one of the many blackouts that were prevalent around these hard times.
As it was, the house was lit by candles, illuminating the grim Soviet architecture, and the smears of grime on the leadlight windows. It was a saddening phase the country Russia was going through, but Feliks would be damned before he felt sorry for Ivan.
Working his way around the twists and turns of the hallway, (and just why was the door open?) the shadows loomed over Feliks, who dismissed everything and anything around him as he surged forwards.
After kicking open the fourth door in a row, he knew he had found himself in the right place. Such a room could only be Ivan’s bedroom. It reeked of lunacy, bitterness and that strange childishness he possessed, from the oil painting of the sunflowers on the wall, to the whip brazenly displayed on the dresser. Hate overflowed in Feliks heart, past the steel and cold, the fear, and the love that had brought him this far. Sword in sheath, and gun in both hands, he approached the bed, gun pointed toward the pillow.
This is not killing a man in cold blood, because this is not a man. This is a monster, a beast that must be destroyed. Not for me, for my country, but for Liet. No more bruises to try and hide, or alibis to write. This will be the end. One shot.
That is all it will take .
The blankets were pulled up across the top of the pillow, and Feliks was glad for that at least, for then he wouldn’t have to see the dead mans face. Shaking, he pointed the gun downwards, closer, so as to make it quick, directly to the brain. Trembles rocked his frame, eyes shining with madness, shining, but empty, hollow and cold. Sweat glossed him, making him seem inhuman, with his face twisted and bitter, hair falling softly around it, like a halo, a twisted contrast.
Eyes close.
His fingers tighten on the trigger.
The shot rings around the room, and Feliks falls to his knees from the force of it, reeling backwards. Breathing heavily, he clutches the gun like a newborn baby, alone in his thoughts. So absorbed is he that he doesn’t hear the footfalls behind him.
An arm stretches around his neck, in a mocking imitation of an embrace. Warm, alcohol-heady breath tickles his ear, as a scarf flicks outwards and itches at his neck.
“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”
Feliks turns his head slowly towards the whisper, and stares straight into empty violet eyes.
Re: By the Sword 2/?
anonymous
March 2 2009, 17:48:23 UTC
recaptcha: uesday blade. For srs.
It's a good thing you linked this in the 'needs reviewed' thread. I wouldn't have known it was here otherwise.
I love this so far. Though I'm kinda hoping the story strays from the original request, 'cause right now, Ivan getting fucked over by Feliks with a sword sounds pretty awesome.
Re: By the Sword 2/?
anonymous
May 28 2009, 23:46:24 UTC
DEAR GOD Feliks, acting... manly? What delicious madness is this?! Please pick this up again- its so darkly thrilling and oh noesss Poland what will become of you D*:?!
This was it. He had had enough.
This was the third time in the month this had happened. Feliks had returned home again to find his Liet collapsed on his steps, scarlet dripping down onto the pavement from his gashed uniform.
Once again, he’d had to place him in his bed to recover, hardly the reason he should be there. Feliks still had no idea how he had got himself there each time, and Liet himself was hardly in a fit state to explain.
But Feliks had an active imagination, and it wasn’t a stretch at all to see him dragging himself all the way to Warsaw.
It was sick.
It was wrong.
Something had to be done.
Preferably before the bloodstains ruined his last set of sheets.
And so Feliks made up his mind. Now was not a time for scheming and fake letters. It was time to pay Ivan a visit.
A fever burned in his eyes as he prowled the house, searching for weapons, finally selecting a Stechkin APS and laughing lightly at the irony as he grasped the Russian gun.
This would be all he needed, and with this thought the fire burning in his eyes dimmed. It would not be easy after all, even he wasn’t imaginative enough to think that Ivan would go down without a fight. But he had his reasons. In fact he was walking towards one right now.
The door creaked slightly as Feliks kicked it open, eyes only for the…remains of his…friend?...life?...Love?
How do you even define something that never really had a name?
Because some things are just too horrific and degrading to be described, Feliks drew a veil over the appearance of his Liet, stopping only to gently brush a feather-light kiss over his red-flecked forehead, touching his chapped lips and the trickle of blood leaking out from the corner of them with a white shaking finger.
Liet’s salt-rimmed eyes fluttered slightly, but didn’t open.
Dragging the door behind him, Feliks left the room, own eyes filling with saltwater.
Without thinking, he found himself walking mindlessly towards a glass cabinet.
Acknowledging it, something within him froze, to not ice, but steel.
With a high scream he whirled and his boot connected with it, shards of glass flying in a beautiful, destructive dance, before shattering, some slicing his palms, and one nicking a singular cut through his left eyebrow. As the blood dripped into his eye he reached in, grabbing the sword that brought him and Lithuania victory at Grunwald.
What was it that Liet used to say? Pergalė?
God willing, Pergalė.
And with that thought still in his mind, he marched his way straight to Ivan’s front door.
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The house was dark, although this meant nothing, for although it was dark it did not mean that the household was asleep. For one thing, Feliks was sure Ivan never slept, for another it was possible it was one of the many blackouts that were prevalent around these hard times.
As it was, the house was lit by candles, illuminating the grim Soviet architecture, and the smears of grime on the leadlight windows. It was a saddening phase the country Russia was going through, but Feliks would be damned before he felt sorry for Ivan.
Working his way around the twists and turns of the hallway, (and just why was the door open?) the shadows loomed over Feliks, who dismissed everything and anything around him as he surged forwards.
After kicking open the fourth door in a row, he knew he had found himself in the right place. Such a room could only be Ivan’s bedroom. It reeked of lunacy, bitterness and that strange childishness he possessed, from the oil painting of the sunflowers on the wall, to the whip brazenly displayed on the dresser. Hate overflowed in Feliks heart, past the steel and cold, the fear, and the love that had brought him this far. Sword in sheath, and gun in both hands, he approached the bed, gun pointed toward the pillow.
This is not killing a man in cold blood, because this is not a man. This is a monster, a beast that must be destroyed. Not for me, for my country, but for Liet. No more bruises to try and hide, or alibis to write. This will be the end. One shot.
That is all it will take .
The blankets were pulled up across the top of the pillow, and Feliks was glad for that at least, for then he wouldn’t have to see the dead mans face. Shaking, he pointed the gun downwards, closer, so as to make it quick, directly to the brain. Trembles rocked his frame, eyes shining with madness, shining, but empty, hollow and cold. Sweat glossed him, making him seem inhuman, with his face twisted and bitter, hair falling softly around it, like a halo, a twisted contrast.
Eyes close.
His fingers tighten on the trigger.
The shot rings around the room, and Feliks falls to his knees from the force of it, reeling backwards. Breathing heavily, he clutches the gun like a newborn baby, alone in his thoughts. So absorbed is he that he doesn’t hear the footfalls behind him.
An arm stretches around his neck, in a mocking imitation of an embrace. Warm, alcohol-heady breath tickles his ear, as a scarf flicks outwards and itches at his neck.
“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”
Feliks turns his head slowly towards the whisper, and stares straight into empty violet eyes.
Reply
It's a good thing you linked this in the 'needs reviewed' thread. I wouldn't have known it was here otherwise.
I love this so far. Though I'm kinda hoping the story strays from the original request, 'cause right now, Ivan getting fucked over by Feliks with a sword sounds pretty awesome.
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^.^ Feliks would never go down without a fight so....in order to stay in character i just might have that...
Reply
....NOW?
<3
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write more, pretty please *_*
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..... I'll give you cookies??
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