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gackt_army2008-09-30 09:30 am
tanfouk.livejournal.com) wrote in gackt_army2008-09-30 09:30 am
Entry tags:
Ficlet: Swirling Snow
Title: Swirling Snow
Characters: Gackt (as a Hussar, which is a member of a legendary French cavalry unit. It was said of the Hussars that they could empty a village in five minutes - with all the men running away from them, and all the women running toward them.)
You ( as Ulrich, an Austrian boy.)
Setting: The Battle of Hohenlinden, which took place on December 3, 1800.
Rating: PG
Word Count: About one page.
Author's notes: This was inspired by all the concerts where Gackt is alone on the stage, snow begins to fall, and he appears to retreat to some incredibly angsty place. This ficlet is part of a longer work, Returner, which I posted on several places in LJ in 2007. The general them was Gackt and You being reincarnated in various histroical settings.
Disclaimer: I do not seek any profit from this work.
Critique Welcome: Be my guest.
ΩΩΩ
Ulrich trudged beside the supply wagon, lowering his head to keep the swirling snow out of his eyes. There was no need to look where he was going, anyway. There was only this narrow road through the dense forest, and the Austrians had been walking in slush all morning, moving south. The troops would take up positions in the fields near the small town of Hohenlinden, encircling the French, and he would bring up his wagon with jugs of water and odds and ends of gear. He was not old enough to be entrusted with powder and shot. He looked at the pale sun in the white sky and judged it was between eight and nine o’clock. And now the snow turned to wet sleet. Trees began to creak under the accumulating weight, and suddenly a huge mass of snow slid off overhanging branches and landed on the back of the horses’ necks. They neighed shrilly, and in spite of Ulrich’s attempt to steady them, pulled the wagon sharply to the left, where a wheel smacked into a tree. The supply master rode back to survey the situation, judged the damage to be minimal, and told Ulrich to catch up. Troops continued to silently slog past them.
There was an explosion somewhere ahead of them. The supply master turned and grinned at the boy, “Na ja, this is it, then.” There was another concussion and Ulrich saw the supply master’s face grow white. Simultaneously they realized that there had been no time for the Austrian cannons to be deployed. Now the foot soldiers were running past them, their officers driving them forward. Ulrich went forward too, but something bit into him and stiffened his legs. The cold, most likely. Abruptly, the forward rush of troops was overwhelmed by a broken wave of troops in full retreat. A gun crew descended upon his wagon, cut the horses out of their traces, and fled, riding bareback. Others were scattering into the woods or running back the way they had come, jamming the road with panicked horses, trampling the wounded. Ulrich grabbed a bag of bread he had stowed in the wagon and ran into the woods. There was no point in trying to get back to last night’s campsite, where the French would surely take him prisoner.
He had no idea how long he had been running, and even when he could see the sky through the branches, he couldn’t get his bearings. One of the innumerable small streams lay ahead of him, and there appeared to be a few yards of clear space on its banks. Gasping, he lurched out of the trees, into calm sunlight. Birds twittered.
A horse nickered.
Ulrich spun around to see the horseman in shade, not twenty feet away. The hussar’s eyes were black slashes beneath his shako brim, and his mouth was a straight line between the small braids that hung over his cheekbones. There was absolutely no point in running. Ulrich stood at the edge of the half-frozen stream as the Frenchman rode slowly forward, holding the reins in his right hand. He circled Ulrich counterclockwise, expressionless, and the boy tried not to look at the smeared saber or the dark, sodden sleeve. He realized he was shaking and close to fainting when the rider raised his saber… to point.
“St. Cristoph is that way. Travel at night, find a loft or a cellar. Don’t stop running until you get to Vienna.”
Although the hussar had spoken in French, it was obvious the boy had understood him, taking off like a greased piglet. As he lingered in the clearing it began to snow yet again, fat goose-down flakes this time. He sheathed the saber and tipped his head back, letting the snow fall on his face, on his outstretched bloody hand.
ΩΩΩ
Characters: Gackt (as a Hussar, which is a member of a legendary French cavalry unit. It was said of the Hussars that they could empty a village in five minutes - with all the men running away from them, and all the women running toward them.)
You ( as Ulrich, an Austrian boy.)
Setting: The Battle of Hohenlinden, which took place on December 3, 1800.
Rating: PG
Word Count: About one page.
Author's notes: This was inspired by all the concerts where Gackt is alone on the stage, snow begins to fall, and he appears to retreat to some incredibly angsty place. This ficlet is part of a longer work, Returner, which I posted on several places in LJ in 2007. The general them was Gackt and You being reincarnated in various histroical settings.
Disclaimer: I do not seek any profit from this work.
Critique Welcome: Be my guest.
ΩΩΩ
Ulrich trudged beside the supply wagon, lowering his head to keep the swirling snow out of his eyes. There was no need to look where he was going, anyway. There was only this narrow road through the dense forest, and the Austrians had been walking in slush all morning, moving south. The troops would take up positions in the fields near the small town of Hohenlinden, encircling the French, and he would bring up his wagon with jugs of water and odds and ends of gear. He was not old enough to be entrusted with powder and shot. He looked at the pale sun in the white sky and judged it was between eight and nine o’clock. And now the snow turned to wet sleet. Trees began to creak under the accumulating weight, and suddenly a huge mass of snow slid off overhanging branches and landed on the back of the horses’ necks. They neighed shrilly, and in spite of Ulrich’s attempt to steady them, pulled the wagon sharply to the left, where a wheel smacked into a tree. The supply master rode back to survey the situation, judged the damage to be minimal, and told Ulrich to catch up. Troops continued to silently slog past them.
There was an explosion somewhere ahead of them. The supply master turned and grinned at the boy, “Na ja, this is it, then.” There was another concussion and Ulrich saw the supply master’s face grow white. Simultaneously they realized that there had been no time for the Austrian cannons to be deployed. Now the foot soldiers were running past them, their officers driving them forward. Ulrich went forward too, but something bit into him and stiffened his legs. The cold, most likely. Abruptly, the forward rush of troops was overwhelmed by a broken wave of troops in full retreat. A gun crew descended upon his wagon, cut the horses out of their traces, and fled, riding bareback. Others were scattering into the woods or running back the way they had come, jamming the road with panicked horses, trampling the wounded. Ulrich grabbed a bag of bread he had stowed in the wagon and ran into the woods. There was no point in trying to get back to last night’s campsite, where the French would surely take him prisoner.
He had no idea how long he had been running, and even when he could see the sky through the branches, he couldn’t get his bearings. One of the innumerable small streams lay ahead of him, and there appeared to be a few yards of clear space on its banks. Gasping, he lurched out of the trees, into calm sunlight. Birds twittered.
A horse nickered.
Ulrich spun around to see the horseman in shade, not twenty feet away. The hussar’s eyes were black slashes beneath his shako brim, and his mouth was a straight line between the small braids that hung over his cheekbones. There was absolutely no point in running. Ulrich stood at the edge of the half-frozen stream as the Frenchman rode slowly forward, holding the reins in his right hand. He circled Ulrich counterclockwise, expressionless, and the boy tried not to look at the smeared saber or the dark, sodden sleeve. He realized he was shaking and close to fainting when the rider raised his saber… to point.
“St. Cristoph is that way. Travel at night, find a loft or a cellar. Don’t stop running until you get to Vienna.”
Although the hussar had spoken in French, it was obvious the boy had understood him, taking off like a greased piglet. As he lingered in the clearing it began to snow yet again, fat goose-down flakes this time. He sheathed the saber and tipped his head back, letting the snow fall on his face, on his outstretched bloody hand.
ΩΩΩ