#vasilybio

VASILY BARANOV

TWENTY-NINE ❈ HUMAN THE ROYAL COURT | DUKE

There are those who are born into tragedy -- and then there are those who are born a tragedy. Cursed, is the word that is often rolled over in his mind; rolled like water as it rises and tumbles over itself in the ocean. It is repeated with a soft sigh, not unlike the relentless lapping of waves as they crashed against the wooden sides of his ship. Echoing in his mind over and over again, to the point where he almost forgets what it is like to live without the knowledge that he is cursed, that he is condemned. It was quite contrary to the words that his mother had murmured -- with her hair matted against her brow in sweat, lips cracked and eyes glassy, partially in ardor and partially with the gentle agony that often precedes death. She caressed her zvyozdochka  tenderly, adoringly; so entranced was she with his glittering eyes, little pink lips, and melodic coos that she did not realize how each breath became more difficult and painful. Even in her abysmal suffering, she was able to whisper to her little star how much she loved him. With her last breath, she whispered how blessed she was, to hold her most beloved in her arms. It is a story his father often recounted to him in his drunken stupors, muttering -- just before the alcohol got the better of him -- how disgusted he was that he could have fallen in love with someone so damnably stupid and naive. For his father, from the first glance that he took of his heir, was able to say with utter certainty that his only son was a final condemnation on the failing Baranov name. 

Since he could barely tolerate looking at his only child as a young babe, one can only imagine what it was like to watch him grow into a personage that everyone deemed handsome. They called him gallant and noble, a knight in shining armor that even the worst of society had to pay their respect to. A bevvy of sins could be lavished upon him, yet he still was seen as the better man. With depravity dripping off of him like the petals of a flower that has drunk too much water, he still managed to come out looking as if he were holier than a saint. His father watched with a curl of his lip as his son rose as easily as a falcon in the sky, unfettered by all that he himself had been tethered by. Though his father had believed that his mother had been daft, the head of the Baranov household had to admit that she had more or less been right. Vasily was as lofty as the stars in the night sky -- he was as untouchable as them to. But stars, like anything else, may be shifted about. Their constellations may be shaped and changed if one has the heart to grab a hold of them and shape them for their own. His father did not have just the heart (or lack thereof), his father had the snarling determination to grab his son in the middle of the night and place him onto a ship that Vasily learned to call home. Under the pretense of trade, in the name of the Baranov household, he was sent from one strange country to another -- learning tongues and cultures as one might learn living and breathing, which is to say, all too easily. 

But the tragedy was not to be found in the lack of love in his household, nor the fact that such an opportunity was ripped away from him the moment he took his first breath. It was not to be found in the weaving of his story, the nonexistence of a place to call home. He was a tragedy because, throughout it all, he began to slowly realize why his mother had dubbed him her zvyozdochka . They say that in death, souls find their clarity. His mother was no exception, for in her death, he knew that she saw the emptiness that exists between the stars and how he was made of the same darkness that exists in the space between them. When the sun rose to greet him, he tried to greet it in kind by filling the void that ate at him like a mocking crow; picking away at him piece by piece, relentless in its pecking. The Unsea had more light than whatever brewed in his heart, if there was a heart to be found in whatever lay beneath the skill of the tragic Baranov boy. There were those who turned to the sea, so as to find fulfillment somewhere between the breaths of the waves, somewhere within the white sea foam. So he welcomed his banishment with open arms, which quickly grew cold once he realized that the nothingness in his heart was likely a reflection of the nothingness the world had to offer. One only had to look into his eyes to realize that he was not born into a tragedy, no. Vasily Baranov was an utter tragedy. 

Perhaps the most tragic thing about him was his hope that he could be something more. It was not something that he dared to whisper in the darkness of the night, nor in the blinding brilliance of the morning. For such a secret was never safe, no matter with whom or what or where a person shared it. Should he even think to say it out loud, he might realize how utterly pathetic he truly was, how deep his condemnation ran: thus the tragedy would end and the disparity would ensue. His hope was only encouraged by his return to Ravka, the wanton ways of the court a welcome change from the delicacy of and intricacies of war-induced trade. Though there be an opportunity, he also knew that it would be all too soon before he felt the chasm within him yawn once more, stretching as it swallowed yet another flame. The pattern would repeat itself once more as it has every day of his life. The emptiness as unfathomable as the Unsea would greet him like an old friend. He could wear the smile, play the games, and be the debonair knight in armor -- accented with a roguish smile -- that the country of Ravka wanted him to be. Yet that would never change him. He, the greatest tragedy of Ravka that there ever has been. That there ever will be. 

CONNECTIONS

DRUVIK JADEJA: He remembers the day he smuggled Druvik into Ravka, the drunken words that he had slurred out. They were ones that he had hoped would be carried away by the seawind, but Vasily had never been the lucky sort. But Druvik had offered to give him a change in fortune, using his blessed gifts to concoct something pivotal. Something that future historians would later dictate as one of those creations that likely should have never been made in the first place. It was inspired by the emptiness that Vasily had whispered about, a drug that was made for the sole purpose of wiping it all away. Only for a few hours, hours that would likely put into perspective how fleeting time could be. Before Druvik had stepped off the ship, he had left it in the tragic boy’s hands, with nothing more than a smile as warm as his brown eyes seemed. It still remained unopened, in the mess of Vasily’s drawer, the thing that could change what Vasily was. What he perceived himself to be. 

STASYA BELOV: They were a wonder to him, a novelty that he was keen to explore. The Squaller seemed to be the only thing that was capable of holding his attention, with their almost ethereal ways. He remembered the songs his crew would sing as the mist hung low and thick in the morning -- so thick that the sun had to fight its way through. They seemed to be the song personified, the mere sound of their voice bringing to mind the haunting melody. Perhaps it was the way in which their eyes seemed to hold his gaze whenever he drew close enough to look into them. Perhaps it was his fascination with their Grisha and their abnormal ways. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. For whatever reason he drew close, he could not seem to draw himself away. 

RHEA TERESHKIN: Should he ever have motivation enough to list out a series of his greatest regrets, Rhea Tereshkin’s name is among the higher part of the list. For, when he bother to think of her, he cannot help but be barraged by images of heated touches, wanton moans, and much more lewd images. How she became a respected lady of the court, he is not entirely sure. Although, with his ability to relay emotion as a common person might he should not be so surprised that others are as capable at playing this game as he. In the few moments where she has made less of a show of baring her teeth at him and dragged him to a quiet corner of the room, the proposals she has made have been amusing, to say the least. But who knows? Perhaps the lackadaisical ways of the court have finally bored him enough where he just might consider causing a ruckus and wreaking some havoc. One’s own emptiness can only entertain a person for so long.