Work Text:
St. Seraphim of Sarov - Odessa Oblast.
Church.
Here you sometimes meet because it makes an ironic amount of sense;
The house of god is open to everyone, even sinners.
Especially sinners, in fact.
And it's not that Vladimir Makarov sought his forgiveness or feared god (or anyone, a for that matter - if he had a conscience, he wouldn't be Vladimir Makarov), he dedicated his killings to Him. He shed blood for Him. In his own mind's eye, uttering his infamous words - S'Nami Bog before ending the lives of hundreds on the floors of Moscow's Zakahaev International Airport last thursday was only logical and as common as breathing. God guided his actions in his own mind's eye - god and the love of one's country. God would guide Russia into a new era. A new dawn. A better, braver chapter of history. The epilogue his motherland so duly deserved after all the pain and suffering and injustice it had to endure. so, felling lives of a couple of hundred, to better the lives of millions? Not, even God could deny or judge such providence. After all, God sacrificed his only son for the salvation of all of mankind. And Vladimir's God was a vengeful, bloodthirsty god. Vladimir's god cheered on him when he committed atrocities. Vladimir's own, personal, self-serving God rested on the tip of his rifle, coaxing him to fire every so now and then. At least, Vladimir believed he did.
So, if anyone understood Vladimir's reasoning, it would have been this God himself.
Well, God and you - what a lonesome, wretched duo.
Now, you never really thought, in all your wildest moments, that you'd psychoanalyze an international terrorist, and least of all, twistedly enough, understand his reasoning even though you could never, ever, ever get behind him, but here you were, lighting a candle in front of the the visage of a solemn, Byzanthine Mary embezzled in gold, blurred by the fog of the incense caressing your nostrils, a scarf draped over the top of your hair as people passed you quietly, all lighting their own lights for their own prayers, own hopes, own health, own loved ones - lighting one of your own - no reason in particular - purely to have something to do while you waited and to appear less suspicious. What were you doing in an Orthodox church anyway? This was Vladimir's faith of choice. You were merely a casualty. Feeling like you almost tried to clear yourself off in front of whatever deity loomed beneath the colorful, saint- fresco riddled sky-high dome of the monumental building that surrounded you - you wanted some comfort as well. Maybe a nod. A sign. You weren't keen on the religious and the superstitious and the supernatural all that much, but you wanted a soft breeze of empathy from someone, someplace, somehow, before you're condemned to the fiery furnace you so rightfully deserved.
For accepting a lingering, tender kiss on the cheek.
From someone on Interpol's wanted list.
In broad daylight.
In a church.
-"Your face was all over news."-
You managed bitterly, scoffing through a seething, low whisper.
Not as much through anger as much resignation and apathy.
Not the first time you saw Makarov fresh on your feed.
Not the first time your morning snack was graced with his butchery.
Sometimes, quite often in fact, it's the only way you could see him at all.
Sometimes, you saw him so very seldom that you had to wait for a killing spree.
You had to wait for him to massacre someone to see as much as a photo of his face.
How twisted was that - innocent people had to die for you to get a glimpse of a loved one?
And, if nobody died, you were left with nothing at all but fading, old memories.
Trapped between wanting to spare civilians and desperately wanting him.
To show up, on the news, first thing, knowing what it would cost.
A dozens of lives for some grainy, unclear, ten-second footage captured on a security
camera uploaded to some seedy news channel or site.
My goodness, you were awful.
-"Did they use a nice picture at least, lastochka?"-
Vladimir whispered into your ear, jovial, happy almost, making it look like he was merely leaning over by accident and not association, looking around and throwing glances over his shoulder to see if everything was clear and if anyone per chance, recognized him, crossing himself in front of the Mother of God and lowering his head briefly in respect in true fundamentalist nature - how dare he joke? How dare he be so casual? Make a mockery out of all of this? You would've screamed and cried and trashed your fists against his chest if you were standing anywhere else, but as things were, you could only continue fuming and reminiscence over your own envy at couples - people - who could see one another normally. Imagine, being able to look at the face of the love of your life on a daily basis without hiding. Without guilt. Without self-loathing. Without fearing. Without having to first turn on the TV to see the news anchor bring up some newly-taken, blurry shot of his accompanied by a death toll of over one hundred. You wanted to grab the couples taking this privilege for granted and shake them until they realize just how lucky - how insanely blessed they are - to have, without much effort, something you never will.
Peace.
-"You asked to meet, so I came. What do you want?"-
You cut to the chase rather nervously. Wanting to make this short and swift, realizing, again, in shame, you were looking out for him, in a sense - rudely so, but still. That you were scared for him. The prospect of him getting spotted and caught. In a most unlikely of places, but nonetheless, you were harboring a criminal. This too, was highly unlawful and morally all over the place. If discovered, you could overnight become the most loathed person this side of the planet just by being connected to who you were being connected and by merely standing here and talking. Having a rendezvous. Sharing whispers with the enemy. And you never even fired a bullet in your life. You never hurt a fly. You pay your bills on time. You tip your waiters when a tip is expected. You're polite to cashiers. You return people's lost wallets without so much as taking a penny. You try not to litter any trash. And you mind your own business. And yet, there was merely a inch, separating that person which you are, to this lowlife, spineless slime of an individual shielding, possibly, one of the worst men on the planet. Or maybe they were one and the same.
Whatever it was, you wanted this over with so you could go home and cry in privacy.
-"To take percussions, if by any chance, I die -"-
Vladimir spoke flatly, like it was nothing and you nearly choked up in tears.
Preventing yourself from spitting in his face right before he could even finish.
Cutting him off on the spot, knowing exactly where he was headed with this all.
His campaign, however indignified, was always at least half way a suicide mission.
Makarov knew this very well and he was fine with it - he was a soldier by trade.
A soldier was always at least partially prepared to pay with his life.
And he was more then a soldier - he was by far, worse then one too.
Volodya was actually quite willing to put it all on the line.
And you were partially relieved by the idea of his death.
Partially shattered by it too
-"God, I hope you do."-
You icily snapped back at him - elbowing him into his side with a thud.
The oily, unmoving eyes of the fresco saints around you staring at you like they hoped you meant it.
You did and you didn't.
-"Light a candle for me once in a while. In case the worst happens. Or the best, where you're concerned."-
He hugged you as he spoke, a sincere, open, pure gesture, somewhat surprising you, his nose against the thick, winter shoulder-padding of your coat, leaving you to the conclusion, that a personal note, Vladimir perhaps had nobody left alive outside of yourself who would even care to silently, secretly commemorate him, in case, he mercifully enough, gets taken out and leaves the world a better place with his passing. Especially not after the incident at the Zakahaev Airport. No siblings. No living father. No living mother. No known cousins, distant or close willing to claim him. No military classmates from his time at the Academy. Then it hit you. Whatever happens to a terrorist when he dies? Who buries them? Perhaps, they're thrown into an unmarked grave lest their resting place becomes a shrine and unwanted symbol to wannabe dissidents, warmongerers? A burial at sea? A private, hush-hush type of affair nobody speaks of in the higher-ups? Was Volodya sensing something? Was his intuition alerting him to something? You prayed that he cease to exist for so long but you never accounted for it actually coming true one day. You only ever thought of how it would affect the world in a positive light in the long run. Not you. And it affected you so badly you too late came to the conclusion you were sobbing into his grey knitted scarf. Was this in a sense, his last will? A warning? A goodbye? Was he teasing? Playing? Testing you? Making another cruel joke? Or was he for real?
-"What about the 243 people you butchered this week alone!? Who's going to light a candle for all of them, Volodya!? What about the death toll over 30.000 they said you were responsible for in total!? Is there enough candles in all of Russia to account for them!?"-
You uttered, through heavy, broken pants.
Relaying to him what you heard and read about him.
Wrath, sadness, disgust, indignity and pity intermingling.
Hugging back so tightly that you felt your fingers ache from the contact.
To an outside observer, you were just a couple making a soulful reunion at a church.
But, to you, this was something else entirely - something so much different.
He didn't say it upfront, but in a sense, he was saying goodbye in advance.
Saying goodbye just in case he doesn't get a second chance to ever again.
To make amends with you, get some semblance of closure perhaps.
And Volodya was a sheer strategist at heart even now.
He didn't leave anything to chance.
Not even the very possibility of farewells.
-"Na Rossiyu prikhoditsya vse."-
He added simply, softly, tenderly almost and you immediately knew what his words meant - he was denying none of the long line of deeds he's done and making no attempts to argue and defend himself, merely smoothing your cheek and wiping away a tear like it was something he felt wasn't worthy of being there in the first place, nodding with a sense of gravitas and simply walking out of the St. Seraphim of Sarov basilica before crossing himself in front of the Holy Virgin and the Son of God once more like he was never there to begin with, his the shadow coat disappearing in the church crowd - as easy as all that - unbelievable, almost, to process that you were just casually exchanging words who you were exchanging words with - the bells started rining signifying noon as the bearded, grim figures of the black-robed priesthood started waddling and pouring in and you realized then the next time you'll see his face in any capacity will be in a news-published criminal obituary or next to some prominent political figure, shaking hands on international news, climbing the stairs to where he ultimately wanted to be. Either ways, you'll be inconsolable.
---
By the end of 2016, Vladimir Makarov was dead - liquidated after a botched attempt at a military coup against president Vorskevsky.
And you lit your first of many candles - you didn't even know why - but, you did.
You had 29.999 to go - enough for an entire lifetime.