The Cutty Wren

I - Ice

Arkhangelsk had broken. The fire burning in the hearts of twenty thousand resistance fighters had been extinguished, leaving only smouldering anger and resentment for the small blond man watching them from atop his horse. The animal's breath coiled in the air, joining that of its rider. He ran a leather gloved hand through the thick mane, breaking the ice forming on top. Occasionally one of the prisoners would look up at him, then back to the ground as they shuffled on before him. A few had broken ranks, hands curled around shards of glass or metal, before a bullet hit them right between the eyes. The message was clear enough to the others.

Turning his horse, Sergei headed back to the camp he was staying in for now. Russian curses were hissed at his back, snaking through gritted teeth, as the horse trotted through the grey, churned-up snow. Sergei took a hand from the reins to pull at the collar of his thick, fleece lined leather trenchcoat. His nose was reddened, and occasionally he snivelled. He cringed each time he did, his body desperate for warmth. Soldiers along the path back to camp saluted as he rode past, each of them shivering just as badly as him, bundled in wool and thick canvas. He peered down at them, occasionally nodding a little, or offering one of this charming smiles.

The camp milled with soldiers taking inventories, or carrying messages; training, standing guard. Words of a dozen different languages, muffled by snow, carried only slightly. The soldier standing at the gate took his identity card, teeth chattering as he looked up to Sergei and saluted stiffly. Thanking him, Sergei took the card back and rode inside the compound. Barbed wire and chain link fences grew up on all sides, cold and grey as the snow surrounding them.

Sergei slid down off his horse, handing the reins to a young soldier who ran up. The snow crunched under his boots as he headed to his quarters. Hastily built up, prefab, he didn't particularly like them, but they were a necessary evil here - hotels could have Arkhangelsk aggressors hiding inside or nearby. The halogen heaters inside here were enough to warm his fingers and nose through. He slid his heavy coat and gloves off, stomping snow from his feet and whistling a little. Two dogs trotted out from his bedroom - another small room with a second heater and a camp bed. Let nobody say their leader squandered on luxuries in wartime.

"Freki, Geri," he said softly, hugging the smaller one and burying his face against her thick fur. "My nose is cold."

Laughing a little, he petted them both before sitting at his desk and peering at the papers stacked in his 'in' tray. The war might have been over, but paperwork was eternal. The piles in his office at home dwarfed this lot, but he still grumbled, pulling one over. An execution order. His pen flicked across the page, and he moved to the next and the next and the next. His dogs curled beside his desk as he worked his way through the pile of orders, the heaters humming softly as his pen scratched on paper.

As his body warmed through, the aches set in. Deep, bone-penetrating pain. His joints first, then his back. His hand shuddered with each word of the speech he had begun writing, pen blotting his fingers inky black. He reached for the drawer on his desk, and his hand lingered first over a pot of pills, and then a slender black case. His fingers, spidery and shaking, closed over the pot, desperately opening it to shake two of the white pills onto his desk. With a whine, he swallowed them dry, his stomach alternating between cramping and rolling. He cringed, ignoring his dogs as they came over to investigate their whimpering master.

A few more minutes curled like that, sweaty forehead plastered to his desk and body juddering under the flickering light. His back protested, fingers locked up as he clutched at his stomach. Each second drew out longer as the pain lifted from his body, slowly, dragging with it that glassiness in his eye. It replaced it with a fresh glint, ironed out the shakes racking his form. Slowly, he sat upright. His hand reached for the pen again; the other petted Freki's coarse fur.

((AN - A drawing of Sergei I did is in the sidebar))