Hullo all! this is a short story I wrote while bored one day. I only own Peter, nothing else...BLAH BLAH BLAH... Hey guys I know this is a little off history wise but it fits with the story I'm composing.
Hope you forgive me! Enjoy!
American Refugee Camp- 1945
The snow fell gently in flakes filling the camp with an almost heavenly light. Far off church bells sounded and voices carried by the wind bring the sound of carols to their ears.
The refugees smiled, for once feeling a warm glow fill their hearts. Never again would they have to fear death, for here they were safe. They were warm, bellies full, safe in the small barracks given to them. All except for one boy.
His white hair, pure as the snow that fell around him, flashed in the moonlight as he ran. His eyes blue, even his pupils, were filled with an eager fire. He was skinny, in a way that hurt to look upon him, and his short stature made him appear impish. He was a boy no one could help but smile at, and yet be filled with sadness at the very sight of him. He was the poor blessed experiment, the boy who refused to die, the boy who wouldn't give up. His name was Peter Lansherr.
He ran through the snow laughing and panting with glee. He had finally found it. Oh how his brother would be so happy! He had spent the better part of the day digging through piles of discarded clothes and jewelry before he had finally found it.
Now all he had to do was find Magnus.
He had just sped around a barrack when he finally spotted him, talking to Private Xavier. He began to yell and wave, the object sparkling in his fist. His brother turned a smile spreading across his face as he saw who was speeding toward him. Peter could almost touch him when…
A dark cruel sound erupted throughout the camp causing the people within to freeze with fear at the scene unfolding before them.
Peter felt a sharp pain erupt from the back of his skull fire began to burn through his brain. He could feel himself falling, fading as he hit the snow. He couldn't feel the cold, he could barley feel his brother wrap his arms around him sobbing. All he could feel was a warm soft fire erupt from his heart, while a soft mix of sounds caroled through his brain. His brother's sobs and the soft caroling from the church burned together, creating a symphonic melody.
Silent Night,
Holy Night
All is calm, all is bright
Round' yon manger mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
They buried him in a spot were the roses bloomed and the sun always warmed them. He seemed so small in his coffin. The whole camp attended, silent except for the soft sobbing of his brother.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Peter Lansherr
January 1 1939- December 24 1945