@bonhcmme // starter call.
healing did not come quickly in the weeks that followed prince andrei’s capture. the miserable cold of the austrian countryside chilled every breath, and frost wept into the tends and seized around clothing and limbs, quite unhindered by the thin blankets provided. and what external struggles he faced were only exacerbated by the wound that made his every movement a painful one. when in battle he’d led his soldiers into the fray, when one bayonet had torn through his side and another had collided with his head, he had expected some measure of pain, but the longevity of it was astounding. how strong in him had been that foolish quest for glory that he had not thought for even a moment of the consequences?
the man who had raced into battle in the name of patriotism was surely not the same who had risen painfully now from his bed in search of something to distract a weary and irate mind ---- having encountered his hero as he’d laid in the mud, having thought his death upon him, prince andrei had indeed felt life drain from his body. neither breath nor heartbeat stopped, but instead ambition had flowed from him like blood, leaving this hollow and disinterested man behind. he was quite miserable here, and he was uncertain that it was merely a result of his surroundings.
teetering against a cane, prince andrei walked through the snow and mud that coated the entirely of the camp, a critical frown having settled over his grim expression. though being prisoner entailed restriction, release would surely come soon to a man of his position, and so with little regard for the consequences, he thought it right to wander, to stretch stiff legs and escape the condensed air of his unpleasant lodgings. heaviness settled in his every step ---- despite unfamiliar surroundings, he gave no sign of interest, and instead regarded everything harshly and unhappily, finding nothing to rouse his soul from the dormant misery into which it had settled after having realized the insignificance of his former idol.
prince andrei paid little attention to those around him, knowing them to be captives like himself, or guards to whom he did not feel any obligation to strictly obey. not until he saw the uniform of a commissioned officer soon approaching, and knew his own dress, cleaned ( blood had stained it quite severely on account of his injury ) and unmistakably russian, would be indicative of the fact that he should not have been wandering from his holdings. still, pride marked his posture, and though to stand straight was to strain his stitched wounds, it was not within him to appear weak, especially before the enemy. a courteous and cold nod preceded composed greetings ( in french, of course ), and though perhaps he ought to have ensured his harmless intention in wandering about, no such debasement could be forced upon him, and with the most minimal deference, he stood, quite unsure of why an officer might be amongst the portion of the camp that housed their captures, or what prince andrei might receive for his quite but markedly arrogant insubordination.
