Entry tags:
Biggles tumblr ficlet
Anonymous asked:
I don't know if you've seen those gifs that were going around tumblr a while back of, I think it was a professional wrestling match, with the participants collared and chained together using the chains as a weapon? But they brought to mind the thought- Sakhalin guards using prisoners for entertainment and forcing them to fight in the same manner, and Biggles witnessing this instead of the coal gathering chain-gang.
TW blood/violence. Also on Tumblr.
There was not much to be seen, through the crooked pine and fir trees rising unevenly from the rocky ground. Biggles could hear cheers and shouts, distant and muffled. Miskoff gestured them towards a narrow track that wound behind some boulders, and this they followed, across slowly rising ground until they emerged on top of a ridge covered in firs and low, scrubby bushes. The air was bitterly cold.
From here they could look down into the open pit they had glimpsed from afar. Fritz and Ginger crouched beside Biggles, and they all looked down with an equal mix of fascination and horrified curiosity.
Biggles had assumed from a distance that there was some sort of mining going on here. The reality was so wildly different from his imaginings that for a dazed moment he could not even understand what he was looking at.
The pit was a wide shallow depression scooped out of the earth. It seemed likely, from the tools and wheelbarrows scattered haphazardly around its rim, and the piles of spoils, that it had been dug out in pursuit of some sort of mineral, perhaps coal or ore. Now there was only a large hole. Standing within it, on the slopes, were a number of guards and a scattered array of prisoners who wore the striped uniforms and iron collars that Biggles had noted earlier.
At the bottom of the pit, two men were fighting. They were prisoners; both were thin and bearded, wearing nothing but striped trousers. They were barefoot in the cold mud, breath steaming in the air, and the top part of their suits had been cut or torn away so they were free to move.
They were chained round the neck, and the two collars connected with a long length of chain, which they were using to whip, beat, or strangle each other. It was the only weapon they had. Blood striped their skin where they had beaten each other with it.
"What is this terrible game?" Fritz whispered. None of the others answered. Ginger looked stricken. Miskoff watched dispassionately, as if nothing that could happen below could affect him. There was every chance he had participated in such cruel games himself.
As Biggles watched in a mix of shock and dismayed sympathy, one of the prisoners managed to get his chain wrapped round the neck of the other, and gave it a tremendous yank, flinging the unlucky fellow to the churned-up, half-frozen mud of the pit bottom. The loud crack as the man fell was audible to the stunned watchers at the top of the hill. The surviving prisoner straightened a bit shakily, panting in reaction, showing little relief.
Cheers and curses arose from the watching guards. Money changed hands. Then the dead prisoner was unceremoniously dragged away, the other cut free of the dead one and hustled off. Turning to watch, Biggles saw that he was taken to rejoin a gang of men cutting timber at the edge of the forest, even though his arms trembled with weariness and he had barely been given time to put on a pair of threadbare boots.
A sudden jerky motion from beside Biggles drew his attention, and he seized Fritz's arm as the boy began to rise. "Get down!" Biggles whispered, pulling him back. "What are you doing?"
Fritz was staring down into the pit with wide, shocked eyes. "Look," he whispered. "Look!"
Biggles looked. Two more competitors were being drawn from the ranks of the prisoners, forced into the pit at the business end of a whip. As they stripped off their shirts and the guards locked the chains to hold them together, there was a sudden flash of recognition that hit Biggles almost like the crack of a whip.
Both men were thin and scarred, their damaged bodies pitifully on display with only their hips and legs concealed by the ugly, filthy uniforms they wore. But in spite of those ravages, in spite of the long greying hair and the beard, there was no mistaking the upright carriage of one of the two men -- or the limp as he went into the pit in tandem with the man he was now chained to.
"Uncle," Fritz murmured, his voice breaking. Biggles, keeping a firm hand on Fritz's shoulder, simply stared.
The two men faced each other. About fifteen feet of chain separated them. The man who must be, who could only be, Erich von Stalhein grasped the chain in one thin, scarred hand. It was clear that he had done this before.
The man he faced was comparatively large, a big scarred brute with a massive dark beard spilling over his bare chest. Next to him, von Stalhein looked almost pitiful. He had always been thin; now he was nearly emaciated, with visible whip scars marking his prominent ribs and back. But he faced his opponent with his spine straight, looking the other man in the eyes, knees slightly bent as he waited for the other to attack.
One of the guards snapped a word. Before he had finished speaking, the other man lunged forward and von Stalhein dodged, dancing out of the way with lithe grace that made Biggles's breath catch in his throat. For all the visible damage and von Stalhein's clearly weakened condition, he was shockingly fast, nearly dancing on his bare feet. His breath steamed in the air. He wrenched the chain, and his opponent, already off balance, fell to his knees. Spinning with that same almost supernatural swiftness, von Stalhein smacked his opponent with the chain, first across the side of the head and then over the shoulders.
But the retribution came swiftly. The man hardly seemed fazed. He yanked the chain, flinging von Stalhein off balance. A length of chain whipped over von Stalhein's thin, pale shoulders, drawing a line of blood across the pale, dirty skin. Von Stalhein lost his footing, and for a moment -- Biggles drew a swift breath -- the chain was wrapped round his head, giving his opponent leverage to beat him viciously over the shoulders.
Biggles clamped his hand harder on Fritz's shoulder, preventing the boy from rising.
The guards were yelling, clearly delighted with the blood sport, and Biggles felt a hot surge of hatred that nearly overwhelmed him.
Von Stalhein ducked out of the chain, reeling a little. He turned to keep his opponent in view, but he was obviously flagging, and his back and shoulders were covered with blood.
"We must help him," Fritz whispered hotly.
ETA: Don't miss the 3500-wd continuation written by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
philomytha!
I don't know if you've seen those gifs that were going around tumblr a while back of, I think it was a professional wrestling match, with the participants collared and chained together using the chains as a weapon? But they brought to mind the thought- Sakhalin guards using prisoners for entertainment and forcing them to fight in the same manner, and Biggles witnessing this instead of the coal gathering chain-gang.
TW blood/violence. Also on Tumblr.
There was not much to be seen, through the crooked pine and fir trees rising unevenly from the rocky ground. Biggles could hear cheers and shouts, distant and muffled. Miskoff gestured them towards a narrow track that wound behind some boulders, and this they followed, across slowly rising ground until they emerged on top of a ridge covered in firs and low, scrubby bushes. The air was bitterly cold.
From here they could look down into the open pit they had glimpsed from afar. Fritz and Ginger crouched beside Biggles, and they all looked down with an equal mix of fascination and horrified curiosity.
Biggles had assumed from a distance that there was some sort of mining going on here. The reality was so wildly different from his imaginings that for a dazed moment he could not even understand what he was looking at.
The pit was a wide shallow depression scooped out of the earth. It seemed likely, from the tools and wheelbarrows scattered haphazardly around its rim, and the piles of spoils, that it had been dug out in pursuit of some sort of mineral, perhaps coal or ore. Now there was only a large hole. Standing within it, on the slopes, were a number of guards and a scattered array of prisoners who wore the striped uniforms and iron collars that Biggles had noted earlier.
At the bottom of the pit, two men were fighting. They were prisoners; both were thin and bearded, wearing nothing but striped trousers. They were barefoot in the cold mud, breath steaming in the air, and the top part of their suits had been cut or torn away so they were free to move.
They were chained round the neck, and the two collars connected with a long length of chain, which they were using to whip, beat, or strangle each other. It was the only weapon they had. Blood striped their skin where they had beaten each other with it.
"What is this terrible game?" Fritz whispered. None of the others answered. Ginger looked stricken. Miskoff watched dispassionately, as if nothing that could happen below could affect him. There was every chance he had participated in such cruel games himself.
As Biggles watched in a mix of shock and dismayed sympathy, one of the prisoners managed to get his chain wrapped round the neck of the other, and gave it a tremendous yank, flinging the unlucky fellow to the churned-up, half-frozen mud of the pit bottom. The loud crack as the man fell was audible to the stunned watchers at the top of the hill. The surviving prisoner straightened a bit shakily, panting in reaction, showing little relief.
Cheers and curses arose from the watching guards. Money changed hands. Then the dead prisoner was unceremoniously dragged away, the other cut free of the dead one and hustled off. Turning to watch, Biggles saw that he was taken to rejoin a gang of men cutting timber at the edge of the forest, even though his arms trembled with weariness and he had barely been given time to put on a pair of threadbare boots.
A sudden jerky motion from beside Biggles drew his attention, and he seized Fritz's arm as the boy began to rise. "Get down!" Biggles whispered, pulling him back. "What are you doing?"
Fritz was staring down into the pit with wide, shocked eyes. "Look," he whispered. "Look!"
Biggles looked. Two more competitors were being drawn from the ranks of the prisoners, forced into the pit at the business end of a whip. As they stripped off their shirts and the guards locked the chains to hold them together, there was a sudden flash of recognition that hit Biggles almost like the crack of a whip.
Both men were thin and scarred, their damaged bodies pitifully on display with only their hips and legs concealed by the ugly, filthy uniforms they wore. But in spite of those ravages, in spite of the long greying hair and the beard, there was no mistaking the upright carriage of one of the two men -- or the limp as he went into the pit in tandem with the man he was now chained to.
"Uncle," Fritz murmured, his voice breaking. Biggles, keeping a firm hand on Fritz's shoulder, simply stared.
The two men faced each other. About fifteen feet of chain separated them. The man who must be, who could only be, Erich von Stalhein grasped the chain in one thin, scarred hand. It was clear that he had done this before.
The man he faced was comparatively large, a big scarred brute with a massive dark beard spilling over his bare chest. Next to him, von Stalhein looked almost pitiful. He had always been thin; now he was nearly emaciated, with visible whip scars marking his prominent ribs and back. But he faced his opponent with his spine straight, looking the other man in the eyes, knees slightly bent as he waited for the other to attack.
One of the guards snapped a word. Before he had finished speaking, the other man lunged forward and von Stalhein dodged, dancing out of the way with lithe grace that made Biggles's breath catch in his throat. For all the visible damage and von Stalhein's clearly weakened condition, he was shockingly fast, nearly dancing on his bare feet. His breath steamed in the air. He wrenched the chain, and his opponent, already off balance, fell to his knees. Spinning with that same almost supernatural swiftness, von Stalhein smacked his opponent with the chain, first across the side of the head and then over the shoulders.
But the retribution came swiftly. The man hardly seemed fazed. He yanked the chain, flinging von Stalhein off balance. A length of chain whipped over von Stalhein's thin, pale shoulders, drawing a line of blood across the pale, dirty skin. Von Stalhein lost his footing, and for a moment -- Biggles drew a swift breath -- the chain was wrapped round his head, giving his opponent leverage to beat him viciously over the shoulders.
Biggles clamped his hand harder on Fritz's shoulder, preventing the boy from rising.
The guards were yelling, clearly delighted with the blood sport, and Biggles felt a hot surge of hatred that nearly overwhelmed him.
Von Stalhein ducked out of the chain, reeling a little. He turned to keep his opponent in view, but he was obviously flagging, and his back and shoulders were covered with blood.
"We must help him," Fritz whispered hotly.
ETA: Don't miss the 3500-wd continuation written by
philomytha!
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Unrelated, but on this prompt post you mentioned you were interested in the story about the Borrower-type tiny human living in a university library, and I've just finished it. I'm not going to post the story (looking for a magazine home for it), but I'll email it to you if you'd like to read it. You'll need to PM me your email.
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(by which I obviously mean I love this <333 Biggles unable to not admire EvS despite - possibly in part because of - the horrible condition he's in)
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https://philomytha.dreamwidth.org/279829.html
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