Chapter 46
Part 2
Meet Yourself
The whole drive back to Krakow, the soldier had just crossed his arms over his chest and glowered away at nothing. As if he were the one that had been wronged.
Funny.
Toris had learned his name soon after.
An hour later, actually, when the officer had suddenly reached up, scratching the back of his neck irritably and then sending Toris a quick, strange look. A soft whisper, low in the car.
"My name's Ivan, by the way."
Ivan.
Toris had stared listlessly out of the window, until the Russian said, more forcefully, "I said my name is Ivan."
Glancing over, dumbly, Toris had been aware of the crinkle of agitation in Ivan's brow, and heard himself say, in response, "Toris."
A long, hard stare, prying and observant, and then Ivan repeated, "Toris. Well. Guess that's not such a bad name."
Not knowing what else to do and feeling so helpless, so dazed, so hurt, Toris had just whispered, "Thanks."
Didn't seem like being rude was a very good idea at the moment, although it certainly would have been understandable.
Ivan.
Ivan had just given Toris a long look-over, and then started pouting again, like an overgrown kid, and turned his eyes back to the window. Toris followed suit. In Krakow, Toris could only sit absently in the car as the soldier leapt out and started walking back and forth irritably, and wondered now what was to become of him. Hadn't ever thought he'd be here; by all rights, he should have been back home in Lithuania, tending to the fuckin' sheep. How had he ever found himself in this situation? On his way to a damn gulag.
He hadn't ever done anything to anyone. He hadn't ever hurt anyone. Meeting Feliks had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Ivan paced around outside for a while, and Toris eventually realized that they were in front of the train station, and all he could really do was sit still and wait. Some delirious part of him had hoped he was dreaming. Waking up anytime now. But he hadn't woken up, and Ivan had finally pulled open the door, and Toris felt himself step out without really being told to. A totter, as fear made him dizzy. So sick. He felt so sick, so nauseous, so faint, that he was surprised he was still standing upright at all.
Feliks was gone.
A stare between them, as absolutely apathy dulled the terror into manageable levels, and Toris could see the way Ivan had been shifting his shoulders and pursing his lips. Thinking.
Toris was shaking. Even when he clenched his fists, his hands just kept on shaking. Couldn't stop.
Finally, a sigh, and Ivan grumbled, "Well. I was gonna— I thought he'd... Well! I was gonna let you go, anyway. I thought he would go. I was gonna let you go home. You don't really look like much of a rebel."
He wasn't. He was pitiful.
All the same, Ivan was quick to add, "I can't let you go, but, hell. I don't think you'd last too long in a gulag, and it shoulda been him, the coward, so... Well. ...guess I'll take you home."
...what?
Didn't seem to understand the words, even though he had clearly heard them, matter-of-fact as they had been.
Somehow, after that, Toris was on a train to Moscow, sitting silently next to an equally silent Ivan, and even though Toris had felt more exhausted than he thought possible, he couldn't even sleep. Too sick. Mind whirring with too much. Couldn't sleep.
Moscow. Suddenly, he had been in Moscow, and he didn't know how or why, but it had occurred to Toris, blearily, that this Colonel General beside of him could have owned the world if he had wanted to. Just those eyes, and that look on his face. That man could have done anything.
As it turned out, he hadn't been too far off.
Ivan seemed to be able to get away with anything and looked as if he knew it, and when Toris found himself stepping off that train again in the center of Moscow, when he was in another car and being driven into the outskirts of the city, Ivan had looked over at him, and had asked, "You Polish?"
Took Toris a while to find his voice.
"Lithuanian."
"Do you have your papers?"
Toris shook his head. Had left everything behind with Feliks.
God, he hoped, more than anything, that when Feliks got home, when he returned with his tail between his legs, when he saw Toris' things, he hoped that Feliks cried. Hoped that he fell to his knees and reached out to grab that shirt that Toris had left upon the couch. Hoped that he curled up and laid there and cried himself to sleep. Hoped it hurt.
Ivan seemed hardly concerned to Toris' mental anguish, and said softly, over the sound of the street, "Well, I guess tomorrow I'll make you some new ones. Do you want to keep your name? Now's a good time to change it. If you want."
Didn't understand that either, but Toris had shaken his head again.
"Alright."
New papers. Like it were nothing. Ivan could do anything.
What was the point in changing his name? He had never been anyone, anyway. What did it matter what his name was anymore? His life had ended.
Half an hour outside the city, they came up to a house, and Toris was rather resigned by then. What else could he do but just let Ivan take him where he would? His choice had been made for him. The house was another one. Just a house, a normal house, but seemed like so much more. Seemed like the end of the line. Seemed like the edge of the universe. The event horizon. Felt like night. Ivan dragged him out of the car and up to the steps, and when Ivan was shoving him through the door, there had suddenly been a woman in front of him.
A woman?
She had seemed startled, more than anything, wide-eyed and absolutely astounded to see someone else there. Toris had been just as startled, honestly, and could only stare at her. Stuck in that bleary daze. Nothing seemed real anymore. The world didn't seem real. She was, though, apparently, because he could hear her footsteps as she came forward.
Did this terrifying, ruthless man have a wife? How strange. What sort of woman would have ever wound up with a man like that?
A long look between them, before she had finally said, a bit anxiously, "Oh! Ivan, you...made a friend. Hi, there. I'm Irina. His sister. Nice to meet you."
Sister.
Toris felt so lost. So terrified. So defeated. So damn confused, beyond it all.
Beside of him, Ivan was quiet.
Toris finally opened his mouth, and uttered, weakly, "I'm Toris."
That was all he got out.
Wondered, briefly, if this woman was as crazy as her brother.
Irina smiled at him suddenly, walking forward to put her hand to his cheek at the sight of his fear, and Toris knew then, someway, somehow, that he would never leave this place again. That he would never leave these people. Could feel it.
He stepped into the house, the door shut behind him, and just like that, the world was gone.
The sound of that door. Death.
That first day had been a blur at best. Ivan and Irina had been speaking to him, he was sure of it, but their words were white noise. Someone led him into a room and pushed him down onto a bed. A hand on his forehead. A bottle of vodka placed into his hand. Gentle voices.
Toris spaced out there as much as Feliks had in that field.
And he got the answer to his silent question before the end of the day; Irina was as crazy as her brother, just perhaps in different ways. When Toris came to his senses late at night, he could hear them shrieking at each other from time to time, and sometimes in the middle of it all there was slamming doors and screams. Actual screams.
Toris felt terrified of the both of them and spent the first few days sitting stark still in the room Ivan had given him and just not knowing what to do. Didn't know what was happening. Didn't know what was going on.
Didn't know why he was here.
So he just collapsed on the bed, and cried himself senseless. Couldn't breathe half the time, he cried so damn much. Burying his face in the bed and wondering how everything had gone wrong so quickly. How one day had spiraled out of control. The bed was empty; someone had been next to him just the other day.
Ivan came in every day, staring down at Toris from the frame of the door, and on the third day, seeing a sniveling Toris, he had stepped inside the room and asked, sternly, "Why are you crying?"
Why? Why? Was it not obvious?
To that man, perhaps not, and Ivan had added, "Have I done anything to you? I haven't hurt you. I haven't done anything to you. Stop crying. I hate crying, I really do. You're not hurt. It's not even worth crying over. Stop crying, and get angry instead. Break something if you want. But stop crying, for god's sake."
With that, Ivan had backed out and slammed the door shut.
Suffocating silence, as the last dry sobs hung up in Toris' throat.
Not worth crying over. And somehow, well... Somehow, maybe Ivan was right. He had been sitting here bawling for days, when, truthfully, maybe he should have been raising hell. But Ivan had been wrong about being hurt; he was hurt, hurt more than he had thought possible, and it felt so awful that Toris didn't know what else to do. Crying seemed like the obvious solution. In hindsight, though, maybe Ivan was right. Maybe anger was a more appropriate response.
Break something, eh? Oh, yeah, sure, the window, maybe. Ha...
Truthfully, Toris didn't really know why he didn't just break the window and leave. Could have easily broken the window. Could have left. Didn't know why he just sat there. Why he didn't crawl out in the middle of the night and disappear into the city. Why he didn't run.
Too scared.
Felt like Ivan was always watching, even when he wasn't there in the room. Who was to say that Ivan actually wasn't standing on the other side of that window, waiting in the shadows?
And when Ivan was there, when he was watching Toris, Toris felt inexplicably petrified. As if Ivan was able to literally freeze him on spot. Ivan looked him over so intently, with such scrutiny, that Toris couldn't help but wonder exactly what Ivan was trying to see. What Ivan was trying to figure out. Why Ivan's eyes caught his own, bored into them, and then why Ivan usually just walked back out without a word.
What was Ivan thinking?
Every day was the same, that first week. Alone and yet never alone. But Toris didn't spend the day crying, anymore. Something else rose up in the place of despair.
Hate.
All he could do was just sit there and replay that betrayal over and over again in his head since there was just nothing else to do. Every second of every day. Feliks. Always Feliks. He thought about Feliks every day and every night and, for it, it hadn't taken long before Toris had started hating him. Just a few days, actually. More honestly, maybe he could say that he had started hating Feliks the very second that Feliks had frozen in place and lost his voice.
Hate. The first time he had ever truly felt it. It had been easy to sit with those guys and say, 'I hate the Reds', but it had only been words, maybe not a truthful statement, because how could Toris ever really hate something that he didn't know much about? He said it, but he hadn't ever really felt it.
Felt this, though.
Sometimes, late at night, he wished that Ivan had left the decision to him. So that he could have sent Feliks off. So that he could have been the one to stand there and say, 'I can't go.'
That hate started festering there beneath the surface.
Ivan came into his room on the fifth day, saw him sitting there, head hanging but not crying, and said, "Come eat."
Toris had jumped at the voice, wide-eyed and frightened, and had just stayed still long after Ivan had left the room.
He didn't eat. Couldn't. Sick to his stomach.
So he sat silently, instead, and listened to the soft sounds of crooning voices as crazy Ivan and crazy Irina chattered away over dinner, like normal people did, and meanwhile somewhere in Poland there were dead men sprawled out in a field. The sound of silverware on plates and chairs scraping over tile. They had been shot, he knew it, he was sure of it, maybe not Feliks but those men had been shot, and here Ivan was casually going about daily life.
Before long, though, that soft speech turned back into screaming again. They fought so frequently, so randomly, and Toris didn't know why.
Those days were the most terrifying as well as the most confusing in his life. Helplessness.
Didn't know what to do, because he didn't understand anything. Didn't understand what Ivan wanted from him. Couldn't comprehend his sudden role in this world. Where he fit in. Was he just supposed to live here? Was he a member of the family? This crazy family. Was he a ward? A refugee here? A pet? Had Ivan just been so appalled at Feliks' cowardice that he had seen no other choice but to pity Toris and bring him home like a stray dog?
Insanity. This house.
Ivan was gentle with him at first, all things considered, gentle at least after seeing the way he had so ruthlessly taken care of that group. He looked at Toris, perhaps, as a hapless victim, and maybe he had tried to find redeeming qualities in him. Guess he hadn't found any to his liking, because his best efforts at gentleness had lasted for about a month.
Nothing about Toris had impressed Ivan, from the moment they had met. When Feliks had been there before him, Ivan hadn't even once bothered to look at Toris. Ivan had wanted Feliks, god only knew for what, but he tried all the same to adapt to Toris being in the house.
One day, in what had been his second week there, Ivan had come up to him, as he sat forlorn in his bedroom, and had stood before him with a tilted head of curiosity. Toris had been too terrified to even look up at him, as he always was. Pitiful.
A long, hard stare, and Ivan had finally said, in that soft voice, "You haven't eaten. It's been a while. Don't say you're not hungry. You're getting too thin."
He was hungry, he was, but the will didn't come. So he only stared at the floor, and couldn't find his voice.
Ivan must have been tired of his bullshit, though, because he came inside, grabbed his arm, yanked him upright, and dragged him into the kitchen. But Toris had been so terrified of the physical contact that he hadn't been able to eat anything Irina put down in front of him. Just stared at it, dumbly, and made no move to eat. Ivan had furrowed his brow, shook his head, and had lost his patience, coming up from behind and gripping a handful of Toris' hair in a painful vice until he had complied.
Toris never missed a meal after that.
Sure didn't impress Ivan, though, and impressing Ivan had seemed important right away, because Ivan could just up and shoot him at any given time. If Ivan finally got too annoyed with Toris, then who was to say Ivan wouldn't shoot him?
Since Toris didn't know what Ivan wanted, it seemed all the more imperative to try to keep him happy. So hard, though, so hard, because nothing he did ever seemed to make Ivan happy. Could Ivan even be happy, exactly? A strange word to attempt to attach to that man.
Ivan was always angry. Always. Always, and Toris didn't know why.
This house felt like a mousetrap.
Toris didn't know where the springs were, either, so he had to edge along blindly and hope to god that he didn't do anything to piss Ivan off and get his neck snapped for it.
Hadn't been there that long and already he had seen Ivan punching walls quite frequently. Holes all over the place. Had seen Ivan's face when he was screaming at Irina. Had seen that terrifying look of fury and darkness.
Once, it had been him that Ivan had punched, and Toris really didn't even know what he had done.
He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, when Ivan had gone into one of those moods, and hadn't even known what the hell had happened when Ivan had just grabbed his collar, yanked him forward, and clocked him one in the nose. Hadn't broken his nose, surprisingly; Ivan hadn't punched him that hard, not nearly as hard as he could have. Maybe he had just wanted to relieve some stress. Toris' bloody nose was as good as anything.
Other times, Ivan wasn't violent, but was just...
Odd.
Ivan just stared at him, sometimes, just stared and stared and stared, and Toris always looked away because it was too much for him. Irina stared at him, too, and when Toris and Ivan were in the same room together, Irina stopped and watched them so carefully that Toris thought maybe she was trying to see something going on between them, who knew what.
Ivan was always so moody, always so irritable. So angry.
Nothing had ever been as confusing as attempting to discern his purpose in that house. Between this crazy place and a gulag, however...
For the moment, Toris was staying put.
Sometimes, Toris wondered if Ivan regretted bringing him home, because Ivan always looked so agitated. Wasn't sure if it was because of Toris or if Ivan was just always like that. Maybe, in some way, Toris must not have been living up to whatever expectations Ivan had had. Not fair, though; he didn't know what was expected of him.
Didn't know why he was here.
Wanted to, though, so the third week, Toris finally found his voice, and asked a drunk Ivan, carefully, "Why did you bring me here?"
Ivan looked at him from beneath a furrowed brow, eyes bleary, and had said, a bit snappily, "What? What, where do you want to be? Do you want me to send you to a gulag? You want me to send you to prison? Do you want me to shoot you? What do you want?"
Pale and weak and terrified, Toris had immediately responded, "No, that's not what I meant, please, I just... I just wanted to know why. I'm sorry."
Ivan had turned his head away with a grimace, and had seemed agitated after that.
"What? You don't like it here or somethin'? Is that it? Wanna go somewhere else?"
Toris, going into damage control and knowing that 'somewhere else' would probably be a grave, said, "No. I...I like it here. I just don't understand why you wanted me to come here with you."
A scoff.
Then, finally, Ivan uttered, "I didn't. I thought he would go."
Yeah, Toris had always figured as much, and so he didn't really know why it stung just a little to hear Ivan say it. If Ivan didn't want him, then why keep him? Why not let him go? Why put them both into a position neither of them really wanted to be in? Why had Ivan brought him home with him if he was just going to be angry about it all the time?
Toris was too scared to ask again, and knew it was time to shut the hell up.
Not a moment too soon, either, because Toris heard Ivan grumble, later, "Oughta be grateful. I could have had you shot."
That was true, so Toris never questioned it again, even though he was no closer to understanding, because truly he was only alive now by Ivan's whim and good graces. And honestly, when he thought about it, Toris was quite sure that even Ivan didn't know why he had brought Toris home. A spur of the moment decision, no doubt, and Ivan was just as clueless to the reason as Toris was.
Ivan had just done it, and there was no rationality.
Soon, that issue seemed hardly pressing.
A month into Toris' tenure, Ivan became a general, and that was when everything had been flipped. When everything Toris had thought he knew about this place and these siblings was shattered.
Ivan became a general. Something about him had shifted.
He had come back from the city one day, strutting through the door with a high chin, and Toris could see right off in Ivan's self-satisfied sneer that he had been given the world. A ticket to do anything.
And Toris was right. Ivan did own the world now, and he knew it.
At the train station in Krakow, Ivan had seemed so irritated and uncertain about what he was going to do with Toris, fumbling his words and awkward with his gestures. No more. The day Ivan became a general, he never fumbled again. Like something had clicked in his head. Like something in Ivan had woken up. Something had risen. Something had escaped. Toris had been scared of Ivan before; he was terrified of him after that. Absolutely terrified. There weren't even words he knew to describe how frightened he was of that new Ivan. Hadn't ever met a man so terrifying as the one that came home that day with four stars on his shoulder.
And then, suddenly, out of the blue, Ivan said, "We're moving."
Moving?
The day Ivan became a general, he had shifted. Two days later, Ivan left Moscow behind, with a look of absolute relief, and suddenly Toris found himself on another train, this time on the Trans-Siberian. Didn't know where they were going. Almost didn't care by that point.
Ivan didn't even keep an eye on Toris much during the journey, and frequently left him to his own devices while on the train. For good reason; Toris hadn't even bothered trying to escape all this time. Hadn't given one single effort. Didn't know how, or where to go. Didn't belong anywhere. He had slipped into exhausted submission so quickly. Moscow had been his chance to escape. Could have gotten away in Moscow.
Didn't know where he was going now. He missed his chance.
Ten days later, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the end of the line, the last station where the tracks ended, and Toris was in a car. The drive took hours, and Toris could only look out into the endless forests and think, 'By god! Do people really live here?'
Had never thought he would be in Siberia, but here he was. The most feared place on Earth. From now on, though, apparently it was home.
Toris had bee so passive and timid and complacent because, honestly, he had still been in shock about the entire situation. Still felt like a bad dream, still didn't feel real. He hadn't run because he just couldn't believe any of it had happened.
He asked Irina, timidly and quietly so as not to agitate this new Ivan, "Where are we going?"
She twisted around to look at him from the front, and said, just as quietly, "I think it's called Mirny. I don't know much about it. It's really new. We'll be one of the first ones to settle there."
Far from comforting. The great unknown.
Beside of Toris, Ivan had just stared out of the window, arms crossed over his chest, and appeared deep in thought. His foot had been tapping.
Seeing that house for the first time had been rather astounding, rather spectacular, overwhelming and awe-inspiring, and even Ivan had leaned forward to look through the windshield as it loomed out from the distance, hands gripping the seats.
Toris could smell his cologne.
The smile on Ivan's face had frightened Toris then. As if, somehow, Ivan was laying eyes upon something he had damn-well earned. Something he had striven to get. Maybe that scared Toris because he had seen what Ivan was capable of doing to get something he wanted.
Settling there in Siberia, though, settling down in that tiny, brand-new town, didn't seem to make Ivan any less dangerous. Didn't seem to bring him back to that slightly less frightening man that had brought Toris home. Being away from Moscow didn't calm Ivan. Actually, being here seemed to make Ivan worse. Not violently, not physically, but mentally. Stoked his ego, heightened his sense of self-worth. Self-confidence and self-satisfaction had amplified. Siberia seemed to thrust Ivan into the realm of gods.
If there was anything good that Toris could say about Siberia, however, was that it also made Ivan less angry. Less irritable. Ivan was always moody, yeah, but so was Toris. Siberia didn't set Ivan off as much as Moscow had, and Toris was grateful for that. Ivan wasn't angry every day anymore. This strange, crazy man was apparently his family now, one way or another, so him being in a good mood was quite welcome.
Another perk of Siberia was that, since Ivan was in a better mood, Ivan paid Toris more positive attention. He'd take it, if it kept him alive.
The diamond mine was still being carved when Ivan walked Toris out to it a few days after settling into the house, and Toris had gaped at it in wonder, the ore and dirt crunching beneath his feet. Diamond dust, all around. A breathtaking sight.
Ivan had smiled, then, staring out over that mine, and what he said seemed to sum up everything Toris had ever thought about Ivan :
"I own the world now."
It was true, as far as Toris knew.
Ivan turned to him suddenly, looked him up and down, and asked, "Why did you join that group? What did you think you could do there? Did you really think you could accomplish anything?"
They were still strangers. Didn't know a thing about each other. Not a thing, aside from each other's names. Maybe Ivan was finally trying to learn a little about Toris, but Toris couldn't really imagine anything good coming from it. Nothing good ever seemed to come to him when others paid him attention.
But he was already becoming dependent on Ivan for survival, and now he was in godawful nowhere with wilderness all around, so he said, honestly, "I didn't really... It was an accident. I never meant to. I'd only been there for a few months."
Had never even really spoken to Ivan, not really. Over a month together and they hadn't had a real conversation. Kind of exhilarating, to be honest, Ivan speaking to him. Guy like that. A general. Someone powerful. Toris was still rather overwhelmed by the notion of Ivan.
A scoff.
Probably not impressing Ivan, but it was the truth.
"A few months? And yet you were second-in-command, were you not? Ah, if such titles can even be put to such a stupid little group. You must have done something to rise up so fast. What did you do? When I look at you, I don't see too much, to be honest. Surprise me. Tell me. What did you do?"
A wave of hurt. Anger. Hate. Didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to talk about it. And he didn't want to answer, because an honest answer would have been, 'Feliks.' He'd been fucking Feliks, hadn't he, the only damn reason Feliks had ever wanted him out there in the first place, the only reason Feliks had ever let him take control alongside him. All Feliks had ever cared about, apparently.
Bitterness.
So he said, stupidly, "I don't know."
A short silence as Ivan scrutinized him, and maybe Ivan could see the look of distaste upon his face, because he suddenly smirked, and reached into his pocket. A hand on Toris' own, forcing his fingers open, and something was placed in his palm.
He looked down, at the glitter.
Diamonds.
Ivan's eyes were hard, and so was his voice when he said, "Use them. You live with me now. And you can't rise up here without my say so. I own this miserable country, these miserable people. This land. You live with me, so you do too, now. I won't have someone pitiful in my house. Make the most of it, won't you? Don't be a coward like he was. Diamonds get you anything. Use them. Go buy people. Use them, kill them, whatever you want. Get used it. Work yourself up. You live in a new world now. No more laws. No more rules. Forget whoever you were. You're who I tell you to be now. You were nothing. No one. I can make you something. It's too late; you're here now, aren't you? I stand by all of my decisions. I don't make mistakes. You won't be a mistake because I don't make them, you hear? So. Impress me, and you'll rise."
Enthralled by every word that came out of Ivan's mouth, Toris just stared at him in a dumb stupor, and could only nod his head. His heart hammered, because the words had actually felt pretty good. Toris wasn't a mistake. That felt good to hear, for whatever stupid reason.
Rise up to what, though? And impress Ivan how?
Toris stood there by the mine for hours, long after Ivan had gone, uncut diamonds clenched in his hands. Diamonds. Had never seen them before, had never felt them.
Powerful.
Somehow, someway, Ivan's words seemed to light something up, and so did the feel of the rocks within his palm. Or maybe that was just the hate.
Ivan could make him something, he said. Feliks was just a nobody. Coward.
All the while, Toris neatly tried to ignore the fact that he had frozen, too.
The third month, when he had finally thought maybe he was actually settling a little in that huge house, settling into this environment, was when Toris found himself for the first time in that room. That awful room. Couldn't even remember what he had done. Actually, come to think, he was pretty sure that he hadn't done anything at all. Ivan had just been curious, having had that room and wondering if it really worked.
Ivan had just led him up the stairs one day, grabbed his arm, shoved him into the room, and locked the door. No words. No reason. No explanation. Toris hadn't even known what the hell was going on.
Toris had been an experiment, no doubt. Well. The room worked, alright. The worst days of his life, those four days.
Four days.
That was all. Just four days. Hadn't ever known four days could drag so long. It had only been four days. How had it done so much damage? Those awful things he had seen.
Feliks, leaving him all over again. The whispering in his head that was reminding him that Feliks had only wanted him for as long as Toris had stayed in his bed. That Feliks just hadn't cared enough to even raise his voice in protest, because Feliks just hadn't loved him. Hadn't ever loved him, of course not. People used other people all the time, and Feliks had been no different. He had been too damn stupid to realize it was all.
Every fear he had ever had in his life came to reality in that room.
Voices in his head, all the time. Constant reminders of his own ineptitude. His parents, disowning him and shunning him for being stupid enough to fall for this entire charade. Everyone he had ever loved, turning their backs on him just because he had been stupid. He had been stupid. But everyone was stupid at some point, everyone made mistakes, and everyone got a second chance.
Not him.
Four days, sprawled on the floor crying to himself and clenching diamonds in his hands, cutting himself on them as he stepped on them mindlessly. Talking to them.
Four days.
His one mistake seemed to be the end of his life. Life as he had known it, anyway; when Ivan opened that door at last, at last, after those awful four days, when Toris crawled outside, covered in blood, and grabbed onto Ivan's legs for dear life, when Toris had spent the night muttering to himself, when the dawn had broken the next day, Toris finally realized that he was in a new life.
The old one had gone. Feliks had gone.
He couldn't run away, because he had nowhere to go and no one to go to, and really, when he thought about it, if he had run then, as Ivan had said, he would just be nobody again. No one had ever looked at him twice, no one except Feliks, no one that hadn't wanted something from him. Ivan was the only thing around now, in this isolation and desolation, and those whispers, those voices that had been in his head, seemed to have made Toris come to a realization :
Ivan was keeping him, Ivan had brought him here, Ivan had given him those diamonds, Ivan was allowing him to be alive, because Ivan could see something there in Toris that he had never been able to.
Ivan saw something.
That day, when Feliks had turned, that awful, indescribable wrath that had come up from out of nowhere; Toris had never known he could feel that, not something like that, not a boring guy like him, but maybe Ivan could sense the potential for something hateful and dangerous in Toris. Maybe Ivan kept him now because Ivan could somehow anticipate things to come. Maybe Ivan could see that Toris didn't know who he was, didn't know what he wanted in life, didn't know a damn thing about the world.
Ivan could see that Toris was capable of absolute hatred, and therefore capable of who knew what, and Ivan could see that Toris had been easy to mold.
Ivan took advantage of it, and before he had even healed up, Ivan had thrown him back in that room, but only for a day. For the next week, Ivan threw him in there every other day, just to make him crazy, and it worked. Didn't take long before the sight and sound of doors brought up the notion of utter terror.
Doors.
Toris' head might have never been screwed on right, but Ivan knew how to make it worse.
Doors. Couldn't stand them anymore, couldn't stand the sound of one shutting.
By the time Ivan had let him out the last time, uttering only, "That's enough for now," Toris didn't know where the hell he was or who he was, but he knew one thing—hate.
Rise up.
Maybe that was Toris' purpose here. Just to hate the world. Maybe that was what Ivan had wanted. Ivan seemed to hate the world, so maybe he wanted a companion. Anyone could start hating the world, in the right circumstance. Being in that room had made Toris realize that anyone could be crazy, no matter where they may have come from or how plain and nice they had once been. Sitting there, nursing his wounds in silence, Toris had realized that loving the world was more exhausting than hating it. Loving took work and thought and sacrifice. Hate required nothing. Easier to use people.
Anger seeped in.
Doors.
With every day that passed from that point on, Toris had woken up every morning and felt ever the more angry. And he didn't know why. Sometimes he woke up and felt agitated. Sometimes he woke up and felt rather normal. Sometimes he woke up and felt lethargic. And sometimes, sometimes he woke up and just wanted to scream. Sometimes, it was Toris who punched walls.
Ivan just watched him, and every so often, Toris caught him smiling. Ivan watched, and waited.
Couldn't sleep anymore; the door wouldn't let him.
Four months into his new life was when Ivan finally stared at him from the door of a room, and had said, oddly, "Toris. Come here."
Toris had obeyed, immediately, pulse racing and hoping to god that he hadn't done anything wrong, that room still very fresh in his mind, but Ivan didn't look angry, and when Toris crept into the room and the door had been shut behind him, he saw that Irina was there, too.
They stared at him, and Ivan came forward, reaching out.
Toris jumped and flinched, standing up straight even as he ducked his chin down and braced himself. Not a conscious choice. Just his defensive reaction around a dangerous man. Ivan didn't hit him, though, didn't grab him roughly or violently as he often had before in Moscow, and suddenly reached out to absently brush his hair, as Feliks once had.
A rush of anger, so powerful that it burned, and he was quick to push Feliks' name from his mind. Didn't want to hear that name ever again, even in his own head. Hated that man.
That man.
Ivan's fingers went to his chin, grabbed it firmly, forced his head up, and there was a silent observation. Toris could only wait. Ivan pulled back soon, put his hands on his hips as he continued to look Toris over. After a while, Toris dared a glance up, and could see that Ivan's face was actually quite relaxed. Seemed almost happy, in a way. As if he were excited about something.
Steadily, Toris stopped bracing, and then suddenly Ivan was holding out Toris' arm, sensing the width of his shoulders, measuring his height with his eyes alone, and it became apparent that Ivan was sizing him up. For what?
When Ivan pulled back again, he nodded his head to himself, and said, to himself, "Yeah, I think that'll be good."
Then Ivan was searching through drawers, and, out of nowhere, Toris found himself being stripped down and stuffed into a uniform. A uniform? He had looked down, dumbly, at the clothes he was suddenly wearing.
Olive.
...hadn't ever thought he'd be wearing a Red Army uniform. So long sabotaging that army, so long riling them up. So long doing everything to irritate them. Maybe he was dreaming somewhere. Drunk or something. Still locked in that room.
Ivan stood up straight, and then said, "Senior Sergeant! I think that's good for you."
Felt like he was dreaming for sure when Ivan was suddenly brushing him down, straightening things up, and then dragged him over to the mirror with a noise of approval. Hands in his hair again, this time as Ivan pulled back his loose hair to better see him in the mirror.
Toris wasn't going to lie and say that Ivan's rough hands didn't feel good when they weren't hitting him.
Another 'hm' of contentment.
Irina said, from behind, "Oh! Say, he looks good in that, doesn't he?"
Good? Him? In this uniform? Confused as hell, yeah, but he looked at himself in the mirror all the same, at his reflection, and felt strange. Was that really him?
He was a little paler than he had been before, for all these months in limbo. A bit thinner. His eyes were heavier, the circles under them quite visible, and yet, somehow, that look of tiredness seemed to make the uniform look that much better. More real. When was the last time anyone had seen a happy Red soldier? His hair was out of his face, held back by Ivan's hands, the embroidery on the shoulders made them look sterner and broader. The color wasn't so bad with the shade of his skin, and it made him look taller and bigger than he was. He looked...
Well.
Looked like Ivan. Looked almost just like Ivan, just a little smaller and with darker hair. Looked like Ivan. Felt like he had opened the door to that vehicle all over again, only this time he saw himself there, although he didn't recognize it as himself.
Go figure.
Not a lamb anymore. Looked more like a hawk. A raptor, ready to swoop. Was this what Ivan had seen in him all along? Was this what Ivan had been building him up to? All those days in that room; had they been in preparation for this?
Ivan stared at him in the mirror for a bit, lifted up his chin, and said, "You look better in it than I thought, I admit."
Ridiculously, strangely, absurdly, Toris had stared at himself in that mirror, and felt a twinge of pride, exacerbated by Ivan's words of approval. Never in his life, in his dull, boring life, had he ever thought he would wear an army uniform, not in his craziest delusions. Ivan nitpicked here and there, as Toris gazed at himself in what felt like awe. Felt mesmerized.
He found himself looking at Ivan, once his voice came back, and asking, "Why are you giving me this? Is this really mine?"
Ivan had stared at him for a while, and then said, "There's a lot of work in being a general, you know. More than I thought, honestly. I could use someone to help me out. Paperwork and all. Maybe I can take you out, sometimes. Meetings. Get you out there and get you settled. That way you can help me out with papers and such. Didn't I tell you about rules? I'll take you out, sometime, and show you how to run the world. Aren't you angry? Don't you feel like hurting someone?"
Run the world.
That twinge of pride exploded into a fire. The thought of helping Ivan, in whatever way, seemed somehow exhilarating, because he was angry, and sometimes he thought about hurting that man.
Had been so boring all his life.
That man had betrayed him.
And so, Toris could only really figure that it was that bitterness that led him to say, "I speak a couple of languages, if you ever need that, too."
Even though his voice was pale and weak, he still felt so damn important suddenly. Hoped that man could feel this, somehow. Hoped it was painful.
Ivan had lifted up his brow, leering a little, and seemed quite satisfied with himself. As if Toris' compliance with all of this would be extremely beneficial to him. Toris knew that Ivan was doing it to help himself, to relieve that burden of being a general a bit, but he took the uniform anyway, because he looked good in it and it made him feel important.
Because, steadily, that hate for that man was causing him to lose touch with that side of himself that had loved life and the world.
The wheel kept turning, and just when Toris had found balance, something new came up. He drifted further from himself, and somehow closer. Not the Toris his parents had known, but one that he felt might have been there all along. One that didn't seem like such a stranger. He was who he was, and everyone had two sides.
He let go of his gentle side, and let the dark one out.
Underneath it all, though, was always that voice of reason. Conscience. No matter how hard Toris tried, he couldn't kill it, so instead all he could do was sweep it under the rug and hope it didn't come out at a bad time.
Being powerful, being in that house, being with Ivan, was suddenly the most important thing in Toris' life, even if he knew that Ivan was only doing it for himself. Ivan became something more than a housemate. Than a warden. Ivan become the man that could turn Toris into something. Ivan could see it, could see how desperate he was to be somebody, could see how much he needed a leader, a purpose, a function, how much he needed someone to tell him that he was worthy, because Toris had never been able to see it by himself. Ivan could see it, and was giving it to him, in his own way.
That uniform came with its own curse, though, and that curse came in the form of Ivan's training. Couldn't wear the uniform without earning it. Had to learn to be a soldier. Ivan was as ruthless in training Toris as he had been in that field, as uncaring and unbending. Physical endurance became a part of his daily routine, and Ivan ran him into the dirt, pushing him to the point where he sometimes quite literally collapsed in exhaustion.
Beyond that, there were more technical details.
How to stand at attention. How to perfect his posture. How to hold his chin up and chest out and shoulders straight. How to look confident and strong, even if he wasn't. How to harden his face. How to hold his hands. How to place his feet. How to move his knees. How to press the uniform. How to walk as if he were walking right on top of other people.
Ivan taught him everything.
And the salute was the worst, the absolute worst. Took him so long to get it right, and every time he didn't, every time he flinched, every time his line wasn't perfectly straight, every time his wrist bent, Ivan slapped him across the face. Not so hard, hardly enough to even sting, but enough to get the point across that a damn salute was the last thing he ever wanted to mess up in front of real soldiers.
Ivan beat it into him, so that Toris would blend in amongst the others, even though Toris honestly at that point had still thought that maybe Ivan had just been leading him on.
It took about a month. Might have taken longer, but Ivan's rough hands and Toris' own desire to make that man squirm from afar spurred him on to learn faster.
Once he had settled into the uniform, once he had gotten the salute right, Toris had looked himself in the mirror one day, hair pulled back and posture absolutely perfect, and realized that he was proud of himself. He looked important, and that made him feel important. Ivan was making him into something. Didn't even matter what.
Realized then that not only did he no longer look like a lamb, but he didn't feel like one anymore, either. Felt strange. Aggressive sometimes for no reason. Angry. Irritated. Agitated. Snapping all the time without being aware of it. Hissing like a snake. Felt so jittery, so stressed, so overwhelmed, so frustrated, so helpless underneath it all. In response, maybe defensively, he became aggressive.
If he had attached himself to that man so fervently, so quickly, in only a few months, then really he was just doing the same thing all over again, only this time he attached himself to Ivan. That man had brought out Toris' love of life; Ivan brought out the abhorrence for everything.
That man had made Toris care about the world and the people in it. Ivan told him that the world and the people in it were just there to own and use.
Didn't even take Toris that long to start accepting it and believing it. That long to change. That long to snap. Could only hit even the friendliest dog so many times before it started biting, and Toris wondered if his line had been crossed. Ivan had gotten to him, yeah, but wouldn't have been able to if it hadn't been for that man. Toris wouldn't have believed so easily that the world was horrible if that man hadn't betrayed him.
His fault, not Toris'.
Something in Toris had slipped off the cliff, and Toris was steadily becoming more aggressive.
Never to Ivan, but sometimes he snipped at Irina without thinking about it. Ivan didn't seem to mind his moodiness; rather, Ivan looked like he enjoyed it. Ivan was moody, too, after all. Took one to know one, as they said. Hell, sometimes, Toris' changing moods actually made Ivan smile. One morning, Irina had said, 'Good morning, Toris', and Toris had thrown back, irritably, 'It'll be better when you leave me alone.' Irina had furrowed her brow and looked angry and offended, but Ivan had raised up his head from his coffee and barked out a laugh, looking oddly pleased.
Irina hadn't spoken to him for days.
Toris felt strange sometimes.
Thinking about it all, maybe it hadn't been that man that had shoved Toris towards that cliff. Maybe it hadn't been Ivan. Maybe it was just Toris, the way he really was, and now he had the opportunity to come out because there was no one around to tell him otherwise. Maybe he had always been walking on the edge of that cliff, and had finally lost his balance. Maybe he had always really been a wolf, camouflaged amongst the sheep and biding time.
After all, he had realized in Poland that he had liked causing trouble. Maybe this was the next step upwards.
Six months.
Ivan was fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. The smartest man Toris had ever met, brilliant, cunning, and at the same time he was also the craziest. Couldn't figure Ivan out. Couldn't figure out what made him tick. What set him off. Couldn't figure out what was going on in Ivan's head. Fascinating. Wanted to know more about him. Wanted to understand him.
It didn't take Toris too long being in Siberia to realize that he liked it when Ivan paid him attention, no matter how irritated or how annoyed or sometimes how violent that attention may have been, although Ivan's violence seemed to come completely at random and less frequently out here. Toris was terrified of him, absolutely, and yet something about Ivan was so interesting that Toris just wanted to know more.
Six months. Couldn't believe he had only been here for six months. Felt like so much longer.
Winter had already hit this town long before the rest of the world, and Toris couldn't go outside anymore. Hadn't been taught that by Ivan yet. Hadn't been taught how to survive this cold. Since he was trapped, Toris was learning more about them. Learned more and more about Ivan these days, mostly because he pried information out of Irina when she was drunk.
And Irina was drunk a lot.
Lately, Toris had been too, because Ivan had been gone, out on a tour, and despite his declarations, Ivan hadn't yet taken Toris out with him, so all he could do was stay behind with Irina and drink.
This land, this isolation, this silence, this nothingness seemed to be taking a toll on Irina, in a different way than it had her brother; Siberia had made Ivan feel as if he owned the world, and yet to Irina it had seemed to make her feel as if life had ended.
Toris sat with her on the couch every night that Ivan was gone, and listened to her tipsy chattering as she leaned into his side, sometimes resting her head down on his shoulder. She didn't scare him so much anymore, crazy or no, and sometimes she got on his last nerve, but steadily he began to view her as easy access to Ivan.
Couldn't ask Ivan about himself, because he was too scared, so he asked Irina. Through Irina, Toris met Ivan. Maybe he was using her loneliness for his own gain, but if he was then someone else had taught him to do that. Everything he knew nowadays, it seemed, had been taught to him by someone else.
One night, as they sat pressed together on the couch, Toris had slung his arm over her shoulders, she had smiled as she pressed her head down against his chest, and Toris had felt confident enough to ask her about what had made Ivan so crazy in the first place.
All he had asked was, "So! Why is Ivan so strange? What made him that way?"
Hadn't actually said the word 'crazy', because she was the same and he didn't want to offend her before she could spill the beans.
Luckily for him, her chatterbox mouth was happy to keep on a movin', and she immediately said, "Oh, it happened a long time ago."
Then, she started talking. Toris paid attention.
The first time he had heard the story of Ivan's childhood and family. Of his father. Knowing Ivan. Toris memorized every single word that came out of Irina's mouth and applied it to the puzzle he was constructing in his head.
She seemed oblivious to what Toris really wanted from her, and afterwards, she had looked up at him, and had said, randomly, "You're very handsome, Toris. Have I told you that? You look really nice in this uniform. You've gotten really strong."
A puff of his chest and lift of his chin, and he had only grunted a quick, "Thanks."
A nose nuzzled into his shoulder. She grabbed hold of his bicep, and he flexed a bit for her, 'cause why the hell not. As long as she kept talking. And she did.
"Oh, Toris, I hate it here so much! I miss Moscow. Isn't that stupid? It was my idea, you know, to come here. Well, not here, but it was my idea to move, because Ivan hates Moscow, but I wish now that I hadn't said anything. I hate it here. I can't stand it. I miss people. I hate being alone all the time."
Fingers in his shirt. Toris sat there, and didn't twitch a muscle as she kept nuzzling into him. Knew what she wanted, knew she was so lonely that Toris seemed like a damn good option, and had every intention of playing along for as long as she would tell him everything he wanted to know.
"Why did you want to move?"
A bleary glance.
"Ivan gets into trouble so much. He gets away with most of it, but if he had stayed there he would have done something that would have gotten him into so much trouble that he would have been arrested. I know. I could tell. He was getting worse. Out here, I guess it's better for him, because there's not so much to do. But, oh... I hate it here."
A silence, and before Toris could think of any more questions, Irina finally had one of her own.
She pressed her face into his neck, hand running over his chest, and asked, quietly, "Has Ivan done anything...strange?"
Toris had just lifted his brow and asked, "What do you mean?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Toris was always watching the door, just in case.
Hated doors.
Irina didn't look at him, and her fingers kept on clenching and unclenching in the fabric of his shirt.
"With you, I mean. I know he's always been a little...well. Different. Sometimes, I wonder. He was engaged, you know, back in Moscow, but he broke it off the day before we left. He never did love her, I knew that, but he wasn't ever really normal around women. He hasn't told me anything, but I can see it. He can't hide anything from me. He brought you here. He's never brought anyone home, never, and I thought... Well. He won't say it, but I know. Has he gone into your room?"
Toris had almost lost the last of her words, stunned as he had been at the thought of Ivan having ever been engaged.
Engaged? Astonishing.
Beyond his shock, Toris grasped what she was alluding to, and he answered, softly, "No."
Ivan hadn't ever wanted him. That was why he had to strive twice as hard. Ivan had wanted someone else, and with Irina's words, Toris might have started to understand why. Ivan must have seen something in that man that he had liked, and that was why Ivan had been so set on him, never casting Toris a second glance. Ivan had seen, too, perhaps, how beautiful that man had been. That shouldn't have agitated Toris quite as much as it did.
Irina was still for a while, and then asked, "Really? I'm surprised. Would you... Would you want him to?"
By then, Toris was pretty sure that Irina was asking to figure out her own chances rather than those of her little brother, and Toris couldn't really figure out what to say to that. He was terrified of Ivan, but was fascinated by him, too, and the thought of Ivan ever actually coming into his room and locking the door was somehow horrifying and exhilarating.
He couldn't even figure out what the hell he felt for Ivan.
Hated him, had always hated him, since the first moment Ivan had uttered those words, and yet lately he had started adoring him in an odd way. Hate and love, after all, could go hand in hand. And maybe if he could love someone so much one day and then hate them the next, the opposite could be just as true. As much as he hated Ivan, it was absolutely possible to love him the next day.
Ivan was unlike any other human he had ever met, and sometimes Toris wondered if he actually was human. That alone was worth some interest.
So, finally, he said, "I don't know."
Irina, drunk as she was, finally cut to the chase and asked, "Would you want me to?"
Aw, hell.
Now what? Didn't wanna hurt her feelings. Didn't wanna make her feel terrible. She was pretty and all, in her own way, but he was quite certain he wouldn't have been able to actually give her what she wanted even if he had tried; just wasn't interested in the slightest. Couldn't have kept it up for long. Probably couldn't even have started, come to think. Anyway, to be quite frank, she was old enough to be his mother.
He put his hand on the top of her head, but when she suddenly tried to lean up and kiss him, he reached out, grabbed her wrist to hold her still, and said, as gently as he could while keeping a safe distance, "Don't. Ivan will be angry with me, don't you think?"
All he could think of to say.
Hated that look of hurt on her face, though, but it quickly passed into something darker. And when she pulled away from him, when she scoffed, when she turned her eyes straight ahead, Toris saw a little of Ivan there in her.
He got up then and left her there on the couch, perhaps a bit callously, and went into the kitchen to sit at the table, drink in hand, and pondered. With every bit of information, Toris somehow felt ever the more important, as if by learning all there was to know about Ivan that maybe he could somehow start to emulate him.
Couldn't wait for Ivan to come back. Couldn't wait to go out.
Toris was entranced by Ivan, by everything about him, and he didn't know why, except for perhaps that Ivan scared him so much that being awed by him was just a natural response. Wished, though...
More than anything, he wished that he could have gone back in time, and could have been more confident when Ivan had first brought him home. Wished that he could have impressed Ivan right off. Wished that Ivan would have been disappointed at his cowardice, but that he could have been quickly pleased with Toris.
Couldn't be. He'd blown his chance, crying as he had those first days, and Ivan was the kind of man that you only had one shot at impressing. Too late.
All he could do now was try to find some kind of stable ground, some kind of place, and try to build himself up in Ivan's eyes. Didn't have anyone else. Didn't feel like he belonged anywhere else. Wanted Ivan to look at him and be impressed.
He wore the uniform almost every day, because he liked the way he looked in it.
Time dragged.
A year there, the longest year of his life, and Ivan had pulled him roughly into the office for the first time.
Toris wouldn't ever forget the way it had felt when Ivan had forced him in front of the map on the wall and directed his eyes forward. Homesickness, right off; Lithuania, home, tiny towns circled here and there, and a horrible longing. So long, so long, hadn't seen that country in so long. Had almost forgotten what it looked like. Had forgotten what his house looked like. Hadn't had any contact with his parents in so long, so long, he had been meaning to call them all that time he had been in Poland but he had kept putting it off and off, and then it was too late.
So homesick.
Ivan had grabbed his hand, raised it up, and placed within it a pen.
"Pick one," he had said.
Toris hadn't really heard him at first, staring up at that map and wanting more than anything to burst into tears. The fear of that room kept him still, and kept the pen firm in his fingers.
Home.
The sight of it cleared up his head, if only for a little bit, and it hit him hard to remember in that moment that he was in Siberia. Siberia! Had a man ever said such a thing? 'I'm in Siberia.' Had been in Lithuania two years ago, had been home. Why had he left in the first place? Should have stayed home. Shouldn't have left. Shouldn't have wandered off. Shouldn't have let Feliks lead him on.
Feliks.
That name. Feliks.
Ivan raised his hand, and put in on the map.
"Pick one," he said again, with less patience. "I'm burning one tomorrow. Pick which one dies. You've got a uniform now. You have to act like a soldier. Remember what I told you."
Didn't feel like a soldier, suddenly, no matter how much he loved to wear the uniform. Didn't want this. Had just wanted to wear it, was all. Had wanted to look the part without acting it.
Homesickness turned into nausea. Choose people to die? He couldn't. Not there.
That creeping hate and apathy fled suddenly in the light of reality. Could say it, could say it all the time, could say that he hated the world, but when it came down to it, when it was life or death, Toris choked, choked, because never in his life had he ever truly wanted to hurt anybody. Had never wanted to kill anyone. Had never wanted anyone to get hurt because of him or by him.
Couldn't do it.
Ivan looked down at him, from beneath a lofty brow, and as Toris stood there, open-mouthed and dumb, Ivan reached out, grabbed a page of the map, and flipped it up. The country before him was Poland now. More towns, circled.
One of them he recognized.
Ivan might have been smiling; Toris really couldn't remember. Too stunned.
"Or you can pick one of these instead."
Poland. He had been there, he had lived there, that country had almost become home, but someone had ruined it.
Ivan grabbed his hand, and held it above the map, loosely. Ivan's other hand had grabbed his belt, and he was literally being held in place in front of that map, given no room to flee. That soft voice, close by his ear.
"Come on, it's not hard. Hell! Burn the whole fuckin' country, why don't you? Why don't you? Take the damn pen and do it. Do to him what he did to you."
Do to him what he did to you. Those words floated in his ears, and lit something up. Ivan kept on talking, but Toris didn't hear him anymore. Just saw that town. A year. It had been an entire fuckin' year, an entire year that he had been left to suffer without even a word of protest, without even an effort, without a care—
He hadn't really been aware of it when his hand flew up and drew a great, red X over that town. Not even a second of hesitation, he had acted so quickly.
A silence.
Ivan's smile turned into a leer, the hand in his belt released, and the page of the map fluttered down.
"That's that, then."
It hadn't been that bad, at first.
It was later on, when he was alone and when he woke up again, that he buried his face in his hands and cried.
That he realized what a fuckin' coward he was. Do to him what he did to you; not quite. Feliks had sold him out, but hadn't killed people for it. Innocent people dyin' for nothing more than a personal grudge. That group was dead, surely, Ivan had killed them all at the last minute, on the brink, he had heard the gunshots, and that town didn't have a damn thing to do with it, but Toris had picked it anyway, just because the thought of that place made him so angry.
Not their fault.
He cried all night.
For the last time. That was the last time he cried in that house. Didn't even notice, really, that he had stopped crying afterwards. Just couldn't seem to muster that kind of emotion again. Couldn't seem to find the will to care again. It had hurt so much beforehand, so much thinking about it, so much contemplating it, and to be quite honest, that hurt was just too much work. Too tiring. Didn't see the point.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It had just happened, out of nowhere. Just stopped caring. Felt more like something had been extinguished. Felt like someone had walked up and tossed dirt onto the fire.
And he remembered before long why he had left Lithuania. Because he had been no one there, because there had been nothing, nothing, no life at all for him, and he had left to find something better, to make himself better. In a way, he had succeeded. Back home, the twitch of his finger would never had crossed the borders of countries. Out here it could.
Power.
Afterwards, when Ivan looked at him the same way he always had, it started creeping up on Toris that maybe he hadn't done such a bad thing after all. Nobody looked at him differently. Nobody seemed to notice. Never even heard anything about it on the radio or the papers. Like it never happened. Maybe it hadn't. Honestly, at some level, Toris had stopped caring. Easy enough to blame the whole thing on Feliks and call it a day. Feliks took the blame for that town, not him. Feliks took the blame for everything. Feliks had put him in this position. Feliks had brought him here, to Siberia, one way or another.
And when Ivan came up to him one day, seeing the rather absent look on his face, and asked, "Is it bothering you?" Toris only shook his head.
Not anymore. Didn't care.
Ivan had smiled then, lifted up his head, and said, "See? I knew you'd get it. It's because you're smarter than most people." Toris glanced up at Ivan, coming back to alertness at the words, and was very nearly feeling something close to elation when Ivan added, "That's why you're getting it so fast. Guys like us don't have to worry about things that other people do. We're smarter than that. That's the great thing about intelligence, isn't it. Getting to see how stupid other people are. Using that. You'll be fine, once you stop worrying about rules. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have given you that uniform. If I had thought you weren't cut out for it, I would have shot you."
Well. Perhaps the closest he could ever really get to Ivan complimenting him.
Hypnotized and feeling ridiculously close to happy, for the first time since Prague, Toris had only nodded. He could do it, if Ivan thought he could.
And, hell, Ivan was right; he was smarter than most people, and maybe that was why it was easier for him to let go of things so easily. Being smart didn't necessarily mean being kind, or moral. Nothing at all to do with each other, in fact, and most of the worst people in history had been pretty brilliant. Being a bad guy wasn't so unappealing. Gave him that sense of importance and worth and control that he had always been lacking, even though the cost of his humanity had felt so high. It would get easier. Everything always did.
He didn't really know who the hell he was, so he may as well have been whoever Ivan told him to be.
As much as he had started hating the world, more than anything he hated himself.
A wolf.
