Prolouge

It was winter. The tall, young, broad Russian was probably in his early teens, accompanying his father to North America to the new country, the United States of America for a "new life". He remembered it well.

Too well.

Had his father not been such a heavy drinker, the young man's life might not have taken this turn. But that is how fate works, yes? And fate holds the marionette strings to our lives. The Russian knew this too well and would never forget when he watched his father fall to the ground, alcohol-poisoned blood staining the streets of the famous Boston. The old man had picked the wrong fight. One slip of his drunken tounge and he was dragged away from the bar and beaten.

What a fool.

The young, now fatherless Russian man meandered the town aimlessly once his father was buried. He did not speak to anyone. He was shunned by most. The only ones who talked to him were over-zealous church-goers and priests who constantly hastled, condemned, and pitied him. More than once did those pushy missonaries parade up to him while he was in a small tavern in the corner table by himself enjoying his watery soup that he had bought with what little wage he earned working for farmers.

"Young man... Have you been saved?" They would ask.

The young man would allow a small smile to cross his lips and he would calmly respond, "Well sir, I have never drowned."

They would huff and tell him he was going to Hell if he did not repent. What was there to repent? He had done nothing wrong. He would bid them a good day (after quickly draining his thin soup) and depart into the icey wind.

It was colder than normal. He trudged through the street, wondering if he should get himself arrested just to get out of the wind, when he heard a soft sobbing. He followed the sound hesitantly. The source of the crying was a boy. He was dangerously thin, his hair was a light brown and filthy. His large, round, cereaulen eyes shone with tears. The boy looked at the Russian with those tearful eyes. A twinge of pain shot through the Russian's heart.

The boy was freezing. He was hungry. He was utterly alone. He was just like the Russian. The young man scooped up the child who was all-to-willing to embrace the other of a chance of warmth. The Russian held him softly with one arm and reached into his pocket with the other. He counted the money he had left. It was just enough for another bowl of thin soup and a decent hotel room

"Come, malyutka. Let us get out of the wind, da?"

The child nodded with much gusto, clinging the the chuckling Russian.

After a good scrubbing, the young man had discovered the child was not quite as ratty as he had previously thought.

His hair was a marvelous shade of blonde; it was as golden, really. Golden like a field of wheat and just as thick with a defiant cowlick right at his forehead where his hair parted in a widow's peak. His skin was pale, but not unhealthy looking.

He could talk for seemingly endless hours until he had finally talked himself to sleep much to the Russian's amusement. He tucked in the sleeping child and walked over to the window. He had a beautiful view of the ocean, and even better, the harbour. Only a few hours earlier, the older teen had seen a French ship pull into port. He had planned to try to get a job on the ship, but now he'd have to think of something for the boy.

He sighed deeply. He thought of all those priests dogging him about God and took a chance and said a small prayer; that he and the boy could sucessfully get on the ship and make it to Europe. He then curled into bed beside the boy and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep as lonliness ebbed away.

The duo approached the ship. It all happened so swiftly that the young Russian wondered if it had all been a dream.

He had walked up to one of the French officers, and tried his best to remember what little French he had learned in the ports of Europe with his dead fool of a father. He asked (politely he hoped) for a job for himself and the small boy who gripped the tail of his trailing scarf with his tiny hands.

"Is this your son?" The Frenchman asked.

"Nyet-erm- Non, monsieur. C'est mon frère."

The man narrowed his eyes, but wrote something down on his thickly bound record book. It was obvious he did not buy the lie for a minute, yet he seemed like he could care less.

"Ugh. Your French is atrocious, but we could use more brutes like you on deck. Your brother can work in the kitchen." He said, stepping aside to let them pass.

Now it was onward to Europe. Onward to France, where hopefully the Russian and his new companion could find work.