Boxing Day special. (or something.)
Title: bare shoulders and suns
’Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ruslan Sergeievich, Captain Feodor Nikolaievich
Prompt: 'Sergeievich' - non list request
Word Count: 486
Rating: All ages; potentially suggestive of violence but not explicit
Notes: Sometime in the early stages of the war that made him famous, well before he had the rank to go with the rumours.
"Afraid to wear the suns, boy?" Feodor Nikolaievich would have shouldered the pale haired kid out of his path, secure in his own hand-embroidered status, but a graceful half-step and turn made it impossible to do without being idiotically obvious. He grunted instead, sneering, and was halfway down the corridor when the fatherless brat spoke.
"Gentlemen," the voice was startlingly deep for the age on the kid's face, nearly as surprising as the plural. "It's not worth it."
What? he wondered, then suppressed a jump when older voices protested "Sir--" from much closer than he'd heard anyone approach.
Half-turning back, he saw the kid shake his head.
"Gentlemen," the kid said again, "we've work to do, and as I'm not willing to take the time to buy myself a set of suns," here he inclined his head to Feodor in a slightly mocking salute between equals, eyes never dropping, "I'm certainly not willing to take the time to clean up after the mess. It's not worth it."
A tiny icicle of sweat trickled down Feodor's spine as a small smile passed across the kid's face, one of the sort that weren't really smiles, that held no warmth or fellow-feeling. It frankly wouldn't have looked out of place on a wolf in winter.
"It's not worth it," the brevet captain repeated again, looking past Feodor's shoulder, and his smile softened just slightly. "He'd press charges, and then I'd have to break in an all new druzhina, out there in the black."
"Sir," came another chorus, and a group of soldiers in the iron gray of the lines, with at best nickel silver as their ranks swept past, circling around the brevet captain like a pack of hunting dogs for a moment before heading down the corridor, the way the kid'd been walking when they met.
He'd seen them, briefly, dismissed them as errand-runners when he'd focused on the bare gray shoulders of the combat-promoted captain with a child's near-white hair. Apparently they weren't.
The brevet captain nodded to Feodor, almost politely, then turned away, mind clearly on other things. He moved with a faint trace of a rider's caution at the weight of a ship's coils, but only a trace.
He didn't look back. One of the dark haired men flanking him did, flashing a wolfish smile over his shoulder at Feodor.
It was regrettably impossible to press charges over looks. Feodor considered it briefly nevertheless, until he thought of the pale-haired captain's eyes as he'd spoken of messes. He then ignored the smile, turned back to his previous path and entered the lift with itchy shoulderblades.
Safely alone in a confined space, he wished the captain and all of his druzhina a hero's death, one that would grant them honours and stories. Because if they were dead, they'd feel no need for slightly alarming supply runs or staring at superior officers like fattened reindeer.
’Verse/characters: Witches' Horses; Ruslan Sergeievich, Captain Feodor Nikolaievich
Prompt: 'Sergeievich' - non list request
Word Count: 486
Rating: All ages; potentially suggestive of violence but not explicit
Notes: Sometime in the early stages of the war that made him famous, well before he had the rank to go with the rumours.
"Afraid to wear the suns, boy?" Feodor Nikolaievich would have shouldered the pale haired kid out of his path, secure in his own hand-embroidered status, but a graceful half-step and turn made it impossible to do without being idiotically obvious. He grunted instead, sneering, and was halfway down the corridor when the fatherless brat spoke.
"Gentlemen," the voice was startlingly deep for the age on the kid's face, nearly as surprising as the plural. "It's not worth it."
What? he wondered, then suppressed a jump when older voices protested "Sir--" from much closer than he'd heard anyone approach.
Half-turning back, he saw the kid shake his head.
"Gentlemen," the kid said again, "we've work to do, and as I'm not willing to take the time to buy myself a set of suns," here he inclined his head to Feodor in a slightly mocking salute between equals, eyes never dropping, "I'm certainly not willing to take the time to clean up after the mess. It's not worth it."
A tiny icicle of sweat trickled down Feodor's spine as a small smile passed across the kid's face, one of the sort that weren't really smiles, that held no warmth or fellow-feeling. It frankly wouldn't have looked out of place on a wolf in winter.
"It's not worth it," the brevet captain repeated again, looking past Feodor's shoulder, and his smile softened just slightly. "He'd press charges, and then I'd have to break in an all new druzhina, out there in the black."
"Sir," came another chorus, and a group of soldiers in the iron gray of the lines, with at best nickel silver as their ranks swept past, circling around the brevet captain like a pack of hunting dogs for a moment before heading down the corridor, the way the kid'd been walking when they met.
He'd seen them, briefly, dismissed them as errand-runners when he'd focused on the bare gray shoulders of the combat-promoted captain with a child's near-white hair. Apparently they weren't.
The brevet captain nodded to Feodor, almost politely, then turned away, mind clearly on other things. He moved with a faint trace of a rider's caution at the weight of a ship's coils, but only a trace.
He didn't look back. One of the dark haired men flanking him did, flashing a wolfish smile over his shoulder at Feodor.
It was regrettably impossible to press charges over looks. Feodor considered it briefly nevertheless, until he thought of the pale-haired captain's eyes as he'd spoken of messes. He then ignored the smile, turned back to his previous path and entered the lift with itchy shoulderblades.
Safely alone in a confined space, he wished the captain and all of his druzhina a hero's death, one that would grant them honours and stories. Because if they were dead, they'd feel no need for slightly alarming supply runs or staring at superior officers like fattened reindeer.