Love of a Captive

Malachi groaned, his body protesting as he tried to stretch stiff limbs. The movement was stopped abruptly with the light jingle of metal links, and Malachi stared down blankly at his wrists, which were bound in metal cuffs attached to each other with a short chain. Through the center of the chain wound a longer chain that trailed down his body, to another set of cuffs bound around his ankles.

Wincing as his wrists chafed against the metal shackles, Malachi gazed at his new surroundings, only now realizing that he was moving. It appeared that he was in a covered truck, trundling its way down a small dirt road and hitting potholes every few feet that jarred his whole body. No wonder he had been so sore when he had woken up. Anybody who’d had to suffer this rough ride while in chains was bound to be uncomfortable.

“Done exploring?” a smooth voice drawled from his right, and Malachi looked across the truck at the blond-haired, blue eyed man who had spoken to him. Ah, that would explain things, then. He remembered, vaguely, being ordered to hide as boots had thundered up the stairs and down the hallway of the little apartment where he and his parents had taken refuge from the Nazis.

The struggle hadn’t lasted long, and the soldiers had stormed the apartment, walking past his hiding place. Only one pair of boots had stopped near his hiding place; the next thing he knew, he was staring straight into a pair of cobalt blue eyes. Having found him, the Nazi wasted no time in dragging him from his hiding place and striking the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

Malachi didn’t remember anything after that, but could only hope that after they had found him, they had assumed that he was the only refugee, and had left then, leaving his parents behind, still free and unharmed. If they were dead, Malachi knew that he’d never forgive himself.

“Looks like you were the sacrifice,” the man continued, his words startling Malachi out of his own thoughts. When the boy just stared blankly at him, he offered a raised eyebrow. “Oh? You didn’t know? Your parents are cruel bastards then,” he remarked. “When we got there, everybody had fled. Everybody, except you, that is.”

The blood drained from Malachi’s face and he shook his head in disbelief. Surely his parents wouldn’t have ordered him to hide, and then fled without him? Perhaps their own hiding place had been discovered, and they had managed to break free and run, hoping that Malachi would not be discovered?

“We searched everywhere, but didn’t find anybody,” the man continued. “So either you were the only one there, which I doubt, or your family and companions had deserted you, leaving you behind in the hopes that with one captive, we wouldn’t chase them down.”

Malachi growled, and in a swift move, darted from his seat and launched himself at the Nazi soldier, rage flashing brightly in his eyes. He never even touched the man, hampered as he was by the reach of his chains. With a barking laugh, the other man struck out with the back of his hand, sending Malachi sprawling to the floor of the truck bed. Before Malachi could rise, the other man was straddling his hips, his hands pressing his body into the floor.

“That wasn’t very nice, now, was it?” the man breathed, and Malachi resisted the urge to turn his head and spit at the soldier. “It’s good, though, that you’re a fighter,” the man continued, “because it means you’ll survive longer than some of the others.” With that, he shifted off of Malachi and allowed the young man to sit up and stretch. “Might want to move back over to your bench, before I have to knock you out again,” the man grinned, lightly tapping the gun at his waist.

Malachi snarled at him, but did as he had been bidden and sat back over on his bench, mulling over the soldier’s words. What, exactly, did he mean by ‘survive longer than the others’? Other Jews? Or was he talking about something completely different, something that Malachi didn’t understand?

“Good lad,” the Nazi murmured, praising him, and Malachi bit back a scowl. He had heard the condescension in the other man’s tone, and it irritated him. But the man did have the power to kill him, he realized with a sort of finality. If he attacked again, he’d probably be beaten or killed; the man didn’t seem like the type to stand for outright defiance more than once. Perhaps, if he at least played at being obedient, he’d find a way out of this mess. Surely the cuffs had to be removed at some point?

“My name, not that it’s going to matter to you, is Adrian,” the soldier offered, and Malachi blinked, surprised. Adrian? As in ‘dark one’? The man, Adrian, frowned at him. “You’d better not be planning on commenting, boy. After all, your name is Malachi, isn’t it? ‘My messenger’?”

Malachi turned his face away, trying to hide the blush. He couldn’t help it that his parents had named him Malachi. It had long been a sore point for him, although his parents had never understood why the name bothered him. After all, it was a very common, popular name.

Adrian just snorted at him. “We’re going to my home,” he continued, ignoring the sulking Malachi. “Well, it’s more like a Nazi campground right now, but the house and land belong to me.” Suddenly entertained, he grinned over at Malachi. “You’d best watch your step there, boy. You’re pretty enough that a lot of the guys are going to want a piece of you. War is a lonely place, after all.”

Malachi stared blankly at Adrian for several long moments, his mind not making sense of the other words. When he finally understood, he felt the blood drain from his face. Surely Adrian couldn’t mean that they’d want to…to…he couldn’t even finish the thought, it was so disturbing. Oh, he had heard about relationships between males, but it had never interested him. The entire concept was rather…frightening, actually. Men weren’t made for that, as far as Malachi was concerned, no matter what anybody else might say.

Adrian just chuckled at him again, then settled back against the canvas siding of the truck. “Might as well get some sleep, Malachi, because you won’t be getting much once we arrive at our destination,” he promised. With that final warning, his eyes closed and his breathing evened out. Malachi watched him sleep, under no illusions. If this man was as good a soldier as he appeared to be, then Malachi would never succeed in attacking him, and would probably die in the attempt. No, it was better to wait and see what happened. After all, where there was life, there was hope, and a chance at freedom.

Settling back, Malachi closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant jarring of the truck. It appeared, though, that they had left the dirt road and were now traveling along a paved road instead, which made for a slightly smoother ride. Malachi would try and sleep, reserving his strength for when it would do him the most good. Because he would escape, he vowed to himself. And when he did, nobody was going to be able to catch him.