Far

Vasili Denisov and Theodore Dolokhov had known each other well in their childhood and even more so in their early youth when they joined the army together at the age of sixteen. But somewhere along the way they had parted ways and with that partition came an irreparable rift. When they met each other again, this time through Nicholas Rostov, there was little to salvage. They had grown too far apart in their understand of the world, in their held principles and ideals. They were so far from the people they had been…or perhaps, that's what they wanted to believe.

Prisoners

"I don't take prisoners," Dolokhov bit out spitefully. Denisov flinched at the harshness of his tone. Not that Theodore hadn't always been intense but something about the look in his eyes was so incredibly terrible – not just cruelty but pain. Raw grief, in fact. "No one asked them to come here. They chose to come, to plunder, murder…. They deserve every bullet, damn it."

Denisov raised a hand to stall his friend's tirade. He glanced briefly at the boy, Petya, who is watching Dolokhov with wide-eyed wonder. "Well, I do," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "Please. Enough."

Peacekeepers

When they had played war games as boys, Denisov had always wanted them to be peacekeepers or something of the sort. In fact, Denisov loved the adventure, the heroism, the inherent patriotism in the games. What he didn't enjoy much was the violence. The truth, as Theodore saw it. So, because Denisov could only function properly under "just war" assumptions, Theodore was stuck being the invader, the bandit time after time. If he had bothered to think about it, he would have realized that he didn't much mind. It was certainly much more exciting, more REAL than being a "peacekeeper."

Uncharted

"…and we're here." Theodore put an X on the map, indicating their location, just to the Southwest of the retreating French army. "We should find another place where to make camp; we're to close to the main road here. Deeper into the woods and then we can make expedition from there."

"What about here?" Denisov leaned over the edge of the rough-made table and pointed at a blank spot on the map, just barely South of their location.

Dolokhov's eyebrows furrowed. "That territory is uncharted for a reason most likely."

Denisov snorted. "What are you? Scared?"

Theodore sneered back. "Never."

Scape

The two ten year old boys stared in childish curiosity at the one flower stem that stood bare among its colorful and blooming fellows. It looked naked and cold, a weed, an abnormality among the beautiful field flowers. It was a step like any other flower would have but there was not even a hint at a flower there. "I think that's called a scape," Theodore said after a moment of contemplation.

"A what?" Denisov asked; he seemed in awe of the bare stem.

"A scape. A stem that doesn't bloom for one reason or another."

"It looks…forlorn."

"No. Strong."