Ilarion's chin tilted imperceptibly in the ghost of a shrug.
"You asked," he replied, without loading the words. "And I answered."
He reached for the anonymous steel doorknob, feeling it give to the right beneath his grip and twist.
Lasha paused, eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the painted metal that confronted his face.
"I'll always answer, Taras."
That said, there was little more explanation to be given. At this juncture, anyway.
Ilarion had no illusions about Oleksei's irrepressible instinct to know the crooked lie of the land around him. This would not be the end of his inquiry, though his tactics might shift.
Isaev acknowledged that some modicum of disclosure was required to maintain silences. He knew that, when the State did not.
That, he thought- and the taste of the thought was cynical- was why he succeeded beyond the State, and thrived where the State floundered.
Some animals were better at negotiating tundra than others, as well. It was the natural order, no more.
He pushed open the door and moved inside immediately after, with the gliding, unresisted insistence of knife between ribs, leaving the door open behind him for Oleksei to follow in his wake like an undertaker.
The only window was high and narrowly horizontal, barred unnecessarily with two inch steel poles, and meek, beaten shafts of stair-step light filtered weakly across to the unmarked concrete wall opposite, branding the captive relief in shadow, equally high.
His eyes fell on the occupant in a practiced, sweeping glance that took him in as a whole, reading the story of his apprehension and detainment in visual shorthand.
The dancer, his mother's-
His, now.
Like inheritance.
-sat on a chair in the corner, one knee drawn up in order to rest his arm upon it. He looked beatific, but not beaten.
His chestnut hair obscured his face for a moment, as he was hanging his head, a gesture that hovered between suggesting weary resignation and the understated repose of a male swan.
When he looked up, belatedly, at the lonely sound of boots on concrete, Isaev could see the smear of a bruise between cheekbone and eye, an artful brush-stroke of blood beneath his skin, painted by the loving fist of a true artist.
The Ministry employed a number of artists.
All of them turning out masterworks on a daily basis.
This was but a sketch.
Ilarion frowned, averting his eyes. Slowly crossing his arms.
"You'll have had enough, I think," he said, slowly. "This kind of physical abuse is not your medium, Barshov."
He sensed Taras moving into place, physically countering his presence, like a polarized mirror.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2008-06-10 09:20 am (UTC)"You asked," he replied, without loading the words. "And I answered."
He reached for the anonymous steel doorknob, feeling it give to the right beneath his grip and twist.
Lasha paused, eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the painted metal that confronted his face.
"I'll always answer, Taras."
That said, there was little more explanation to be given. At this juncture, anyway.
Ilarion had no illusions about Oleksei's irrepressible instinct to know the crooked lie of the land around him. This would not be the end of his inquiry, though his tactics might shift.
Isaev acknowledged that some modicum of disclosure was required to maintain silences. He knew that, when the State did not.
That, he thought- and the taste of the thought was cynical- was why he succeeded beyond the State, and thrived where the State floundered.
Some animals were better at negotiating tundra than others, as well. It was the natural order, no more.
He pushed open the door and moved inside immediately after, with the gliding, unresisted insistence of knife between ribs, leaving the door open behind him for Oleksei to follow in his wake like an undertaker.
The only window was high and narrowly horizontal, barred unnecessarily with two inch steel poles, and meek, beaten shafts of stair-step light filtered weakly across to the unmarked concrete wall opposite, branding the captive relief in shadow, equally high.
His eyes fell on the occupant in a practiced, sweeping glance that took him in as a whole, reading the story of his apprehension and detainment in visual shorthand.
The dancer, his mother's-
His, now.
Like inheritance.
-sat on a chair in the corner, one knee drawn up in order to rest his arm upon it. He looked beatific, but not beaten.
His chestnut hair obscured his face for a moment, as he was hanging his head, a gesture that hovered between suggesting weary resignation and the understated repose of a male swan.
When he looked up, belatedly, at the lonely sound of boots on concrete, Isaev could see the smear of a bruise between cheekbone and eye, an artful brush-stroke of blood beneath his skin, painted by the loving fist of a true artist.
The Ministry employed a number of artists.
All of them turning out masterworks on a daily basis.
This was but a sketch.
Ilarion frowned, averting his eyes. Slowly crossing his arms.
"You'll have had enough, I think," he said, slowly. "This kind of physical abuse is not your medium, Barshov."
He sensed Taras moving into place, physically countering his presence, like a polarized mirror.