It was too much to hope for that the clone would spring forth from a test tube, fully formed and immediately useful, but that it could be created at all was already a miracle in itself. Another of him, another Russia, a copy that could actually take his place as a nation.
The baby lay quietly in its cot, wrapped warmly in fleece, asleep. He couldn't help but bend over to give it a kiss.
"I love you," he whispered fiercely, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
---
There was no way of creating an exact copy, of course. Even if they were physically identical, there was still the environment to factor in, the people, the upbringing. It didn't stop Russia from trying.
It took three years to quench the fire in the child's eyes ...three years it took to take the Rus... and it was almost a pity to watch the brilliant violet dull, but it was the only way. He needed this copy to know him, to be him, to feel what he felt, to go through what he had gone through.
Perhaps he was being a little impatient, he conceded, as he watched the small blond boy crawl desperately out of his reach. On the other hand, he did not have that much time. Keeping this project secret was getting harder by the day, since he had to spend more and more time here. In two steps, he tangled his gloved fingers in that soft, blond hair, and, for once, the boy did not cry out. Even as he visited the same violence upon the boy, as he tore into the tightness, all he got were tears, but not a sound.
"I love you," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from cracking because he was so close.
---
These days, the only way to tell them apart was the scarf, unless you knew what to look for. Russia's eyes were blazing with excitement and he seemed so much more alive while the copy moved with a quiet serenity, eyes as glassy as a lake on a still winter day.
After nearly two decades of hard work, it was as ready as it would ever be. A copy, carefully moulded into his image, filled with his vision, his ideas, his hopes and dreams. Moulded to become Russia. And that meant that he could leave. He could stop being Russia. He could go south, take a holiday, go for a swim at a beach that was not frozen. He would be done with Winter, done with the cold, done with disobedient children, done with politics, done with EVERYTHING. And he could live.
He was already planning it. Clothes, cash, a passport, a real human name. All he had to do was to pass himself on.
The copy stood still before him, and he reflected that he loved it with all his heart. He loved it because it was his ticket out of his 'life'. Cool violet eyes watched him as he pulled the pants up, following the zip with his palm. They watched him as he ran his hands up the bare chest, pausing over the many, many little scars. Those cold, cold eyes met his when he stood up, face to face with his copy.
"I love you," he whispered, his heart soaring so high it ached.
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1/2
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 06:46 am (UTC)(link)The baby lay quietly in its cot, wrapped warmly in fleece, asleep. He couldn't help but bend over to give it a kiss.
"I love you," he whispered fiercely, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.
---
There was no way of creating an exact copy, of course. Even if they were physically identical, there was still the environment to factor in, the people, the upbringing. It didn't stop Russia from trying.
It took three years to quench the fire in the child's eyes ...three years it took to take the Rus... and it was almost a pity to watch the brilliant violet dull, but it was the only way. He needed this copy to know him, to be him, to feel what he felt, to go through what he had gone through.
Perhaps he was being a little impatient, he conceded, as he watched the small blond boy crawl desperately out of his reach. On the other hand, he did not have that much time. Keeping this project secret was getting harder by the day, since he had to spend more and more time here. In two steps, he tangled his gloved fingers in that soft, blond hair, and, for once, the boy did not cry out. Even as he visited the same violence upon the boy, as he tore into the tightness, all he got were tears, but not a sound.
"I love you," he whispered, trying to keep his voice from cracking because he was so close.
---
These days, the only way to tell them apart was the scarf, unless you knew what to look for. Russia's eyes were blazing with excitement and he seemed so much more alive while the copy moved with a quiet serenity, eyes as glassy as a lake on a still winter day.
After nearly two decades of hard work, it was as ready as it would ever be. A copy, carefully moulded into his image, filled with his vision, his ideas, his hopes and dreams. Moulded to become Russia. And that meant that he could leave. He could stop being Russia. He could go south, take a holiday, go for a swim at a beach that was not frozen. He would be done with Winter, done with the cold, done with disobedient children, done with politics, done with EVERYTHING. And he could live.
He was already planning it. Clothes, cash, a passport, a real human name. All he had to do was to pass himself on.
The copy stood still before him, and he reflected that he loved it with all his heart. He loved it because it was his ticket out of his 'life'. Cool violet eyes watched him as he pulled the pants up, following the zip with his palm. They watched him as he ran his hands up the bare chest, pausing over the many, many little scars. Those cold, cold eyes met his when he stood up, face to face with his copy.
"I love you," he whispered, his heart soaring so high it ached.
Re: 1/2
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 07:57 am (UTC)(link)poor mini!russia
no one saw my fail!
(Anonymous) 2009-03-16 02:55 pm (UTC)(link)