He Cries for You.
This is my first attempt at something longer than a drabble…it still won't be that long, but hopefully better than my first attempt at nailing down Enjolras. I already posted this on my profile, but for those of you who cannot be bothered to go look, I'm going to explain the name of my OC. Kolya is the diminutive of the Russian form of Nicolas, which means 'Victory of the People,' as I'm sure many of you already know. Kuzma, a form of Cosma, means 'order and structure.' And finally, the surname; Morolzov. In the tradition of Russian surnames, a basic translation is Son/daughter of _. It could be a name, but in a case like Morolzov, it is a force of nature common in Koyla's homeland; Frost. Morolzov literally means Son of Frost, or of the Frost.
Disclaimer: Cookies if you can name the song or its artist. That being said, you know I don't own it. Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables, sadly, and is really quite dead.
*1829, Siberia*
He awoke with a start, and sat up straight, listening to the night. He heard horses heading towards the house. No one comes to a home in the outskirts of a Siberian village in the middle of the night unless they had some purpose…and Kolya knew what that purpose was. He, Kolya of the People, was to be arrested at dawn. He didn't know who or what gave him away, but at the moment, he didn't care. He quickly but gently shook his mother awake. "You need to hide, Мать. What we've feared is happening." A few more gentle urgings was all it took for his mother to conceal herself, and rather well. Now all he had to do was wait.
The wait wasn't long. Soon enough a voice called out in the night. "Will Kolya Kuzma Morolzov please step out where we can see him?" The constable's voice, like a wolf call in a dark night, was just about as unwelcome as the wolves. But Kolya knew that there was no escape at this point. "For you, Mother Russia…I will give me all," he muttered, a desperate little prayer that She would not ask more than he could give. He stepped out of his home, hands up, as if to 'come quietly.' However, as the first of the policemen stepped up to cuff him, he brought his knee up to connect with the man's stomach. He managed to fight the lot of them off for all of one minute. Then there was an explosion of agony near the base of his skull, and he knew no more.
Just as her son was losing consciousness, Anya knew she couldn't bear the suspense, the not knowing. She just had to find out if her little Kolya would be ok. She crept to the window, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards, and peered out. That's when she saw a sight that would haunt her forever. Her little Kolya…her victory of the people…face down, in the snow. Bleeding from a head wound. She stared as the police began to drag him away, but no tears would come. Living in a frozen wasteland, one may grieve as one must….but one can never cry. The liquid froze too quickly. But she would never forget her little Kolya….or the sight of red blood frozen on the soft snow.