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A Biggles prompt- Biggles & co. are searching the base of whatever gang they're up against on their latest case and in addition to the plans/photographs/documents they were after they find a left behind prisoner... who turns out to be a wounded and distrustful EvS. And they (Biggles) can't just *leave* him there...
Posted on Tumblr
"Down here, there's just the cellars to check, and then we can be out of this bally--" Bertie's voice faltered, and he called in a very different tone, "Biggles!"
Biggles was down the stairs in three leaps, gun in hand. "What've you found?" he asked, catching himself on a crate.
"Something a bit different from the usual, old boy," Bertie said in a distracted tone. He was struggling with the lock on a barred corner of the cellar, forcing it with an iron rod and a single-minded focus unlike him.
Biggles came up behind him. He expected from Bertie's intensity that the creature being rescued was some small animal, a dog or a trapped exotic pet. He was unprepared, with a full-body shock, for a human being, rolling off a nest of burlap at the center of the cell's concrete floor. Blinking in the lights, the prisoner tried to pick himself up and then half-fell, but struggled defiantly to rise and confront them.
"Von Stalhein," Biggles breathed.
Von Stalhein scrabbled until he was sitting up, squinting against the light and crouched in a defiant posture that was somehow desperate. Biggles stepped back, partly to give Bertie room to work on the lock but also in genuine shock. There was a bucket of water in the cell, nearly empty, and nothing else except a heap of burlap sacks in which von Stalhein had evidently been sleeping. He was unshaven, several days' growth of beard peppered with grey. The ragged linen shirt he wore was plastered with dark, stiff patches that Biggles knew were blood.
Bertie finally wrenched the door free with a ringing clang. Von Stalhein half-fell to sit on his burlap pallet and glared at them with a defiant anger that was made somehow poignant by the fact that it was clear he could barely see in the sudden bright light. He flinched back when Biggles stepped forward, and Biggles stopped instantly.
"It's only me," he said.
"Of course it's you," von Stalhein spat, his voice rasping. He scrabbled back, working with one arm while the other hung stiffly at his side, and managed to find the mortared stone wall and use it to get, clumsily and painfully, to his feet. "Here to lecture me on my life choices, I'm sure," he snarled.
Biggles had a brief thought of a scene from his childhood: an abandoned trap meant to catch a wild antelope that had instead caught a tiger. When the village men had found it, the creature was weak and emaciated, pierced with spears from the trap but still crouched and snarling, lashing out at everyone who had tried to set it free.
"No, I-- we did not know you were here. Your associates have all left." He nodded to Bertie, who stepped back. Biggles became aware that the gun was still in his hand (lowered in shock, half forgotten) and hastily put it away. "Come with us, we have food and medical supplies upstairs."
He stepped forward, into the reeking cell. When he reached out an arm, von Stalhein recoiled as if from a snake, but Biggles stood his ground and offered an arm. Von Stalhein took a shaky step forward, and Biggles wrapped his arm around the narrow waist. At that, von Stalhein all but fell forward, and Biggles caught him, supporting him. Von Stalhein's head fell on Biggles's shoulder, and he gasped a little, grasping at Biggles's sleeve with his good hand. His fingertips were clotted with blood, as if he had clawed at the door-- a thought best not considered just at the moment. Biggles helped him out of the cell, and he seemed to relax a little when he was out, straightening slightly and trying to take more of his own weight.
"Step up, carefully," Biggles said, pausing so they could navigate the stairs. "We have a camp just outside the base -- we'll have something to eat, take a look at your shoulder. The swine who were here have gone, and good riddance. Here, watch the step."
He didn't ask if von Stalhein knew anything about where they might have gone. And the hand gripping his arm tightly, the head resting on his shoulder as they climbed up into daylight, even the way that von Stalhein flinched back a little but seemed to trust Biggles as a bulwark at his back as he did, let Biggles know that he had chosen rightly. He helped von Stalhein to sit on a folded blanket beside their campfire, and von Stalhein took a flask of soup that Ginger offered, and sat quietly when Bertie brought the first aid kit.
A Biggles prompt- Biggles & co. are searching the base of whatever gang they're up against on their latest case and in addition to the plans/photographs/documents they were after they find a left behind prisoner... who turns out to be a wounded and distrustful EvS. And they (Biggles) can't just *leave* him there...
Posted on Tumblr
"Down here, there's just the cellars to check, and then we can be out of this bally--" Bertie's voice faltered, and he called in a very different tone, "Biggles!"
Biggles was down the stairs in three leaps, gun in hand. "What've you found?" he asked, catching himself on a crate.
"Something a bit different from the usual, old boy," Bertie said in a distracted tone. He was struggling with the lock on a barred corner of the cellar, forcing it with an iron rod and a single-minded focus unlike him.
Biggles came up behind him. He expected from Bertie's intensity that the creature being rescued was some small animal, a dog or a trapped exotic pet. He was unprepared, with a full-body shock, for a human being, rolling off a nest of burlap at the center of the cell's concrete floor. Blinking in the lights, the prisoner tried to pick himself up and then half-fell, but struggled defiantly to rise and confront them.
"Von Stalhein," Biggles breathed.
Von Stalhein scrabbled until he was sitting up, squinting against the light and crouched in a defiant posture that was somehow desperate. Biggles stepped back, partly to give Bertie room to work on the lock but also in genuine shock. There was a bucket of water in the cell, nearly empty, and nothing else except a heap of burlap sacks in which von Stalhein had evidently been sleeping. He was unshaven, several days' growth of beard peppered with grey. The ragged linen shirt he wore was plastered with dark, stiff patches that Biggles knew were blood.
Bertie finally wrenched the door free with a ringing clang. Von Stalhein half-fell to sit on his burlap pallet and glared at them with a defiant anger that was made somehow poignant by the fact that it was clear he could barely see in the sudden bright light. He flinched back when Biggles stepped forward, and Biggles stopped instantly.
"It's only me," he said.
"Of course it's you," von Stalhein spat, his voice rasping. He scrabbled back, working with one arm while the other hung stiffly at his side, and managed to find the mortared stone wall and use it to get, clumsily and painfully, to his feet. "Here to lecture me on my life choices, I'm sure," he snarled.
Biggles had a brief thought of a scene from his childhood: an abandoned trap meant to catch a wild antelope that had instead caught a tiger. When the village men had found it, the creature was weak and emaciated, pierced with spears from the trap but still crouched and snarling, lashing out at everyone who had tried to set it free.
"No, I-- we did not know you were here. Your associates have all left." He nodded to Bertie, who stepped back. Biggles became aware that the gun was still in his hand (lowered in shock, half forgotten) and hastily put it away. "Come with us, we have food and medical supplies upstairs."
He stepped forward, into the reeking cell. When he reached out an arm, von Stalhein recoiled as if from a snake, but Biggles stood his ground and offered an arm. Von Stalhein took a shaky step forward, and Biggles wrapped his arm around the narrow waist. At that, von Stalhein all but fell forward, and Biggles caught him, supporting him. Von Stalhein's head fell on Biggles's shoulder, and he gasped a little, grasping at Biggles's sleeve with his good hand. His fingertips were clotted with blood, as if he had clawed at the door-- a thought best not considered just at the moment. Biggles helped him out of the cell, and he seemed to relax a little when he was out, straightening slightly and trying to take more of his own weight.
"Step up, carefully," Biggles said, pausing so they could navigate the stairs. "We have a camp just outside the base -- we'll have something to eat, take a look at your shoulder. The swine who were here have gone, and good riddance. Here, watch the step."
He didn't ask if von Stalhein knew anything about where they might have gone. And the hand gripping his arm tightly, the head resting on his shoulder as they climbed up into daylight, even the way that von Stalhein flinched back a little but seemed to trust Biggles as a bulwark at his back as he did, let Biggles know that he had chosen rightly. He helped von Stalhein to sit on a folded blanket beside their campfire, and von Stalhein took a flask of soup that Ginger offered, and sat quietly when Bertie brought the first aid kit.