Title: birthright
Character/s: Vladimir & Anatoly Ranskahov
Summary: rulers of bone and dust. —Vladimir, Anatoly—
A/N: Some nonsense I needed to get rid of. Like most of my works, may be subject to revision.
Birthright
-rulers of bone and dust
.
« arsenous elation »
.
"Do not be afraid; our fate
Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift."
― Dante Alighieri, Inferno
Moscow spits them out of its gilded mouth like rotten teeth.
Leaves them to fester in Utkin, felled teeth in their mouths, bones dried from the perpetual winter. The Princes of Moscow stripped of their birthright (which has been inked on their skin like a will), inherited suffering instead. Here, they are glorified with fractures and concrete; their palace is this small cell; the scars and torn muscle their ever growing treasure.
Vladimir and Anatoly Ranskahov, rulers of bones and dust.
"…in America, where we will live like kings."
"Of what?"
Oleg's rib is still slippery with blood, the smell of decomposition in his chest. Vladimir tugs at the bone, pulls until it breaks.
"Everything but this shit."
When he looks back at his brother, freshly wounded, misery etched on his face like age, he sees the question: but aren't we destined for this?
They count the days with long, coppered breaths. From the time the bluish light on their window waxes until it wanes, the brothers live through fifty-one thousand days. Death is slow in this prison, a cruel tease waiting for them to give in, luring them into accepting but not quite giving it—tells them to wait. When it comes, you would be grateful for it.
There are times that Anatoly screams for it.
Then he remembers: death is only the beginning of a longer hell. After the tribulations of this life, there will be another and another and another. So he does his best to hang on the flimsy thread of breath, screams for life instead. Even if his suffering already feels eternal and his bones are tired.
Vladimir screams as well, but he does not cry for life nor death.
He seethes.
Vladimir will spit on Moscow's name in spite, three years later. Will resent (and adore) his brother's heart for having a tender (purpling-ly bruised) spot for the city that threw them out. Eight years and America will receive the same resentment. Will turn into regret, will give way into unforgiving rage. In every place in this world there is one truth: Suffering is eternal.
In the dark of the room, he can almost hear Vladimir saying: we are destined for this.