"Fire and Darkness" - Bonus Chapter for Wake Up, Robin

The monastery stood at the top of a gentle hill.

Snow battered at it, driven by the howling wind, but the grand old building stood strong against the onslaught.

A tall figure, a dark cloak around his neck – that the wind blew off his body, rendering it useless – battled his way through the storm to a small outbuilding at the back of the abbey.

Upon reaching it, he stumbled and fell on a chunk of jagged rock, cutting his forearm.

He groped blindly for the door handle and, finding it, pulled himself up and forced the old wooden door open.

Inside the wooden shack there was a large generator, silent and unmoving. The man kicked at the peeling hammer-and-sickle emblem on the side.

"Useless Soviet machinery." he commented to no-one in particular.

Bending down, he refilled the petrol tank, fiddled with numerous wires and such, swore at the machine a few times and pulled the ripcord roughly.

The ancient generator coughed and scraped into life. The man stood, smiled with satisfaction, heaved the door back open, and fought his way back to the main building.

Once inside, the man brushed snow out of his short brown hair.

He was fairly tall, and was thin but obviously well built. His old Russian military boots clunked on the stone cobbles. Taking off the cloak, he threw it nonchalantly on a hat stand in the corner of the room and scratched at his uneven stubble.

He looked at his left arm. Small red rivulets leaked down and dripped onto the floor.

Pushing the ornate oak door to what had once been a feasting hall, he heard the distinctive clack-clack noises of someone typing into an old-fashioned typewriter.

He smiled, hid his arm behind his back, and clunked over.

"You are getting snow all over my clean floor, Styrka." the blonde girl said, without looking up from the typewriter. She finished the log or report or whatever-it-was that she was typing and turned her sapphire blue eyes on Styrka.

He stopped dead.

He stared fearfully at the candle beside her, the flame flickering and dancing in his tortured green eyes.

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed. "I am sorry. I didn't think..." she tailed off, before licking her fingertips and pinching the flame out.

Styrka shook his head to clear it of the images of fiery death that blazed through it. "It's nothing, Ilana. I'm alright."

She looked at him sceptically but didn't argue.

Ilana noticed he was hiding his arm and gave him an interrogative look. Styrka held his arm out with a sigh.

The young woman gasped. "You're hurt!"

Styrka laughed. "I slipped on one of the stones that fell off the east wall. It is literally a scratch. Stop worrying."

Ilana raised her eyebrows then suddenly reached out to touch his arm.

He flinched instinctively and she smiled.

Ilana gracefully swept up a satchel (proudly emblazoned with the Red Cross) from her desk. Opening the satchel's polished metal clasp, she instructed Styrka to hold his arm out.

He watched as her long fingers delicately cleaned and bandaged the long gash on his forearm. Such elegance.

She finished her work and tied the bandage off. "There. Much better."

There were benefits to living with a nurse, he thought.

Suddenly, a great thunder crashed around them and the lights flashed off. Ilana gave a small shriek of terror and leapt closer to Styrka.

"Do not be afraid." he said quietly to her. "You are with me."

Minutes passed before the lights revived themselves.

A white-faced Ilana awkwardly disentangled her arms that she had instinctively clasped around Styrka when she jumped into him.

"Sorry." Styrka apologised unnecessarily in the silence that enveloped the room in the aftermath of the powercut. "I'll be in my workshop if you need me."

"Yes. Yes, of course." Ilana blushed and struggled for words.

Styrka sat alone in his workshop, thinking.

Bits and pieces of various machines littered the room; some on shelves; some on workbenches; many more just lying around.

This was where he was safe.

There was no all-consuming red flame here; no cold steel-shod boots that clashed on the cobblestones; no dreadful screaming echoing around the empty streets.

Nothing. Just him and his machines.

That being said, he did occasionally want to let people into his little bubble of peace.

Specifically, one person. Ilana.

He liked the way she always looked after him, even when he didn't look after himself; the way she knew his fear and did her best to keep it out of his way.

He liked how she did her hair – a simple ponytail done up with a green bobble (or occasionally, when she was rushed, a cable tie).

He liked that little smile she had that crept around her face, lighting it up and bringing out a natural beauty.

He was stirred from his reverie by the noise of an electrical whirring sound that slowly slowed and then stopped altogether. The generator!

The lights dimmed and then cut out in a flash that left purple afterimages dancing around his vision.

A scream penetrated the air.

Ilana.

Styrka stood up and effortlessly navigated his cluttered workshop (knowing where to step even in the pitch black), exited the open door and clattered down the stairs, two at a time, to the main hall where Ilana stood petrified – unable to even move.

"Ilana!" he said in the darkness.

The sound of her ragged breaths reached his ears.

"Styrka?" she asked in a very small voice. "I can't see you."

"I'm right here." he said, relieved. "Are you alright?"

"I can't see you." she repeated. "I'm...I'm afraid."

Styrka made a decision he thought he'd never make.

He took a small, silver lighter out of his pocket.

He ran his fingertips over the engraved initials "D.I."

His father.

He opened the lighter and forced himself to look.

He flicked the striker and a bright flame appeared, casting its orange glow in a small radius around the two.

Ilana's white face appeared next to him. She gasped at what he had done.

He didn't notice. He was reliving his worst memory.

The red soldiers came to the house, their steel-shod boots clattering on the cobblestones.

They raised their stubby weapons, the flamethrowers, and the jets of the red demon-fire leapt out and licked at the house.

A brown haired, green eyed boy, barely five years old, was thrown out of a window to save him from the blaze and landed hard on the street.

He stood, helplessly, hearing the dreadful screams of the brown haired man and woman still in the house.

And the red soldiers marched away, leaving the boy completely, utterly alone.

Ilana held the tall man in her arms, the lighter used to light a candle which cast a feeble glow that turned the tears running down his face orange.

"Anyam." he wept. "Mother. Father."

Ilana cradled him gently.

"Please. Don't be afraid." she said in a vain hope of bringing the strong, fearless man she so needed back to her. "Come back to me, szerettet."

Styrka's eyes opened; orange reflected in green. Beloved. He wasn't alone.

He never had been.

He reached out to the candle.

His hand covered the flame, burning some skin off, but snuffing the fire.

He felt at peace. At last.

He looked at her: the flames in his eyes gone; replaced by the glistening of snow.

Enveloped by darkness, he gently kissed the woman who had saved him from himself.

"I am not afraid." he said, a slight shake in his voice, but it remained strong.

"I am with you."

Disclaimer: I own all the characters here. So there.

A/N: Written as a submission for my English folio. Thought that you might want to read some of Forge & Titanium's origin story.

This is really just a prelude; the next part of Sleepless; and my new story, dubbed "Bird Magnet" are both being written.

Also, it's the summer holidays in the UK so I have SO much more time to write it just isn't true.

Bye for now,

Tom