Fire Bird and The Grey Wolf
10/11/04 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyErg. I've had a pounding headache and aches and pains all day. I'm feeling just a leetle crappy. We went to the city to see my Baby and take her out to dinner, the Mr. and I.Such a nice time. I miss her so very much!
When we returned I tried to work on my stuff, so here's a bit I tried to make readable.
So. More Russian clex.Ah ha. That must makes me laugh for some reason.
Fourteen Years Later
“Kirill, where are you? The master wants to see you!”
The housekeeper’s voice rang out in the empty kitchen, and before he could slip out the back way to the servant’s stairs, she found him, anger and an edge of fear in her eyes. “The master sent me to get you…you come right now. He wants you in the dining hall immediately.” She stood with her hands planted on her hips and tried to look threatening, and maybe once he would have feared her. But not now, never again.
Kirill came close, towering over her, and crowding her back into the open doorway. “I don’t care what he wants,” he said, and enjoyed the spark of fear in her eyes. No one was going to push him around anymore, almost no one, not since his miraculous discoveries about himself these last few months. “And you, treat me with some respect. I am his ward. That makes you my servant, as much as his.” He smiled into her face, watched the blood drain by degrees out of it, and stepped back so that she could move. They were so weak, these people. He knew he could snap her like a twig, explode her flesh into flames with just a glance. “So. Take me to ‘Uncle’ then. Isn’t it early in the month for the bastard to want to see me?”
As long as Kirill could remember it had been so. Once a month The Uncle called for him to appear in his gloomy and too hot library, and once a month he demonstrated what his tutor’s had pushed and beat into his brain, parroted it back. His life had been until very recently a long series of lessons and tests, academic and physical. Some of the tests had been very…painful. He’d cried sometimes when he was little. Sometimes he cried so long and so hard, that his nurse taken pity on him and tried to comfort him. She’d hold him sometimes and sing him soft songs, pretty songs.
He had so few memories of his childhood, a few random moments here and there —picking flowers to bring to his nurse, feeling sorry for having broken her arm accidentally. But his memory of the time Uncle visited the nursery was crystal clear. Once, only once, Uncle had appeared in the nursery, and caught him sitting with his head in the nurses lap, she stroking his hair as she told him stories of her own children, Piotyr and Anna. He still remembered the children’s names but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the nurse’s name. She’d disappeared after that, he never saw her again, and not too long after her disappearance, he stopped singing the songs. They’d lost their power to comfort when Uncle had beaten him as the strains the songs his nurse had sung played in the background. He lost his taste for music after.
Why was it like that for him? He had no idea... it was just life.
The last few months had been very different. He slept in his own room, a man’s room. His lessons changed to being about the concerns of the ward of a wealthy landowner. He had a feeling these lessons were also about something else, something that would certainly benefit Uncle in someway. The man didn’t exhale a breath without exacting some repayment from it. The lessons were certainly part of some scheme his Uncle was planning, though he couldn’t imagine what part he’d be forced to play. He did know the man was conniving and dangerous and as vicious and hardy as a wolf. Too bad he had none of the nobility of that animal. What a steaming pile of shit the man was.
His lessons were boring and ridiculous to him. He’d had to learn court etiquette, courtly ways and words, and while they came easily to him, he disliked them intensely. A soldier didn’t speak that way or have those concerns—a soldier was concerned with war, with conquering the enemy and making certain no opposition rose again.
He scowled at Uncle’s lack of understanding though he didn’t make the mistake of thinking him weak. Not ever again, not since the time he’d demonstrated his power over Kirill. The leather gloves with the green crystal studs, they’d undone him, reduced him to a jelly. When Uncle had slapped him, the glove tore his skin and made him bleed and he had truly made him bleed a river… the pain had been unbearable, so completely horrible he’d actually wept. He swore someday he’d make Uncle pay for that, for making him weep like an infant in front of his servant.
That one went missing shortly after the incident. Uncle knew who was responsible, especially after it was discovered the man appeared to have died in a fire, and still he’d laughed at Kirill. One day, he thought as he approached the huge black wood doors to the hall, that massive pile of horseshit was going to die laughing.
Uncle sat at the head of the too ornate table, the dim light of the smoky fire casting flickering shadows and making his Uncle look even more like the devil than usual. He poured a glass of wine and gestured for Kirill to sit at the opposite end of the table. He stared at his Uncle with suspicion, and waited for him to speak.
“Kirill. You have done well with your studies and I’m pleased. All your lessons have gone well. Soon there will be other lessons. When you learn these to my satisfaction, there will be an explanation. Know this, you owe me. You owe me everything.”
Kirill almost ceased to listen. He’d heard this tired tune too many times, he owed Uncle everything, his privileged position, his life—but wait, this was new…
“You will have the chance to reduce this debt to me. I’m nothing, if no generous.” He smiled at Kirill over the rim of his glass, his teeth wet and shining, sharp as a wolf’s. “This farm, I think it’s time for you to learn it’s ins and outs, it’s management.”
Kirill almost smiled, he pictured him self on horseback, the peasants shivering in fear as he towered over them, ready to mete out punishment as he came to inspect the holdings.
“You will work this land,” He stood and spread a map out on the table and indicating an area with a bone-white finger, “These areas are to be cleared and prepared to be planted. I see no reason to waste manpower when I have you. You will remove the trees and harvest the wood. You will clear and plow these fields and prepare them. You will do this in three days time. I estimate that should be all you require.”
His Uncle sat down again, and hooked a finger through the heavy chain he wore around his neck, the one on which a tiny sliver of the poisonous green stone was set. It was just enough to rob Kirill of his extraordinary powers and make him like a normal man. He knew damn well that the touching of the chain was a warning and a statement.
His Uncle waved him towards him. “Come, Kirill. Come here.”
Kirill strutted up the length of the ridiculously long table and came to stand in front of his Uncle radiating as much defiance as he dared. His Uncle looked him over, a long silent stare that made Kirill feel uncomfortable, worse than usual even, he felt somewhat soiled by his Uncle’s examination and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his Uncle smiled and ordered him to kneel at his feet.
He laid his white, white hand, so thin and long his fingers were, they always put Kirill in mind of a skeleton’s hand, on top of his head, and the bonelike fingers threaded through his hair, and Kirill began to feel ill as the stone started to effect him. He was ill and a little frightened of the attention. In all his years, Uncle Boris had never touched him except to strike him. He winced a little and ducked his head, waiting for the blow.
“Kirill,” his Uncle spoke in a low voice. “What is my name?” He looked at his uncle in confusion, what didn’t he know his own name, he was insane…his Uncle grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back so that they were eye to eye.” What is my name?” he repeated.
Kirill gasped out his Uncle’s full name quickly—he was afraid that he’d replace the sliver of stone with the gloves.
“Boris Mikhailov Voronkov! Ow, let go!” He reached up to grab at his Uncle’s hand and stopped when he looked into Boris’ eyes.
“You are not my blood, you know this. You are no one’s blood here in this land. You know this. I own you, like I own my dogs, my vassals, and my horse. You’ve grown nicely, Kirill No-one. You can come sleep with me tonight.”
Kirill began to protest that he had a bed, and looked into Uncle’s eyes, into the eyes of Boris Voronkov’ and felt like he was falling away into a pit. Where did this come from? His Uncle had never ever shown any sign of this particular vice—what the devil had happened? He saw no pity; no love no kindness in the man’s eyes. He thought of the maids in the house, the stable boys and how funny he’d found it to make them do what he wanted. He looked at Voronkov and wished deeply that he could burn him, like he burned the rabbits in the fields. He imagined him steaming, and swelling, roasting in the flame he carried within him. God’s flame maybe, the devil’s more like. He looked down at his knees on the floor, ducked his head to smile and looked up again at Voronkov, and smiled wider. Part of battle strategy was retreat, and knowing when to do so. He could wait forever if he had to; he was a very patient fellow. He could do what this shit from hell wanted him to do, for now. One day, one fine day, Boris Mikhailov Voronkov’s brains were going to paint the walls of this room, he swore it.
tbc, eventually
When we returned I tried to work on my stuff, so here's a bit I tried to make readable.
So. More Russian clex.Ah ha. That must makes me laugh for some reason.
Fourteen Years Later
“Kirill, where are you? The master wants to see you!”
The housekeeper’s voice rang out in the empty kitchen, and before he could slip out the back way to the servant’s stairs, she found him, anger and an edge of fear in her eyes. “The master sent me to get you…you come right now. He wants you in the dining hall immediately.” She stood with her hands planted on her hips and tried to look threatening, and maybe once he would have feared her. But not now, never again.
Kirill came close, towering over her, and crowding her back into the open doorway. “I don’t care what he wants,” he said, and enjoyed the spark of fear in her eyes. No one was going to push him around anymore, almost no one, not since his miraculous discoveries about himself these last few months. “And you, treat me with some respect. I am his ward. That makes you my servant, as much as his.” He smiled into her face, watched the blood drain by degrees out of it, and stepped back so that she could move. They were so weak, these people. He knew he could snap her like a twig, explode her flesh into flames with just a glance. “So. Take me to ‘Uncle’ then. Isn’t it early in the month for the bastard to want to see me?”
As long as Kirill could remember it had been so. Once a month The Uncle called for him to appear in his gloomy and too hot library, and once a month he demonstrated what his tutor’s had pushed and beat into his brain, parroted it back. His life had been until very recently a long series of lessons and tests, academic and physical. Some of the tests had been very…painful. He’d cried sometimes when he was little. Sometimes he cried so long and so hard, that his nurse taken pity on him and tried to comfort him. She’d hold him sometimes and sing him soft songs, pretty songs.
He had so few memories of his childhood, a few random moments here and there —picking flowers to bring to his nurse, feeling sorry for having broken her arm accidentally. But his memory of the time Uncle visited the nursery was crystal clear. Once, only once, Uncle had appeared in the nursery, and caught him sitting with his head in the nurses lap, she stroking his hair as she told him stories of her own children, Piotyr and Anna. He still remembered the children’s names but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the nurse’s name. She’d disappeared after that, he never saw her again, and not too long after her disappearance, he stopped singing the songs. They’d lost their power to comfort when Uncle had beaten him as the strains the songs his nurse had sung played in the background. He lost his taste for music after.
Why was it like that for him? He had no idea... it was just life.
The last few months had been very different. He slept in his own room, a man’s room. His lessons changed to being about the concerns of the ward of a wealthy landowner. He had a feeling these lessons were also about something else, something that would certainly benefit Uncle in someway. The man didn’t exhale a breath without exacting some repayment from it. The lessons were certainly part of some scheme his Uncle was planning, though he couldn’t imagine what part he’d be forced to play. He did know the man was conniving and dangerous and as vicious and hardy as a wolf. Too bad he had none of the nobility of that animal. What a steaming pile of shit the man was.
His lessons were boring and ridiculous to him. He’d had to learn court etiquette, courtly ways and words, and while they came easily to him, he disliked them intensely. A soldier didn’t speak that way or have those concerns—a soldier was concerned with war, with conquering the enemy and making certain no opposition rose again.
He scowled at Uncle’s lack of understanding though he didn’t make the mistake of thinking him weak. Not ever again, not since the time he’d demonstrated his power over Kirill. The leather gloves with the green crystal studs, they’d undone him, reduced him to a jelly. When Uncle had slapped him, the glove tore his skin and made him bleed and he had truly made him bleed a river… the pain had been unbearable, so completely horrible he’d actually wept. He swore someday he’d make Uncle pay for that, for making him weep like an infant in front of his servant.
That one went missing shortly after the incident. Uncle knew who was responsible, especially after it was discovered the man appeared to have died in a fire, and still he’d laughed at Kirill. One day, he thought as he approached the huge black wood doors to the hall, that massive pile of horseshit was going to die laughing.
Uncle sat at the head of the too ornate table, the dim light of the smoky fire casting flickering shadows and making his Uncle look even more like the devil than usual. He poured a glass of wine and gestured for Kirill to sit at the opposite end of the table. He stared at his Uncle with suspicion, and waited for him to speak.
“Kirill. You have done well with your studies and I’m pleased. All your lessons have gone well. Soon there will be other lessons. When you learn these to my satisfaction, there will be an explanation. Know this, you owe me. You owe me everything.”
Kirill almost ceased to listen. He’d heard this tired tune too many times, he owed Uncle everything, his privileged position, his life—but wait, this was new…
“You will have the chance to reduce this debt to me. I’m nothing, if no generous.” He smiled at Kirill over the rim of his glass, his teeth wet and shining, sharp as a wolf’s. “This farm, I think it’s time for you to learn it’s ins and outs, it’s management.”
Kirill almost smiled, he pictured him self on horseback, the peasants shivering in fear as he towered over them, ready to mete out punishment as he came to inspect the holdings.
“You will work this land,” He stood and spread a map out on the table and indicating an area with a bone-white finger, “These areas are to be cleared and prepared to be planted. I see no reason to waste manpower when I have you. You will remove the trees and harvest the wood. You will clear and plow these fields and prepare them. You will do this in three days time. I estimate that should be all you require.”
His Uncle sat down again, and hooked a finger through the heavy chain he wore around his neck, the one on which a tiny sliver of the poisonous green stone was set. It was just enough to rob Kirill of his extraordinary powers and make him like a normal man. He knew damn well that the touching of the chain was a warning and a statement.
His Uncle waved him towards him. “Come, Kirill. Come here.”
Kirill strutted up the length of the ridiculously long table and came to stand in front of his Uncle radiating as much defiance as he dared. His Uncle looked him over, a long silent stare that made Kirill feel uncomfortable, worse than usual even, he felt somewhat soiled by his Uncle’s examination and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his Uncle smiled and ordered him to kneel at his feet.
He laid his white, white hand, so thin and long his fingers were, they always put Kirill in mind of a skeleton’s hand, on top of his head, and the bonelike fingers threaded through his hair, and Kirill began to feel ill as the stone started to effect him. He was ill and a little frightened of the attention. In all his years, Uncle Boris had never touched him except to strike him. He winced a little and ducked his head, waiting for the blow.
“Kirill,” his Uncle spoke in a low voice. “What is my name?” He looked at his uncle in confusion, what didn’t he know his own name, he was insane…his Uncle grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back so that they were eye to eye.” What is my name?” he repeated.
Kirill gasped out his Uncle’s full name quickly—he was afraid that he’d replace the sliver of stone with the gloves.
“Boris Mikhailov Voronkov! Ow, let go!” He reached up to grab at his Uncle’s hand and stopped when he looked into Boris’ eyes.
“You are not my blood, you know this. You are no one’s blood here in this land. You know this. I own you, like I own my dogs, my vassals, and my horse. You’ve grown nicely, Kirill No-one. You can come sleep with me tonight.”
Kirill began to protest that he had a bed, and looked into Uncle’s eyes, into the eyes of Boris Voronkov’ and felt like he was falling away into a pit. Where did this come from? His Uncle had never ever shown any sign of this particular vice—what the devil had happened? He saw no pity; no love no kindness in the man’s eyes. He thought of the maids in the house, the stable boys and how funny he’d found it to make them do what he wanted. He looked at Voronkov and wished deeply that he could burn him, like he burned the rabbits in the fields. He imagined him steaming, and swelling, roasting in the flame he carried within him. God’s flame maybe, the devil’s more like. He looked down at his knees on the floor, ducked his head to smile and looked up again at Voronkov, and smiled wider. Part of battle strategy was retreat, and knowing when to do so. He could wait forever if he had to; he was a very patient fellow. He could do what this shit from hell wanted him to do, for now. One day, one fine day, Boris Mikhailov Voronkov’s brains were going to paint the walls of this room, he swore it.
tbc, eventually
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
10/11/04 04:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
10/11/04 04:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
10/11/04 05:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
10/11/04 03:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
10/11/04 10:10 am (UTC)I love the rebelliousness of Kirril, and I hate Boris.
(no subject)
10/11/04 03:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
4/6/05 04:58 am (UTC)This reminded me of Wuthering Heights, so wonderful!!
(yes, I'm still here, probably reading all out of order, lol!!)
MWAH!!
(no subject)
4/6/05 05:08 am (UTC)