Ilarion paused, carefully gathering the million grains of thought that comprised his conscious desert.
Isaev and Liadov. Liadov and Isaev.
It hurt, to hear their names invoked adjacently, and he let the ache intensify with detached fascination, steeping in the pain, quietly amazed at its magnitude.
How was it possible to feel that much? It seemed inconceivable, in his experience. The only thing he had to compare to it was but a fragment- a hung moment in time, where his emotions surged and peaked in a heart-slicing blade of anguish, before he crushed them back down into his chest like a mangled nightingale- the moment he stood on the banks of the Fontanka canal and realized he was looking down at his own mother.
"Yes," he replied, steadily, as his heart thudded dully beneath his sternum, and his cold blood spun a living circuit. "He was something here. Now he's something in Leningrad."
Evasive words, but true. Evasive only because they understated the raw carnage of the violently turned earth in his soul.
"We often collaborated."
He paused, gaze searching the desk, resting on the pen in his hand. A gift. Engraved, inscribed, intimately given.
"Our talents complemented each other."
Thick as thieves, had been the maxim around the MVD.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 10:15 pm (UTC)Isaev and Liadov. Liadov and Isaev.
It hurt, to hear their names invoked adjacently, and he let the ache intensify with detached fascination, steeping in the pain, quietly amazed at its magnitude.
How was it possible to feel that much? It seemed inconceivable, in his experience. The only thing he had to compare to it was but a fragment- a hung moment in time, where his emotions surged and peaked in a heart-slicing blade of anguish, before he crushed them back down into his chest like a mangled nightingale- the moment he stood on the banks of the Fontanka canal and realized he was looking down at his own mother.
"Yes," he replied, steadily, as his heart thudded dully beneath his sternum, and his cold blood spun a living circuit. "He was something here. Now he's something in Leningrad."
Evasive words, but true. Evasive only because they understated the raw carnage of the violently turned earth in his soul.
"We often collaborated."
He paused, gaze searching the desk, resting on the pen in his hand. A gift. Engraved, inscribed, intimately given.
"Our talents complemented each other."
Thick as thieves, had been the maxim around the MVD.