Aaaaaaaaand here we go again.
1/18/05 11:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyThis story, well, you should probably read Fire Bird And The Gray Wolf , before you read this, for the background. The character of Alexei is a re-working of Lex and these stories go into his background, because I thought he was interesting. I don't know what particular order they'll appear--I figure I'll just fling them out as they come. Ah, Big Echoey Space, home of the "What? Who? The Fuck?"
Here you go children, yer mother loves you!
Alexei
Snow fell in large flat flakes, twirling and dancing past the carriage window. The boy sat quietly on the seat, fascinated by the play of falling snow and the soft feel of leather seats behind his bare knees. Sitting so close to the glass, he could only hear his own breath hiss softly in and out of his mouth, and he imagined he could hear the sound snow makes, falling.
Silence shattered when the mother spoke in a loud angry voice to the handsome man sitting across from them. The man looked angry and from time to time stared in a hard manner at the boy. He paid them little mind, he seldom paid the grown ups attention unless they addressed him personally. Few things interested him outside of his mind—he heard the word ‘son’ and it caught his attention, he listened momentarily before drifting on…
******
“He is your son—you’re the only one I’ve been with”
“And you expect me to *believe* that? I know what kind of woman you are.” He looked over at the silent scrap of flesh across from him, still as a statue, but—pretty, very pretty. Long ginger curls, piercing gray eyes, darting this way and that, following the drift of the snow—he leaned forward and grabbed the boys chin—yes, he could see intelligence there.
“You have to give me money for the up keep of your son, I’m sure your father wouldn’t want it know you’ve spawned a bastard, now. Would he?” she smiled in triumph—no nobleman would want it known, particularly to a dry sour old man like *his* father.
He stroked the boys round cheek—smiled. “I’ll take him.”
“What—you mean that you’ll claim him, you’ll pay, you have to--” She stuttered, the first inkling that she’d over-played her hand rising in her, freezing her blood. She should have approached another angle, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she watched him watch the boy. She should never have mentioned paternity—sold him outright, she should have…
“No I mean he is mine, I’ll take him. Get out.”
“No! I deserve something—money--” she reached for the boys arm, yanked him towards her, and suddenly the hand of God smashed down on the earth, it seemed to the boy. He would always remember it as the last sign he had of God, before He turned His Face away.
The carriage blew apart as gouts of flame struck everywhere, and the heavens rocked and tore, shouting out it’s pain over and over—snow flashed into steam as chunks of flaming stone hit the earth.
The boy was terrified, hysterical with fear and ran, ran from the destruction, ran from the blood, the screaming horses, the screaming woman. He whirled and stumbled, fell to hands and knees and was face to face, a bloody mask torn through with twin points of crazed light shining, glazed in pain. The man’s hand shot out and gripped the boys wrist—“Go nowhere!! You’re mine-mine!”
The boy shouted in fear and disgust as the warm sticky liquid flowed down his wrist and into his small hand—he jerked upright and ran as though demons chased him, into a cloud of air-borne dirt and black and green smoke he ran, his legs pumping as terror lent him the strength to fly over the burning ground.
He dropped finally in a heap, exhausted beyond all sense, curled up on a patch of blackened earth, still warm from the fires that had raced over it…he was gone into a deep, deep sleep, an unnatural sleep, in an instant.
Quite by accident, the woman came upon him---she, in shock, staggering in a daze, tripped over his body. She looked down, lifted him from the scorched ground and swept his coat from his face, and nearly dropped him again—his hair! All of his hair, gone, gone…he shivered and moaned in her arms, crying out, shaking and burning and something in her, some barely existent maternal instinct made her wrap him up again and trudge on into the village below—if anyone there survived, perhaps she could get help…someone surely would take pity on her, or her poor angelic child, so helpless, defenseless… “Who could refuse this pitiful, stricken child?” She smiled sharply to herself, and walked down the hill towards the road into the hamlet, rehearsing her pitiful speech in her mind, as the little boy on her shoulder moaned and sweated and shook in pain.
Here you go children, yer mother loves you!
Alexei
Snow fell in large flat flakes, twirling and dancing past the carriage window. The boy sat quietly on the seat, fascinated by the play of falling snow and the soft feel of leather seats behind his bare knees. Sitting so close to the glass, he could only hear his own breath hiss softly in and out of his mouth, and he imagined he could hear the sound snow makes, falling.
Silence shattered when the mother spoke in a loud angry voice to the handsome man sitting across from them. The man looked angry and from time to time stared in a hard manner at the boy. He paid them little mind, he seldom paid the grown ups attention unless they addressed him personally. Few things interested him outside of his mind—he heard the word ‘son’ and it caught his attention, he listened momentarily before drifting on…
******
“He is your son—you’re the only one I’ve been with”
“And you expect me to *believe* that? I know what kind of woman you are.” He looked over at the silent scrap of flesh across from him, still as a statue, but—pretty, very pretty. Long ginger curls, piercing gray eyes, darting this way and that, following the drift of the snow—he leaned forward and grabbed the boys chin—yes, he could see intelligence there.
“You have to give me money for the up keep of your son, I’m sure your father wouldn’t want it know you’ve spawned a bastard, now. Would he?” she smiled in triumph—no nobleman would want it known, particularly to a dry sour old man like *his* father.
He stroked the boys round cheek—smiled. “I’ll take him.”
“What—you mean that you’ll claim him, you’ll pay, you have to--” She stuttered, the first inkling that she’d over-played her hand rising in her, freezing her blood. She should have approached another angle, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she watched him watch the boy. She should never have mentioned paternity—sold him outright, she should have…
“No I mean he is mine, I’ll take him. Get out.”
“No! I deserve something—money--” she reached for the boys arm, yanked him towards her, and suddenly the hand of God smashed down on the earth, it seemed to the boy. He would always remember it as the last sign he had of God, before He turned His Face away.
The carriage blew apart as gouts of flame struck everywhere, and the heavens rocked and tore, shouting out it’s pain over and over—snow flashed into steam as chunks of flaming stone hit the earth.
The boy was terrified, hysterical with fear and ran, ran from the destruction, ran from the blood, the screaming horses, the screaming woman. He whirled and stumbled, fell to hands and knees and was face to face, a bloody mask torn through with twin points of crazed light shining, glazed in pain. The man’s hand shot out and gripped the boys wrist—“Go nowhere!! You’re mine-mine!”
The boy shouted in fear and disgust as the warm sticky liquid flowed down his wrist and into his small hand—he jerked upright and ran as though demons chased him, into a cloud of air-borne dirt and black and green smoke he ran, his legs pumping as terror lent him the strength to fly over the burning ground.
He dropped finally in a heap, exhausted beyond all sense, curled up on a patch of blackened earth, still warm from the fires that had raced over it…he was gone into a deep, deep sleep, an unnatural sleep, in an instant.
Quite by accident, the woman came upon him---she, in shock, staggering in a daze, tripped over his body. She looked down, lifted him from the scorched ground and swept his coat from his face, and nearly dropped him again—his hair! All of his hair, gone, gone…he shivered and moaned in her arms, crying out, shaking and burning and something in her, some barely existent maternal instinct made her wrap him up again and trudge on into the village below—if anyone there survived, perhaps she could get help…someone surely would take pity on her, or her poor angelic child, so helpless, defenseless… “Who could refuse this pitiful, stricken child?” She smiled sharply to herself, and walked down the hill towards the road into the hamlet, rehearsing her pitiful speech in her mind, as the little boy on her shoulder moaned and sweated and shook in pain.
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1/21/05 04:44 am (UTC)In terms of Smallville and the meteor shower that brought litttle Clark Kent to earth, it should have been like this instead of the big blowly wind that SV and me describe. Coolness! Thanks!