July, 1990

There was over a month of government men and women squabbling over how best to take care of an orphaned preteen. They thought he should be immediately placed in a foster home where he could interact with children his age, and be looked after by a husband and wife that were happily married, stupidly in love, and still alive. The latter being key.

Erik found that he didn't have much choice in the matter. He didn't have any surviving members of family, that he knew of, and there was nothing keeping him in Germany any longer; Magda's father had accepted an old job back in Poland, and she was whisked away as quickly as his family had been.

They eventually placed him in the care of an overly jubilant family in Killarney of County Kerry, Ireland. Erik found that he couldn't stand them. They were too happy, too loving, and he wanted nothing more than to be cloaked in darkness and to be left to grieve without bright smiles or twinkling eyes. It certainly didn't help improve Erik's mood when he realized that his foster brother was the biological child of the Fassbender's, and that he had a sister Ruth's age living there as well.

And then Erik felt like that fact didn't matter anymore. He no longer cared that his mother wasted away or that his father was drunk when he crashed the car or that Ruth was only eleven and that all he had of the three of them was a sterling silver bracelet with an attached Star of David pendant. He didn't care that Magda returned the bent coin he gave to her the day they met on the night she left, demanding he return it to her when they found one another again.

Erik didn't care about the damned rules either. He didn't care that Michael was cheeky and sweet and much bigger than him, and that none of that meant he should launch himself into a blackout rage that exploded outward into a flurry of fists and spittle, because he did it anyway. He didn't care that he shouldn't sneak out in the middle of night, even if all he did was run and run and run, until he couldn't breathe and he couldn't see anything but white spots.

Michael, despite being Erik's apparent punching bag, found that all Erik needed was an outlet for his rage and grief. So, Michael became his outlet. He followed Erik out the first story window, and ran next to him over rolling hills and back again. He introduced a soccer ball to the other boy, and they kicked it back and forth until the sun peeked over the rooftops. They played their own version of rugby, that turned into impromptu bouts of wrestling or increasingly violent boxing matches. Erik, it turned out, was a supremely skilled fighter.

There was usually no speaking involved, save for the occasional muttered curse or under-the-breath trash talk, and it suited Erik just fine. Michael had once tried to get Erik to join him in the garage for a heavy metal thrash session, but Erik found it excruciatingly painful to listen to. But during rainy nights, when it was coming down too hard to even attempt going outside, Erik found that he preferred listening to screeching and electric guitar twanging than be stuck in the house with too cheerful foster parents.

And then one night, Erik was introduced to hockey. There were only a few basic channels on the television set, but one was full of sports and Erik found that he could tolerate the company of others so long as they were talking at the TV and not at him. He had settled himself on his stomach, legs crossed at the ankle, and he watched the set with morbid fascination as two burly men beat the living daylights out of one another on a floor made of ice. Michael, perched on the couch, informed Erik that these were top-something countdowns of sport brawls.

Erik looked down at his scabbed over knuckles, and then back to the men senselessly punching each other, and he couldn't keep a grin from pulling at the edges of his lips. That was something he could do, and do well. He wanted to know more. He needed to know more about this sport.

Michael, face marred by a concerned frown, studied his foster brother. He knew that the little German boy spoke four languages very well. He knew that he was gifted in athletics. He also knew that something about hockey particularly gripped him...but he did not know what the hell that smile meant.

TBC...

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