Volgin listened, patiently, while the Fury ranted.
He saw now that in spite of their remarkable similarities, and the other things they shared in common, that there were some very fundamental ways in which they differed. Baseline dichotomies.
And some of the things that the Fury said, Volgin actually agreed with - yes, in a million years, none of this would matter.
In a hundred years, the politics would be different. In five hundred years, the world would be remade, and completely foreign.
But that did not matter. What mattered was the now.
Volgin's face grimaced into a smile.
"Yes," he said, when the Fury had finished, and had fallen silent for a while. Volgin also stared at the name plate on the door, which was as polished and shiny as the well-kept locks of Ivan's hair.
He let his gaze trail away and examined the back of the cosmonaut's helmet instead.
"That's true," Volgin said, slowly. "But the difference is, this time you're fighting on my side."
The colonel gestured at the building around him. "You're here now, with your brother Cobras and Voyevoda. Does that make you a villain, now? Or are you still a hero, in spite of the fact you're fighting on the wrong side? Or does does the fact that you're on this side make it the right one by default?"
He shook his head. "Or, since you say nothing will matter in a hundred years, does that make who you're fighting for or what you're fighting about pointless?"
Volgin considered himself a man of faith. Not the desperate faith that men found in trenches when bombs split the air overhead and one had to be careful or risk stepping on dead comrades.
Not the naive faith of those who gathered in churches and thought prayer alone would save them and absolve them of the responsibility of trying to help themselves.
No, his faith was tried and tested. He'd struggled with his burden for years. Sometimes, he'd felt alone. Sometimes there had been setbacks, disasters, so grievous he'd thought about giving up. But every time he'd reached a low point, he'd somehow found a way to go on.
It was a pattern. When the same thing happened again and again, eventually one believed in it.
The Fury was not looking at him, but Volgin stared nonetheless, his gaze direct and challenging. Goading. "If you don't believe in anything, you might as well just stay in bed each morning, Fury. Why do you get up day after day? Is it merely for the chance to vent your rage? Is anger enough?"
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2006-11-27 05:02 pm (UTC)He saw now that in spite of their remarkable similarities, and the other things they shared in common, that there were some very fundamental ways in which they differed. Baseline dichotomies.
And some of the things that the Fury said, Volgin actually agreed with - yes, in a million years, none of this would matter.
In a hundred years, the politics would be different. In five hundred years, the world would be remade, and completely foreign.
But that did not matter. What mattered was the now.
Volgin's face grimaced into a smile.
"Yes," he said, when the Fury had finished, and had fallen silent for a while. Volgin also stared at the name plate on the door, which was as polished and shiny as the well-kept locks of Ivan's hair.
He let his gaze trail away and examined the back of the cosmonaut's helmet instead.
"That's true," Volgin said, slowly. "But the difference is, this time you're fighting on my side."
The colonel gestured at the building around him. "You're here now, with your brother Cobras and Voyevoda. Does that make you a villain, now? Or are you still a hero, in spite of the fact you're fighting on the wrong side? Or does does the fact that you're on this side make it the right one by default?"
He shook his head. "Or, since you say nothing will matter in a hundred years, does that make who you're fighting for or what you're fighting about pointless?"
Volgin considered himself a man of faith. Not the desperate faith that men found in trenches when bombs split the air overhead and one had to be careful or risk stepping on dead comrades.
Not the naive faith of those who gathered in churches and thought prayer alone would save them and absolve them of the responsibility of trying to help themselves.
No, his faith was tried and tested. He'd struggled with his burden for years. Sometimes, he'd felt alone. Sometimes there had been setbacks, disasters, so grievous he'd thought about giving up. But every time he'd reached a low point, he'd somehow found a way to go on.
It was a pattern. When the same thing happened again and again, eventually one believed in it.
The Fury was not looking at him, but Volgin stared nonetheless, his gaze direct and challenging. Goading. "If you don't believe in anything, you might as well just stay in bed each morning, Fury. Why do you get up day after day? Is it merely for the chance to vent your rage? Is anger enough?"