[War of the Worlds]
A Vladimir & Stefan fanfiction
[AH]
The base of a tree, the side of a root, the bottom of the distressed mound. Morally reprehensible and a death sentence if serious. Stefan, with nimble hands, dug into the familiar bit of soil. A rustle behind that he did not hear signaled the arrival of a visitor. "Thinks himself so wise," he muttered, pulling the dyed fabric from his hair. Placing the prize on the forest floor, he pulls from the earth a wooden box. A blow to release excess dirt, to clean, and he shakes his head, weary of his hair. He pulls the lid on the box, feels a nasty hit as he spies his treasures, and tucks the fabric away.
"Excuse me," comes a smooth voice from the south, "but I believe you have what is mine?"
Stefan curses, throws the box carelessly in the hole, and whips around to face his visitor.
[-]
Chapter One; Misanthropy
It has a habit he courted with and was deeply ashamed of. Sparkling things, colored things, new things. Had he seen it before? Was it nice? No, yes, respectively and it was his. Stefan tried to help it and he could not, feeling too horrid but so thrilled as he escaped with his new possession. It didn't even matter the time. Day or night, he could not repel his urges and he swiped things that appealed to him, knowing of the consequences.
Although he stole, he was smart. Not terribly so, to where he was called upon to settle disputes or to kill enemies, but enough to make lies and skirt people. It came easily to him, and although Stefan hated to steal, getting away with it made him so arrogant that he couldn't help but want to do it again.
And with doing so, Stefan visited more and more people, of more and more importance. In other words, he went from stealing from the poor to stealing from the powerful. His next victim was not one that he had planned, as he consciously did not plan to steal from anyone, but it was one that he knew better than to steal from.
[-]
Vladimir was not a nice person. He hadn't been before his mother died of starvation and he certainly was not now. Father worked with bronze. A stupid man, as silver and gold was not too hard to come by and went for far more money. Regardless, Father was one of the best metalworkers in their parts, and easily the best in their tribe.
The same could not be said for the others relating to Vladimir. His youngest sibling, a female, was a mousy, weak-willed girl who could not muster the courage to talk to anyone, let alone her family. His other siblings, twin boys who were the same in every degree, were no better. They desired to be soldiers, a great thing, as just after Vladimir's birth much more had been conquered. Great for them, horrible for Vladimir, as he had to endure their incessant chatter and play-fighting as they mixed in slandering him and bullying others their age.
Honestly, even though Vladimir would not admit it, there were certain similarities between the men in his family. Vladimir too was cruel, but much more so, acting as the executioner and judge for their tribe. He bullied his siblings, prayed on the weak, and denied all wrong doing. His family was well-off enough to where he did not have to worry about strapping on metal and killing others in a fruitless battle. Why, he thought, risk my life, when I will be dead in only a few short decades? He found war and all those engaged in it stupid. What he lacked in worldview he made up in cunning, which was the only way he was able to deny the wrong doing. A smile, a lie, a threat and problems would disappear as if never there.
Nobody crossed him, which was well for Vladimir, as he detested those who did.
[-]
Stefan was as simple as one could be. If you discounted his worse habits. He had four siblings and two parents, farmed for food and made money that way, and was mostly, horribly, painfully ordinary. Stefan had always wanted to be something, to be powerful, since at home he had nothing but a spot on the floor and a bowl of food. His older siblings – which accounted for them all – treated him as their servant and his parents sided with their older ones. His family, and a sparse few others, knew of his stealing and detested him for it.
When they found out – two years ago when he was but thirteen – they'd dragged him through the main street, lecturing quietly, telling him of negative ideas for home-use only. He'd only wanted a woman's dagger, but that was not an explanation. Punished and not the least sorry, he'd been made to apologize and then been whipped by her, too.
Since that occasion he had had been much more careful. Although he was still caught – and the higher powers were notified– he did not stop. Stefan could not help it and not one person believed it. His crimes were enough to get the attention of Istoros – the leader of their tribe and Vladimir, the executioner. Of course, time may not be wasted on killing him, but losing limbs was just as bad.
As not one person wished to have a negative stigma attached to their family, Stefan's was openly hostile, and so he was the only one hated on. Few knew quite why he was disliked, but the mere fact that he was, even by his family, was enough to convince them that he was no good.
Life was not easy for Stefan and he was unhappy. Unhappy until he spied a thing to steal, then he was awful. After it was in his hands, delighted, then finally fearful and suspicious as he hide his prize. It was a lifeless life Stefan led, and it could not have been more apparent than on the day he took the biggest risk of them all.
[-]
Vladimir had shoulder-length hair, as did most all in his tribe, and one of the things he hated was when it was in his face. He had a remedy to this – a scrap of red cloth that belonged to his mother. Vladimir tied his hair back with this every day, all day, and took it out only to sleep.
Such a serious thing his cloth was that when one young lady tried to take it, he spread a lie around the tribe and got her killed.
His possessions were very important to him. Without them he would be in the cold; hungry and dirty. Being that way would not get him where he wanted to be. Vladimir wanted to rule the Dacians and not one person doubted that he could.
[-]
Stefan could not sleep. He pried himself from the ground and crept the few feet to the door. He turned, looked at the sleepers, slide open the door, and went out into the night.
He did not know what he aimed for, so Stefan wandered the dark.
It was hard for him. Stefan had always been fearful of the night. Uncertainty was in the blackness and uncertainty was his fear. He feared death above all and prayed to the Gods every day, hoping against hope that they would spare him from the afterlife. If it wasn't for his fear, Stefan would have given up on the higher powers long ago. Believing, he knew, got him nowhere. He was still hated by his community, still shunned by his family, still going to die young for a habit out of his control.
Finally, Stefan made his decision. In the dark, creeping, with only the moon to guide him, he spun and started for the east side of the village. Vladimir lived there and Stefan had always wanted to see what the man looked like vulnerable. He counted on Vladimir being asleep and Vladimir sleeping and staying asleep would be the only thing between a dead Stefan and a live on when he went.
In Stefan's home his mother woke, noticed her youngest gone and swore. "Zhi," she whispered, shaking her husband. "Stefan has gone again."
"If he wishes to die," said Zhi sleepily, "then allow him."
Reluctantly, the aging woman placed her head back upon the ground, feeling no better when Zhi's strong arm wrapped around her.
[-]
Dumitru elbowed his way past his sister, joining his twin, Dorin, at the smoking plate. "Have you an idea as to what it is?" Dorin asked Dumitru, glancing at the large plate of food.
"No," said Dumitru truthfully, moving a bit too close to his twin and stepping on his foot. Dorin shoved Dumitru and Dumitru roared, pushing his brother back.
Their sister, Anica, said solicitously, "Please stop fighting!" She twisted her hair around a thin finger, nibbling on her lip. Vladimir would be home soon and he would be furious if the twins were fighting. Fighting in front of the food would make him more angry and it would be her fault.
"What is it?" Asked Dorin, stopping his fighting for a brief moment.
"Potatoes and lamb," said Anica promptly.
"Doesn't look like it." Dumitru snickered.
"I do not cook well," whispered Anica, feeling her eyes become wet. "I am sorry."
"Bet you are," started Dumitru.
The door opened and Vladimir walked in. "Leave your sister alone, Dumitru, if you will," he said smartly. "He does however, Anica, have a point. The meal does not look like potatoes and lamb."
"We have had a poor season, Vladimir," replied his sister truthfully. "I also am still refining my cooking skills."
"Skill would be a bit of a stretch," Vladimir stuck a finger in the potatoes and tasted them. "Although, the food does not taste as poor as it looks."
Anica beamed and Vladimir gave her a rare smile.
"It is becoming dark, so let us eat quickly." Vladimir said when the twins became distracted and he took the biggest piece of lamb for himself.
"Is Father coming home tonight?" Asked Anica, waiting impatiently for her brother to get what they desired.
"No," said Vladimir over a mouthful of over-cooked food. "He has a late order to fulfill."
Anica nodded. "Should I expect him for breakfast?"
"Yes, you should. However, do not expect me. I can foretell business tomorrow." Vladimir threw the bone to the floor and Dorin placed it back upon the plate.
[-]
As Stefan neared the front of Vladimir's home his stomach became weak and he felt the urge to run away. "Simply looking in at the bastard will not harm you," he said to himself, locking his fingers together and breathing deeply.
He pushed the door open and looked inside. In the blackness that was the night, Stefan could not see much. A small thing huddled in the corner.
The spineless sister.
Two his age laying together; the warmongers.
A sprawled figure on the only piece of furniture in the home; obviously Vladimir. He slept on his back, a fact completely foreign to Stefan. He could never come close to sleep in such a position.
The night did little to make out the details of his face, but Vladimir certainly looked less cruel when he slept. He drooled too, and that information was enough for Stefan to scorn him.
As he prepared to leave, give rest to his pounding heart, he spotted a worn, red scrap of fabric on the floor by Vladimir's right arm.
Before he could think, Stefan whipped his hand out and took the sun-discolored scrap into his hand. He bolted then and was far away and near his own home before he dared stop and look at the item in his hand.
He was damned.
He was going to die.
Vladimir probably had some sense that awoke him when such things happened, and such things certainly did happen. Stefan couldn't take it back. Vladimir'd know. He knew know. Vladimir would pin it to Stefan. He was going to die. Stefan was going to die. With a whimper, Stefan slide onto the ground, letting the stupid piece of nothing fall with him.