Sorry this chapter's really late! ;A;
Thank you to the people who reviewed the previous chapter, I hope you will enjoy this one too :D
I spent so long trying to start this chapter, it just wouldn't work the way I wanted it to :/
Any suggestions for where this story should go? Anything you want me to add? Any suggestions for improvement? Please, send me a message!
And please feel free to talk to me on PM im a lonely girl
And sorry there's probably a lot of swearing in this one.
Chapter Three-
A boom. A cry. He flees.
He runs past the mangled skeleton of another house, boots scuffing on the rubble scattered like shredded petals in the courtyard. He keeps his eyes fixed on the direction the muzzle of his rifle is pointing as he runs, afraid that, if he looks up, he will see the faces of those already lost dragging him into the darkness with them. The cold air jabs at his lungs every time he inhales, but he is glad they are not filled with smoke and screams anymore.
A flicker. A shot. He falls.
They are suddenly everywhere, crawling like demons; he sees them in the wreckage of the house, around the bodies of the women and children, standing in front of him, tall as titans, silent as the grave. His eyes are wide with fear and shock, stinging with ash and unshed tears. There are too many of them. He can't fight them all. Pain swells in his calf, but he does not notice the red blossoming on the grey of his uniform. He will notice it later. He will have a long time alone with just his wounds. One of them grips his hair, and looking up was like staring into the glare of the Devil himself.
A snap. A heartbeat. Darkness.
Ivan awoke to a similar darkness crushing him from all sides. He had forgotten to wrap his hands in cloths as well, and they were clenched tight around the bars of the bunk, shaking horribly as he sat up. Despite the cold, his skin was almost feverish but clammy to the touch, and his limbs felt like they had been pulled off then stitched back on again. It had just been a dream, nothing more, and nothing to worry about. Just a little, stupid, terrifying dream. It had been so vivid, so bright and clear, just hidden away in the corners of his mind. He looked around to check he hadn't woken anyone else, but remembered that the sun probably hadn't risen yet, so reveille wouldn't be until a couple of hours.
Resting back against the sheets and stuffing his freezing hands under his coat, rubbing them together, he stared blankly upwards, seeing shapes twist and writhe in the half-darkness. His ears rang with echoes, and he wondered if he had hit his head during his sleep, or if they were the remainders of those ghastly screams and cries. He shook his head dismissively, fumbling for his balaclava hat and tugging it over his head. Maybe it was the cold getting to him because he hadn't worn his hat, just some kind of illness that would pass soon. Yes, that must be why he was so shaky. Sighing out slowly and finally relaxing his limbs, he closed his eyes and pondered upon what he had seen.
"Ivan sir? Um… it's reveille, sir…" The last thing Ivan wanted to hear as soon as he woke up was a quiet and weak voice telling him it was the time of day he hated the most. It was already dawn, and the watery sun shone down onto a barrack full of bad moods. Men were rolling regretfully out of their bunks with grumbles and curses in various languages, trying to warm themselves up as much as possible before they were taken outside and searched. Ivan's head lifted to glare at the Latvian who owned that rather irritating voice, and Raivis took a couple of steps backwards in surprise. "And sir, you have to… um… wake him…"
Could the day actually get any worse.
Ivan then spent the next five minutes angrily yanking on his coat, jacket and boots, not bothering to tie the flaps of his hat or wrap his nose and mouth in rags, snapping at anyone stupid enough to ask him what the matter was. They probably all knew what the matter was anyway, Eduard had cheerfully told everyone as soon as he'd woken up that Ivan was the German's 'child minder', and that if anyone else had any children who couldn't take care of themselves then Ivan would be happy to look after them. Ivan kept shooting him outraged looks every two minutes, which were answered with bored glances from the Estonian. If the other men weren't so dependent on Eduard, Ivan would have probably sent him on his way to the infirmary by now.
Ivan, for once, didn't know what to do. It was every man's job to get himself up at reveille and get ready for the parade, everyone new that rule well enough, and no-one usually tended to assist anyone else who was trying to adjust the early waking time. This was where the heart of Ivan's problem lay. Well, it was a problem of many hearts, none of which was his, and one of which was the all-too-condemning reputation of the subject of said dilemma. It was customary for the gang leader to make sure new arrivals survived their first day in the camp, but Ivan didn't want to look weak. He didn't want to make it looked like he liked Beilschmidt, or even wanting him to survive in any way, but he couldn't just leave him to sleep through the parade. His reputation was questionable already; he didn't need this to make it any worse.
Nevertheless, he had no choice other than to turf the blockhead out of bed himself. He strode up to Gilbert's bunk, wrapping his hands in some spare rags he had found in the mess hall. Fifty heads turned to watch him in silence as he reached over the side of Gilbert's bunk, jabbing him sharply in the side. He watched, seemingly disinterested, as the German opened his eyes and squinted drowsily at Ivan. "Whnn?" He questioned sleepily.
Ivan had no time to take in the fragility of his half-opened eyes, his mussed up white-blonde hair or the way his arms shook as he sat up, retracting his hand and glaring at him pointedly. "Up." He indicated to the rest of the men, who were perched on their bunks with as many layers as they could stand up in, still staring at Ivan. "Now."
"Good morning to you too." Gilbert muttered in reply, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He sat on the edge of the bunk, making Ivan take a couple of steps back, and reached for his new (well, new to him) overcoat.
Ivan had to stop himself from just shouting then and there. "No, no, you put the jacket over the coat." He snapped, indicating for Gilbert to stand up and pointing at his jacket. "That first."
When he was answered with a blank look and a slight huff, he began to get a little less tolerant. Was he actually capable of doing anything other than make this worse for Ivan? The second bell rang for the parade, and everyone but Gilbert and Ivan filed out of the barrack, grumbling quietly as they knew they were about to miss a rather interesting confrontation.
"Are you deaf?" Ivan growled. "Dress."
He watched with raised eyebrows as Gilbert tugged on the jacket, then the coat, but Ivan was a little bit glad that he had remembered to check his feet and wrap them again before he stuffed them into his boots, looking up at Ivan with a less than cheerful expression. "That better?" He spat, his eyes flicking from Ivan to his overcoat with a disgusted expression. It was a little too big for him (he was well under the size and build of most inmates) and one of the sleeves was ripped up to the elbow, possibly from a fight or a fall. Ivan was not going to tell him that new inmates rarely got these coats unless the previous owner had 'left the camp', but he was sure another, more sadistic member of the gang would soon inform him of this. Ivan had actually 'won' his, after a fight with a burly Estonian. He had long forgotten the cause of the argument, but he was proud of his prize nonetheless.
They were already late for the parade, so Ivan was preparing to steer his way out of a bollocking from the Warden. "Out." He pointed at the door, not bothering to wait for Gilbert as he exited the barrack at a fast pace. He heard loud footsteps behind him so he didn't have to worry about dragging Gilbert by the scruff of his neck up to face the Warden.
The wind wasn't as strong as it had been the day before, but Ivan still turned up his collar and pulled his scarf up over his chin and mouth. There was nothing worse than having the wind in your face for the whole day; Ivan had learned the hard way why it was always good to wrap your face in rags every morning. He knew younger members of the gang, Raivis in particular, neglected to perform this ritual of wrapping every exposed body part in rags, and it was easy to pick out who hadn't done it- chapped lips, red cheeks and even missing digits were tell-tale signs of a struggler.
Strugglers were always the ones who went down first- they were the runts of the litter, the weeds of humanity who hadn't had a chance to build a reputation or just wouldn't be able to survive. They were the ones who did a lot of the work despite their size and physical wellbeing, and were often pushed (and sometimes screwed) around by the other inmates. Raivis was one of them, and Ivan was anticipating the day when he would just fall down and not get up. Not even for Eduard.
Ivan couldn't understand why so many men were eager for physical pleasures, especially in a place like this. He'd gone to camps where women were willing and plentiful, but most of the men had focused more on staying alive than anything to do with that. Maybe it was just the lack of women that prompted such desire, but Ivan could honestly say that he didn't care very much for women at all; although the Warden would probably just say Ivan didn't care much for anyone, not even platonically. Anyhow, he couldn't see the point in having a relationship in this particular corner of Hell; it would be a waste of both physical and emotional energy.
The snow had drifted during the night, so sometimes it was only ankle-deep, other times it was past their knees and Ivan had to work hard to plough a path through. Without stocky little Tino to pave the way for them, as they did normally on the way to parades, Ivan's feet were aching already, and his boots were soaked. Well, if he was still sane and counting the days correctly, it was Sunday tomorrow, so he could dry them off then.
"Where are we going?" Ivan had hoped dearly for the whole morning that there was going to be no more interaction. Evidently he was wrong.
Rolling his eyes and kicking at another lump of hard snow, he kept walking towards where all the other men were lined up, their eyes fixed on the Warden as he bellowed out something as equally as pointless as Gilbert's question. "Parade." He muttered, not sure if Gilbert got the message on no more talking, but he would do his best to ignore him for now.
His plan on ignoring the German didn't last too long as there was the sound of angrily crunching snow, and the Warden appeared in front of him. He didn't look too pleased, although, he never really looked pleased with anything, but Ivan was thankful to see that his gaze was directed at Gilbert instead of him.
"Why are you so late? All the other buggers seemed to have made it onto the grounds, what makes your pale, slimy ass so different?" That kind of language was normal for inmates to receive, so Ivan wasn't bothered, but it seemed Gilbert was less than pleased with the manner in which he was addressed.
"What makes you think I'm just going to do as you say, Russian?" Gilbert spat, evidently a little more than aggravated at how he had been spoken to.
Ivan tried sending the Warden an apologetic look, ready to step in if Gilbert forgot his place, but the shorter Russian ignored him. "Who do you think you are? Some little German princess sent here on special measures because your own country didn't want your abomination of a face and your whore of a lover stinking up the place?" The Warden spat into the snow, eyes filled with rage. "Get your filthy boots off my snow and stand in line." On the final word, the Warden gave Gilbert a hard shove, sending him backwards into Ivan.
Ivan wrenched Gilbert into a shaky standing position by grabbing his arm, and the cry of pain from the German didn't bother him at all. He was more bothered by the Warden now shouting at him in angry Russian, using more insults than he had with Gilbert. He could feel his cheeks heat up in anger, and he had to take deep breaths to stop himself from retaliating. All he had to do was walk away with Gilbert in tow, get in line, and stay shut up for the rest of the day.
"I apologise, sir." His words sounded broke, as if they were coming out of their own accord and he was trying to wrench them back. "It won't happen again, he's new, he knows nothing." The bit he added on the end was to make it a little less painful for himself as apologising wasn't really his forte, and to hopefully irritate the German a little more.
Although he would rather have forgotten about it and ploughed on with his monotonous little life, Ivan couldn't help but ponder on what the Warden had said to Gilbert. Whore of a lover? Were there two of them? If there was going to be a new arrival with the same nationality and hot-headedness as Gilbert, then he was going to demote himself and let Raivis deal with it. He'd rather a squealer control men out of their place than himself, it was too much hassle and he didn't care if they took a long walk up a short ladder, as long as he was unharmed. The insults weighed heavily in his mind though, and despite his best efforts to focus on something else, there really wasn't anything as mildly interesting or even worth bothering about.
When the Warden's ruffled feathers had settled and he went back to keeping the other watching men in line, Ivan turned to Gilbert; looming over him with the same stony glare he'd fixed him with after the bread incident the previous day. "If you fuck up like that again, I'll make sure there's a nice little hole outside of camp you can go rest your little corpse in when the men are done with you." He hissed, sweeping past him and into the line. It had probably been a bit harsh, and he knew that Tino would have a go at him later for greatly improving everyone else's experience of being searched in the snow. A couple of men gave him hushed congratulations on how he had 'sorted the brat out', but he brushed them off with a sigh.
It felt different to when he shouted at Eduard and Raivis when they weren't doing their jobs, or when he snapped something at a passing man who looked shifty. There wasn't the satisfying feel in his chest after it was over, or the rush brought on by the anger. He just felt cold; like he'd kicked a dog and now it was whimpering before him. It felt like he'd got the message across, but not in a way he really enjoyed doing. Which was stupid, because shouting at people was what he lived for.
Ivan could already hear the 'oooo's coming from his gang as he walked past and took his place at the head of their particular line. Some days they had to march around the perimeter of the camp in silence before they were searched, but that happened less than it used to as the newer Warden wasn't too bothered with that kind of 'hanky panky', as he called it. Today, it seemed like they were just going to be standing still, which in some ways was worse because their bodies were slowly freezing to a halt, and then they would have to suddenly snap into action to run to the mess hall for breakfast.
He looked back at Gilbert, and was surprised to see his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Ivan had probably hit a sore spot or something, they all had their subjects they didn't want to talk about, but he guessed it was mostly just resentment. It was easy to hate anyone in a place like this, and even easier to want to kill an angry bastard such as Ivan or the Warden. Eduard categorised people as either being on the 'good side' or, instead of the opposite being the 'bad side', he had dubbed those men the 'shit eaters'. Ivan had seen this as being childish and something a teenage girl would do, but had often caught himself going 'good side, shit eater' to men he passed or saw when he worked. Gilbert was most certainly, in Ivan's opinion, going to turn out to be a shit eater. Well, that's what he hoped; otherwise he'd have to keep up this Mother Goose charade (which, if he were to be so bold, he was doing very badly at) for however long the German managed to survive.
Being searched was easy for Ivan- he just had to stick out his arms and the man in charge of searching them would pat his sides gingerly. Ivan knew for a fact that a pat that gentle would probably not even be able to detect if he had a tank under his coat, but no-one wanted the job of searching Ivan Braginsky. With a sharp nod and a blink of his bespectacled eyes, the man moved on to the next inmate in the line. Ivan could have hidden the Kremlin in his coat pocket and he wouldn't have told him to remove it. All Ivan really possessed was a couple of broken bullets, a couple of shards of metal he'd been meaning to make into something useful, his prized and beloved spoon, and a little metal fragment he had on a string around his neck. It used to be much harsher for him, and because he was nominated early on in his camp life as being gang leader, they sometimes made him strip completely to laugh and ridicule him for various reasons.
For the other men, being searched was a little less satisfying. They received harsh slaps to their arms and sides, and were often told to undress themselves, either for the guard's sick amusement or because they were carrying something 'suspicious'. No-one cared if one of them had found or been given a hand grenade and blew all their heads off, it was just routine. And routine was the only thing that kept them all sane.
Ivan kept his gaze fixed on the snow in front of him as the others were searched, blocking out the complaints and insults, just focusing on the ground. It was starting to snow a little again, and the flakes caught in his hair and landed on his nose. He was too used to them to brush them away, and he didn't stop to look up at them like he may have done when he had first got here. The snow used to remind him of different places, and he used to enjoy imagining where that snow had travelled from to land on his face. He'd wondered if it had sailed high over sunny fields of bright yellow sunflowers, or if it had looked down on happy, content people and had snowed down on them too. Snow used to remind him of freedom, of a life outside his own. Now it was just cold stuff that made his clothes wet.
He was snapped out of his meditative state by a loud shout and the sound of boots kicking snow. Turning around, even though they had all been instructed to stay staring ahead, he half hoped it to be one of the rebellious Estonians Eduard knew who refused to take their patterned face-scarves off, but his enthusiasm crashed into the ground as he saw what the commotion was. Could he just do as he was told, for one, small minute?
Gilbert was shouting, clawing, and grasping at the restraining arms of two guards who slowly lowered him to his knees, guns pressed to each of his temples. His coat was discarded, already damp where it was lying on the snow, and his jacket was half-unbuttoned, the vest underneath torn to reveal a sliver of a pale chest heaving as he shouted. His eyes were wide, and Ivan was half expecting him to start frothing at the mouth any time soon. Ivan dragged his eyes away from the German to the Warden, and saw him dangling some kind of object on a chain in front of Gilbert. He was jeering at him, in both Russian and broken German, swinging the chain back and forth like a hypnotist's pocket watch.
"Hey! Leave the man alone!" That was Tino interfering again, as he normally did when a man was treated 'unfairly' by the Warden. He seemed to think that he was the lord of social justice in the camp, simply because of how he lived in his home country, and like to impose these rules on the other men. Ivan saw it as his little way of getting power, but he wasn't going to argue. The Finn was tougher than he looked, and he'd killed Russians his size a thousand times over, and would probably do it again if he was given a revolver and pointed in the right direction.
"This is out of your authority, just drop it." Ivan hissed, praying he didn't go and jump into the fray or something. He'd already had enough of pulling reckless arses out of fights. Tino gave him a clear 'suck my dick' look before striding up to the guards holding Gilbert down, his hands curling into fists. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and his various layers of insulation made him look bigger than he actually was.
Gilbert looked up at him with a frown, which was quickly changed to a wince as he was forced lower; Ivan assumed it was because of how the guards were twisting his arms. "You'll be putting him down now." The Finn growled, gesturing to the German. The guards spat at him and taunted him, but Tino stood his ground, oblivious to the abuse. Everyone knew Tino had been through a lot worse than just being sneered at, and even though he didn't act like it, there was a lot of weight on his shoulders. When they didn't move, Tino took a step closer. "Did I fucking stutter." He jumped forwards on one foot, making the guards step back with alarmed expressions, leaving the German to relax back into the snow.
"The only time you'll rest is when you're in that grave, and even then there'll be wolves and these bastards snapping at your heels." Tino said in a little bit of a sharper tone to Gilbert, extending a hand. "Up."
To Ivan's faint relief, Gilbert obliged, and was quickly ushered away from the mess by Tino. When it came to Germans and guards, Tino would much rather use his final breath to condemn the latter to Hell for eternity. That probably explained the smug look on his face as he led Gilbert to the mess hall after he had retrieved his coat, still spitting insults at the grinning Warden.
Whilst Ivan had just been standing there and watching everything with a careful eye in case anything was said about him, the other men had dispersed, some going to other barracks to tell their ill comrades about everything that had just happened, others jogging to the mess hall to get in line for their morning meal. Ivan could already hear hoots of laughter coming from the barracks and the groups of men jogging, and occasionally a loud exclamation of 'fucking idiots'. It was just him and the Warden now, and the couple of guards who were jabbering about what Tino had done in hushed tones. Ivan found it amusing that they stopped talking and stared like sheep every time he looked their way.
"They're always funniest when they're searched for the first time, don't you think?" Ivan didn't turn his head to answer the Warden; it would just be another show of weakness. "Them squealers, I don't know why we're just allowed to bang them into little pieces with our pistols, it would save food, and" He stepped in front of Ivan, blocking his vision. "It'd save all this mess." Ivan still didn't answer, anticipating a scolding for not saying 'yes, sir', and nodding his head like most men did. It would take, well; it would take someone as stubborn as Ivan not to do as the Warden said.
"You don't like talking, do you, Braginsky?" Ivan looked away, irritated, but didn't walk off as he would have done if it was a guard. It was only through this man that he had become gang leader, and that he was allowed to lead his gang how he wanted, and not how every other man did it. "It's like them Germans cut out your tongue, eh?" The Warden started to swing the item on the chain back and forth like a pendulum, and Ivan saw that now he was closer, it was a sort of cross shape, but squarer than the ones he used to see.
"I see you're eyeing up this trinket we found on the brat." Ivan looked away in irritancy again; he hated it when people caught him looking at something of interest. "It's pretty, isn't it? All polished and carved, he was probably a good little boy to have earned himself something like this."
Ivan was suddenly very interested as to how Gilbert had come across such a thing. There used to be a similar mark on the shard around his neck, although, back then it had been something a little more dangerous than just a scrap of metal. They probably didn't have any connection at all, but Ivan still wanted to know a little more about how and why Gilbert had got this. It appeared to have words inscribed on one side, and if Ivan's Cyrillic mind disconnected for a second, it seemed say something similar like 'Bruder', but he was pretty sure there was an extra 'e' in there somewhere. He didn't know what it meant, of course he didn't, he couldn't speak German, but it sounded important.
"As gang leader" Ivan enjoyed inventing little rules of his own to create loopholes in the Warden's rule, and this was going to be one of those rules. "I must take all trinkets of my gang." He probably should have articulated that a little better, but words weren't his most trusted allies. Ivan held a gloved hand out, his eyes flicking up to meet the Warden's. He saw a lot in those eyes- not just anger and frustration, but pain and grieving too. Everyone knew he had lost his entire family in the attacks two decades ago, and this was his downfall. He grieved all the time, letting his emotions run free, lashing out at men because of that. He was a weak ruler. A strong ruler shows no emotion.
A gaze was held between them for a few long moments, a battle of wills between the Alpha and the strongest member of the pack, a stare down between two predators. Then slowly, uncertainly, the Warden's arm extended and dropped the pendant into Ivan's upturned palm. Ivan curled his fingers around it and only tucked it into the pocket stitched into the inner layer of his coat when he had turned away from the Warden. No more words were exchanged after that- Ivan just strode off to the mess hall, leaving the Warden looking slightly baffled. Weak, Ivan thought, the Warden is weak.
It was funny how all the people at the top were the weak ones, but then it all made perfect sense in a situation like this. The Warden had never laid a brick in his life, he'd never choked down dry porridge when the cook ran out of milk and whatever else they put into their food, he'd probably not ever had to sleep on a sawdust mattress. He hadn't done anything Ivan had had to do just to earn his morning meal, and he was still the weaker one. To Ivan, experience mattered more than just a silly badge and the ability to shout. He wouldn't bow down to any man who'd not seen what he'd seen, felt the same pain he had, and been painted in the blood of those he loved to be strung up in front of his country. That was what had landed him here.
"Off you go then, Tin Man." The Warden called. "Take care of that Cowardly Lion of yours." Ivan didn't understand why Gilbert was being dubbed as a lion, but cowardly seemed to fit.
Pulling up his scarf again as it had slipped down below his chin; he winced as the snow changed direction and started to blow in his face. He had better quicken his pace to catch up with the rest of his gang; they all ate like gannets, so there wouldn't be much left by the time he got there, much to his annoyance. Laying bricks on an empty stomach was worse than standing nude in a snowdrift, it was the most energy sapping, will draining job they'd had to do so far, and that was one of his favourite ones.
The pendant had been light in his palm, but in his pocket it felt like lead, burning a little hole in the fabric of his coat, and in the fabric of his mind.
