ErinnerungGood evening folks!Erinnerung by MarryEllen
To be honest, this chapter was damn hard and the moment I am writing this down it isn't even finished and in fact it is the third try.
No idea why, not that I don't know have ideas. But to structure, to order, to finally bring it on white computerpaper. Not easy, not easy.
By the way, I truly ask myself if anyone reads what I am writing in the beginning.
And to all you folks who favourite but don't comment. I appreciate your favourite very, very much. But I have no real idea what they really mean. Does it mean I should continue this story as it is? Shall I improve?
Comments are also for you guys. If you like something and you write it down or if you don't like something and you write it down. IN the end the story will be better, seriously.
Enough for now. Maybe I have also the problem that my stories are not the one you comment, for any reasons...
Ps: I translated Erwin's aftername into the German version → Schmitt
AbendliedSchlof mein FegeleAbendlied by MarryEllen
(The title is yiddish and it means: sleep my bird, it is a lullaby)
Good night guys, this morning was especially cold and I remember my grandmother who was Russian, how she always told me of this deadness in Russia.
They speak german in this story but just sometimes and I wrote the translation underneath.
English is not my mothertongue, so please tell me all the bloody mistakes I have in this story ^^
A little bit ErwinxLevi
Hope you like it.
ATTENTION: IT DEALS WITH WORLD WAR 2 AND THE SHOAH
SO PLEASE BE CAREFUL WHILE READING
“Wir muessen los, Levi. Der Zug kommt in einer Stunde.”
(We have to go Levi. The train will soon arrive.)
Erwin shakes his head. Why does he now remember this day? He sighs deeply and puts his sheet tight around him. Russia is too cold. How can anyone live here? His feet are numb and he is sure he lost again a toe. He bites his lips to at least feel so
You want to hear it?God, this is so short I don't even think I can upload it XDYou want to hear it? by MarryEllen
But anyway, I liked it and it is like a spotlight of poor Altair and Malik.
“Malik”, he whispered. It seemed as if even he, the Grandmaster of the Assassins, Altair Ibn-la' Ahad, was sometimes frightened by his own voice.
The feverish man in front of him, lying on a soft bed blinked with his eyes and then a soft and relieving “Altair,” left his lips.
Gently put the Grandmaster a cold hand on the hot forehead of his best friend. He did not know what to say. It seemed as if his tongue was bound. So he just stroke with his thumb over the sweat and feverish skin, to do at least something.
“Altair?,” the sick asked low.
He nodded, not trusting his own voice.
“Do you remember...your mother?”
Both men looked at each other. Then Altair smiled slowly.
“Well,” he said dry, striking through the soft, black hair. “I do yes.