by me
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Oh, so very fake.
Notes: Yeah. Most of you know this bunny was born in IHC, which proves I'm
insane for writing it. GRATUITOUS use of artistic license. I didn't
mention places or times here, but I promise, I'll be as historically
accurate as I can. This is kind of pilot-ish, but I imagine I will be
writing more.
Setting: Takes place in Western Russia, on the Eastern Front of WWII. Dany
Heatley was born in Germany IRL (but is not German), but obviously is for
purposes of this fic. Ilya Kovalchuk was IRL born in Tver, Russia. Finland
was involved with the Germans on the Eastern Front.
Dedication: Chloe and Alex and especially Fi for the beta and much help in
sorting this one out.
Dany Heatley looked over his weary contingent of officers, pushing down the
anger rising in him for a change. He was good at motivating his troops,
good at pretending the anger was for the Russians. His fellow countrymen
ate it up. The Finns were more skeptical, but they had to listen to him
because none of the other Germans spoke their language.
But he wasn't mad at the Russians. He was excellent at hiding who he was mad
at, because being a commanding officer who didn't believe in the cause was
worthy of a death sentence. He didn't want to be in Russia, leading babies
to their death. He wanted to go back to his old life, when all he cared
about was school and hockey. But he was fluent in 5 languages besides
German, and he'd been recruited quickly, put in command quickly. He hadn't
had to speak to a Russian yet, only the fiery Latvian captain he'd had to
kill, but not before the man had given him a damned painful knife wound on
the left arm. All that remained now was the scar.
"Ok," he sighed, speaking in German first and Finnish second. "Tell the men to
break camp. We will move in the morning." With that simple order, he
turned towards his tent.
"Sir!" Heatley snapped to full alertness immediately, greeting the Finnish
soldier who had summoned him, and waiting for an explanation. "We captured
two snipers, sir, Russians."
"How many did they kill?"
"Two officers, sir. Lehtonen and Hagar."
Heatley showed no reaction to this news. "Did you capture them alive?"
"Of course, sir." A pause. "One of them."
"Just one?" he asked sharply.
The soldier swallowed. "The other is not going to survive."
Dany didn't react, just pulled his cap on firmly and stepped out into the
frigid cold.
The Finn wasn't kidding about the soldier not surviving. He was already dead,
a sizeable red stain across his chest, his eyes still open in shock. He
wasn't older than a teenager. The nameplate on his overcoat
read "Knyazev", Heatley noted, his eyes flicking over the Cyrillic easily.
The second soldier was unhurt, he was on his hands and knees, a gun to the
back of his head. "Pick him up," Dany ordered the young Germans standing
nearby, and they grasped the upper arms of the Russian and pulled him to
his feet.
Heatley was again shocked at the apparent youth of the man. His eyes weren't
focused one his captors at all, instead he stared in what Dany assumed to
be shock at the body of his former partner. "Look at me," he ordered
firmly in Russian. Slowly, the soldier did as commanded. There was nothing
youthful about the way his piercing dark eyes drilled into Dany, burning
with anger and pain. He reminded the German of a wounded animal somehow.
He would be dangerous. "What is your name?" he asked sharply in Russian.
The soldier raised his chin, straightened his shoulders, and looked
defiantly into Dany's eyes.
"Ilya Valeriovich Kovalchuk," he snarled.
"Ah, this one's feisty, isn't he? Lock him up, I'll talk to him alone
tomorrow. Give him water, no food. Search the body and dispose of it.
We're moving soon." His men started about doing what he ordered. "And
you," he said mildly, for Kovalchuk's ears only, because none of the rest
them spoke a word of Russian. "Do not struggle much, they will take any
excuse to harm you."
"I am not afraid of them," he said firmly, locking eyes with Heatley again. "I
am not afraid of you."
Heatley stared back just as firmly, knowing his sometimes jovial blue eyes
were icy-cold right now. "Perhaps you should be." And then he turned his
back on the kid, feeling those eyes still boring into his back as he
retreated to his tent.
*
*
*
Ilya waited for cover of darkness to react. When it came, cold and heavy, an
oppressive frigidness that Ilya embraced even as his German guards
shivered, he allowed his shoulders to curve, his head to drop, his air of
pride and aloofness to dissolve.
He had lost all that he had left. Igor had promised...promised that after all
they had both lost already, they would not lose each other. But they
had...and the Germans had scored another victory. Already they had
destroyed the lives of both young men. Now, beyond destroyed, they had
thoughtlessly ended the life of one and devastated the other more than he
would let them see.
It didn't really occur to Kovalchuk, still a teenager, that he was doing much
the same thing to the Germans he hunted. But his perception was naturally
colored by his cause, and he was only protecting the people and land of
Mother Russia.
Igor had been his best friend, the one closest to him, for 5 years. For five
years that had not been separated. Until now. Surprising and unwelcome
were the tears that came, because he had not cried over the death of his
mother when he was 10, nor the hanging of his father at 13 nor the murder
of his sister at 16. But there they were, hot in his eyes, frozen on his
cheeks. Succumbing to the pressures in his throat and the heaviness of his
heart, the 18-year-old Red Army sniper hid his face in his gloved hands
and sobbed silently, with only the dark to feel his shaking.
TBC...