[Witches' Horses] Sibir
Title: circumstances must
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Sergeievich
Prompt: 69A "belief"
Word Count: 598
Notes: goes hand in hand with little help, sir?.
The highest rank they found still breathing was a dying lievtenant, followed by a wounded sergeant who didn't make much sense when he talked. So Ruslan was kind of stuck being very nearly the youngest man of the group, with no tabs on his shoulders to back up his ideas.
But he was the only one with a plan, really. So he kept at it, kept sending men out to look for supplies, and other living men, hoping for . . well, anything that worked, actually. A living officer, a working radio, a living rider, though he saved the last for the best of his hopes, because so far, they were all going to die out here, alone, reported only as missing in action instead of shipped home or given to the horses as their records decreed it.
He'd said give him to the horses--he had nothing to be buried for--but God, he didn't want to die like this.
Which was why he was bent over the remains of several radios, trying to piece together a working unit, and from there call command, and ask for help.
He hissed when the old-man cursed thing spat another spark at him, this time nearly going through his glove. Sighing, he set it down, stripped off the gloves and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force his brain to think, on scrounged melted fuel-ice and as little food as he could get away with taking. Some of the older soldiers he'd appointed to keep order had started keeping an eye on him, which he considered extremely unfair.
"Sir," a voice said, and he jumped, raised his head to see one of them standing by his makeshift workbench with a flask of--was that tea?--and a bundle of fabric in his hands.
"'m not a sir," he replied, peering at the flask, trying to keep his mouth from watering.
"Sure, kid," the soldier replied. "We found a skiff from Carpenter's Axe."
"Oh, God, really?" he said without thinking, let the questions tumble free. "How badly is it banged up? What gear? Anyone alive?"
The soldier wordlessly handed him the flask. Which was, indeed, tea, run through a samovar that probably belonged to the skiff. He filled his mouth, let it sit for a long, blissful moment, then swallowed, felt the warmth all the way down. God it felt good. He was never going to take being warm for granted again.
"We can't get home in it," the soldier--Oleg, maybe? He should sneak a peek when he had a chance--finally answered, "but it's got supplies, and it's tight."
Ruslan nodded, thinking. "We should transfer the worst off onto it, then--the warm will do them good. Can you--?"
Possibly-Oleg nodded, then held out the bundle, which turned out to be a pair of gloves, nearly untouched. "We lost Boris, just now. Thought you could use these." He nodded to Ruslan's scorched gloves, gave Ruslan a small smile. "Good luck, sir. We need it."
"I'll do my best," he said, though it was becoming more obvious that they were only delaying death. Realised after a moment that he'd forgotten to object to the 'sir', and was also clinging to the tea flask like a life-line, and the man was kind of grinning at him over it.
He started to hand it back, but Oleg retreated out of range. "You need it more that we do."
"I--thank you," he said awkwardly, and Oleg gave him a professional nod, then stumped off to gather a few other men to start the transfer to the skiff.
Pulling a dead man's gloves over his hands, he bent back to the task. Damned if he was going to give up.
'Verse/characters: Sibir; Sergeievich
Prompt: 69A "belief"
Word Count: 598
Notes: goes hand in hand with little help, sir?.
The highest rank they found still breathing was a dying lievtenant, followed by a wounded sergeant who didn't make much sense when he talked. So Ruslan was kind of stuck being very nearly the youngest man of the group, with no tabs on his shoulders to back up his ideas.
But he was the only one with a plan, really. So he kept at it, kept sending men out to look for supplies, and other living men, hoping for . . well, anything that worked, actually. A living officer, a working radio, a living rider, though he saved the last for the best of his hopes, because so far, they were all going to die out here, alone, reported only as missing in action instead of shipped home or given to the horses as their records decreed it.
He'd said give him to the horses--he had nothing to be buried for--but God, he didn't want to die like this.
Which was why he was bent over the remains of several radios, trying to piece together a working unit, and from there call command, and ask for help.
He hissed when the old-man cursed thing spat another spark at him, this time nearly going through his glove. Sighing, he set it down, stripped off the gloves and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force his brain to think, on scrounged melted fuel-ice and as little food as he could get away with taking. Some of the older soldiers he'd appointed to keep order had started keeping an eye on him, which he considered extremely unfair.
"Sir," a voice said, and he jumped, raised his head to see one of them standing by his makeshift workbench with a flask of--was that tea?--and a bundle of fabric in his hands.
"'m not a sir," he replied, peering at the flask, trying to keep his mouth from watering.
"Sure, kid," the soldier replied. "We found a skiff from Carpenter's Axe."
"Oh, God, really?" he said without thinking, let the questions tumble free. "How badly is it banged up? What gear? Anyone alive?"
The soldier wordlessly handed him the flask. Which was, indeed, tea, run through a samovar that probably belonged to the skiff. He filled his mouth, let it sit for a long, blissful moment, then swallowed, felt the warmth all the way down. God it felt good. He was never going to take being warm for granted again.
"We can't get home in it," the soldier--Oleg, maybe? He should sneak a peek when he had a chance--finally answered, "but it's got supplies, and it's tight."
Ruslan nodded, thinking. "We should transfer the worst off onto it, then--the warm will do them good. Can you--?"
Possibly-Oleg nodded, then held out the bundle, which turned out to be a pair of gloves, nearly untouched. "We lost Boris, just now. Thought you could use these." He nodded to Ruslan's scorched gloves, gave Ruslan a small smile. "Good luck, sir. We need it."
"I'll do my best," he said, though it was becoming more obvious that they were only delaying death. Realised after a moment that he'd forgotten to object to the 'sir', and was also clinging to the tea flask like a life-line, and the man was kind of grinning at him over it.
He started to hand it back, but Oleg retreated out of range. "You need it more that we do."
"I--thank you," he said awkwardly, and Oleg gave him a professional nod, then stumped off to gather a few other men to start the transfer to the skiff.
Pulling a dead man's gloves over his hands, he bent back to the task. Damned if he was going to give up.