What Was Left Behind

It was a Friday when you stopped dancing.

And I was left alone.

The world continued its relentless pace. Trains clattered on. The wind whispered wearily. Cars aimlessly drifted down the roads.

But something in me… slowed.

I’ve been searching for the words, Mama. You always believed I wielded them well, but now they elude me in this moment of despair. They sit in my mouth, like bricks. Heavy. Awkward. Unworthy.

I remember your hands. How they moved with such grace and precision when you danced. How they tenderly stitched my clothes. How they cradled my face when I returned from the war, shattered, bleeding, and ashamed. How they gently combed my graying hair on our final morning together.

You never asked me to be a hero. You never demanded greatness. You wanted me to be kind. To be strong. To be your son.

And now, I am none of those things. — I can’t move.

The rough concrete presses against my cheek, its chill not biting but relentless, creeping into my bones like the slow spread of regret. My chest heaves with each breath, a ragged grunt of shallow gasps and rattles. Beneath me, blood pools and yet, I cannot tell where it is from.

But I don’t care.

I deserve this.

The lights above flicker and hum as I stare at them, unfocused, as if they might blink out and take me with them. That would be easier. Cleaner.

But I’m still here.

Footsteps echo in the distance, cautious and deliberate. No urgency. No rush to save the Bear. Let him bleed out. Let him rot. Let him dwell on his sins.

And I do.

I think about Jasmine.

Her face appears in my mind. Not the one twisted in agony, not the one crumpled helplessly beneath me, but the other face. The one that, for a fleeting instant, looked up at me with wide, fearful eyes.

It reminded me of Arina.

The comparison gave me pause, just for a heartbeat, before I pressed on.

I am a weapon. I was made to be one. But despite the physical pain and beating that I have just received, it pales in comparison to the true anguish I’m experiencing.

My mother is dead.

The realization crashes over me, more brutal than Tsonda’s bat. It feels unreal. Impossible. Lindsay must be lying. The truth is elusive. This is a fabrication, Ivan, just a trick of your mind.

I wasn’t there. I didn’t hold her hand. I didn’t say goodbye.

I just want to go home. Back to Arkhangelsk, to the tiny apartment filled with the comforting aroma of your tea and the musty scent of old books. I want to curl up in your chair, clinging to the illusion that I’m still your son and not this… monster I’ve become.

But I don't move.

Why bother?

No matter how quickly I could return home, the truth would still stand. I can’t lie my way out of this.

You died today.

And I’ll never have you back. — You should have seen the House of Unions, Mama. How beautiful it was!

The chandeliers, each crystal like a shard of ice, hung from the ceiling and sparkled with a brilliance reminiscent of frozen stars. Their soft golden light cascaded over the marble columns, illuminating them with a gentle glow. The air was still, reverent, as if the very walls of the building remembered you and held their breath in your honor.

The Pillar Hall, normally so grand and impossibly vast, seemed to shrink that day. Not because it had physically diminished, but because it was filled with something far greater than mere space: memory, love, and profound grief.

The scarlet drapes allowed the muted grey light of the Moscow morning to seep through, softening the room's edges. The scent of roses and lilies mingled with the aroma of aged wood and the building's history.

Great men and women have laid where you are now, Mama. But they all pale in comparison to you.

Your portrait was placed at the front, elegantly framed in red and gold, surrounded by wreaths and ribbons, and so many heartfelt letters of love. You looked so proud, your eyes nearly alive with determination. I half expected you to step down from the frame, your voice imploring me not to grieve, and to stand up straight.

Alexei and Arina did a marvelous job, Mama. I'm amazed they organized everything beautifully and quickly, even while grieving. It was dignified, befitting someone as remarkable as you.

I never had to voice a single request.

They just knew.

They understood what you meant to me, what you meant to all of us.

And so many people came for you, Mama! They gathered from so many different chapters of your life, from countless paths and times.

Yes, there were those who attended because it served political agendas, but they were in the minority, darling Mother.

Lindsay Troy was there, too.

She ventured into our land despite the risks, determined to honor you.

To honor our family.

She remained silent, not approaching me, but keeping her distance. Far in the back, her hands clasped together, head lowered, but I could see tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

No cameras to capture her image.

No entourage to surround her.

She was simply there. For you.

For me.

You should have seen the look on Alexei’s face when she arrived, for none of us were aware she had come. We suspect, perhaps, Arina had a hand in it. But Alexei wanted to have Lindsay arrested!

But no, that’s not what you, or I, wanted.

Such a complex relationship between her and I, marred with frustration and anger and yet… something else.

I wish I could talk to you about these things, Mother. You, the only one who I could bear my full self to.

But I cannot.

After bearing the weight of the Stanislav name for so many years, you are finally at rest.

A rest so profoundly earned. — Before I stepped out to confront the harshness of reality, I cowered in a solemn hallway branching off from the main chamber. Marble walls with high ceilings enveloped me in a silence that swallowed echo and reverberation. The kind of silence that didn’t ask questions. The silence that I needed.

The folded paper in my hand was unbearably heavy. My eulogy to you. An insurmountable task. Words I had written countless times, yet still labored to lift to my lips. Words that felt too small for you.

I gazed down at the polished stone floor, where the lights from above reflected like trapped fireballs beneath my feet. I hesitated to leave this intimate, safe space. Fear gripped me.

Not fear of the crowd, but of the act itself.

Entering and speaking would finalize this painful reality.

I heard footsteps. Soft and tentative.

Arina.

She paused a few steps behind me, quiet, respectful, and unsure. She seemed my opposite, always striving to be unnoticed, always trying to fade into the background.

“You worked hard, Arina Rakhila. You should sit and rest,” I murmured.

A pause.

“I wanted to check on you, Starshy Praporshchik.”

The silence returned, dense and weighty. Not uncomfortable, but full.

I stood there, clutching the paper, pretending I was ready. Pretending to be strong.

She moved closer to me.

“I read the final draft. Your words are beautiful.”

“She deserves better,” I replied.

Another pause, then her gentle voice returned. “You did your best. That was all she ever asked of you. Of us.”

Us.

Many times, I wished to express my feelings. The gossips in PRIME want to believe there is something romantic between us. They crave something scandalous and grotesque. A reason to vilify me further. Some forbidden love. As if they need to invent reasons when I’ve provided plenty of my own.

I grapple with the cold truth that my sterility extinguishes our proud family line.

There’s been countless moments where my actions have tried to express what I couldn’t bring myself to tell Arina: that I care for her. That she might hold the key to my peace. That when I depart from this world and return to you, Mother, that perhaps she can achieve what I cannot: to make this world a better place.

I long to tell her how much I see her as the daughter I’ve never had. How sometimes, when I look at her, I wonder if this is what it would have felt like to be a father. Instead, I murmur a simple, “Thank you.”

I finally faced her, and she was dressed simply in a black coat buttoned up to her collar and her hair pulled back. Her eyes met mine briefly before looking down, as she always did.

There was something in her expression. Not fear, exactly, but something close. A question she wasn’t ready to voice. A memory she hadn’t yet let go.

I just looked at her, feeling helpless, and as she compelled her eyes to look into mine, I once again became lost in their tender beauty. She reached out, held my hand, and squeezed.

That hand, so small yet steady. I felt myself crumbling in the hallway, under the burden of all the unsaid words. All I had done. All I had lost.

She squeezed my hand once more, Mother, and released it.

“Go speak to her,” she said softly.

I stepped out of the silence and into the light, carrying your memory with me like a banner. — It snowed, Mama.

In May.

On the day you were finally laid to rest.

The weather report said it was impossible. The temperature had been climbing for weeks. But when we carried you through the gates to the cemetery, the sky opened and the flakes fell like ash.

It was beautiful.

I imagined you would have appreciated the sight.

The tulips were in full bloom and the snow, white and beautiful, clung to them like lace. It was soft. Softer than I expected. It felt as if winter had come early, just for you.

The sky above was a weary grey. Not stormy or threatening, but exhausted. As if it had wept itself dry the night before.

I stood at the edge of the grave, watching as they silently lowered your casket into the earth next to Father. The ropes groaned under the weight, and the polished wood released a mournful sigh. I thought, for a moment, that the whole world might collapse with you.

Alexei stood beside me, silent, his eyes fixed on the glossy wooden casket as if it were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. A man so familiar with the presence of death now regarded it with a fresh, bewildered gaze, as though seeing it anew on that day, Mama.

As the crowd dispersed, Alexei turned to me. Our unwavering and determined Alexei, who had always seemed so unyielding, appeared suddenly diminished. Not in strength. He has never projected weakness, but in that moment, he looked… human.

“Vanya?” He spoke plainly through glistening eyes. “I finally understand the sting.”

I said nothing. Just nodded.

For a moment, I thought about what you used to say, Mama. That I was a good man.

As you lowered to your resting place, I reconciled the fact that I never had the courage to tell you how wrong you were… — I want to tell you what happened, Mama.

Maybe if I say it out loud, it will stop boiling inside of me like the cancer that took you away. Maybe I’ll understand why I can’t let it go.

It was the ReVolution Era. The ring looked and felt the same as OSW and PCW, but the atmosphere was different. The roar and energy of the crowd was muted.

I was exhausted, Mama. My energy was waning. My grip was slipping.

Then the A-List showed up.

They were everything I wasn’t. Youthful vibrance, confident bravado, and all of them capable of being on the front of some glossy magazine. Leading them was this arrogant youth named Chandler Tsonda, irritatingly charismatic and magnetic.

It’s funny how assholes often treat skyboxes as their personal stages. The A-List skybox from two decades ago was no exception.

It was a chaotic mix of unconscious groupies sprawled out on leather couches, a cacophony of obnoxious music blaring from oversized speakers, and scantily clad women mingling with men dressed in garishly loud suits. Amidst it all was little Chandler, the Five-Star Champion, with a tiny parakeet named Eleanor at his side.

He glanced up at me, the smug grin plastered across his face, and insulted me to the security guard as if I was too stupid to understand English. Condescension dripped from his lips in a torrent of poison.

“I want you in the A-List.”

Your son. Your Ivashechka. The Russian Bear. The commander of The Red Army. Holder of multiple prestigious titles, not to mention countless other awards and recognitions along the way!

He was seeking a mercenary. A brute for hire. He believed that his own whims could somehow wash away our life’s work, Mother.

As if Ivan Stanislav could be bought.

He claimed that I wasn’t the Ivan of old. That my magic had faded.

And I felt it, Mama.

The fire inside of me flickered. Not because he was right.

But because I let myself believe him.

Alexei was behind me, perched on a stool at the bar, his gripes flying into a bartender’s face. He may have been acting like a petulant child, but his ears were tuned to our every word.

I vowed to dismantle Chandler Tsonda that evening. No, there would be no Ivan Stanislav in the A-List, but little Tsonda had made it to the top of a far worse list.

Mine.

I was poised for confrontation.

I seethed with rage.

I felt vibrantly alive.

Then Alexei took me to the side. He didn’t rush to speak. Instead, he fixed me with the same grave expression he wore when he showed me your medical report: a heavy, unmoving gaze that spoke volumes.

I braced myself for a lecture, expecting him to say I was overreacting, that we had larger battles to fight. But the weight of that dreadful secret hung in the air between us.

“I am sorry, Ivan,” he finally confessed, his voice low and burdened. “But we have to go home.”

Confusion clouded my thoughts. There appeared to be no end to my tenure in PRIME.

At first, he offered no explanation, but in his eyes, I saw the truth.

“There’s nothing left worth doing here, Vanya.”

My body had been sounding alarms for months, screaming beneath aches and fatigue. My heart had been whispering the same truth and I just hadn’t listened.

We walked out of the arena, out of the country, and I never laid eyes on Chandler Tsonda again. The next day, Ivan Stanislav was gone from PRIME.

When I walked through your door, the weight of the world lingered on my shoulders, yet you never asked about the emptiness etched across my face. I sensed your desire to bridge the heavy silence between us and draw me back to you, and you did your best to try.

You twirled around the living room with me, hoping to see the spark in my eyes. We spent hours at the table, shuffling decks and dealing hands, trying to capture the laughter of our younger days. You sang to me, and yet I never truly listened. After years of wandering the globe, you must have felt a surge of joy, believing your Ivashechka was finally home for good.

But inside, I despised every forced smile that I offered you.

Foolish. Stupid. Selfish.

Chandler Tsonda’s final insult to my career pierced me deeply, an unremovable lance that germinated within my being.

I wasted the precious moments we could have spent together, moments when genuine happiness was within reach. I let slip the opportunity for my mother to finally live every day with her son by her side.

Now, my career has been ReVived.

You are gone.

Chandler Tsonda remains. — Our home isn’t the same, Mama. Even if it hasn’t changed. Your worn slippers are still neatly placed by the door, waiting for feet that will never slip into them again. The afternoon sun streams through the lace curtain. The floral wallpaper by the entryway curls at the edges, peeling like the layers of history that linger in every corner.

But you’re not here.

In the quiet of your room, I hear Alexei moving with care. Every step is hesitant, as if he might disturb your ghost. Arina sits cross-legged in the living room, surrounded by a sea of your old records. Her fingers gently trace the covers as she hums a melody, one you used to hum while cooking. I wonder if she picked up this habit while caring for you after your surgery, unaware that your essence lingers in her tune.

I know I should be helping them. Sorting through the remnants of your life. But my legs refuse to lift me. Not yet.

How many times did I sit at this table after the ReVolution Era, filled with resentment? The wood grain mocked me, reminding me of all I had lost and squandered. I spent countless years chasing after glory, battling enemies, pursuing prey that led nowhere. I am enveloped by the echoes of the life I could have embraced, but chose to abandon.

I had longed to be anywhere but here.

Alexei approaches me gently, holding something small and worn in his hands. He doesn’t utter a word, just places it gently in front of me and retreats. A notebook, its cover faded and edges frayed. Something I had never seen before.

Inside lies your handwriting, slanted and elegant, a script I know as well as my own reflection.

A journal. Not filled with political discourse or practical lists, but with memories. Thoughts. All about me.

You documented my matches, celebrated my victories, and comforted my failures. You clipped articles, preserved my interviews, and wrote notes in the margins, your beautiful words dancing between the lines.

Every triumph. Every brutality. Every horror I inflicted in the name of country, pride, or vengeance. I tried to sanitize what you saw, Mother, and failed. You still knew. Quietly. Yet the biggest surprise was buried deep in the pages. Decades old but still fresh. 24 August 2006 ReVolution 104 Chandler Tsonda “The one who insulted my Ivashechka. My son will not forget. He will pay.” You knew.

You knew what I was and were still proud of me.

You still loved me.

Even when I was heartless.

Even when I was adrift.

That love never stopped. On the contrary, it grew.

Even from beyond the grave, you still teach me.

It’s not about being a good man.

It never was.

It’s about being the man you believed in. Methods be damned.

My phone chimes loudly, Arina’s emits a gentle ring, and my “DYAAHAAHAA!!” echoes in a cacophony from Alexei’s device. It makes me smile. We’re drawn together by the announcement that appears on our screens.

WARCHAMBER.

They look to me, their Starshy Praporshchik, and I fix my gaze on your notebook, a sacred relic of lost moments.

I squandered the precious time we could have shared, Mama, letting it slip through my grasp like grains of sand. Now, you are gone.

But Chandler Tsonda remains.

Lindsay Troy has bestowed upon me a gift like no other.

A cage.

A war chamber.

A crucible of fury.

Not to keep Alexei out.

To trap Tsonda inside. With me.

This isn’t about redemption. It’s not about honor. It transcends revenge.

It’s about legacy.

Two legendary titans of this craft, clashing for the first and final time, a solitary showdown.

It’s about the son you raised. The one who faltered, who cherished you, and who will carry your name into that cage.

I will not be gentle.

I will not be merciful.

I will not be denied.

You stopped dancing on a Friday, Mama.

But I haven’t.

And when the steel door slams shut, the barbed wire sings its chilling melody, and the audience rises to a fever pitch?

I will give Chandler Tsonda a dance of death and blood that will make you stare in awe.

He will bleed for every second I lost with you.

For every word I never spoke.

For every moment I chose the ring over your embrace.

It still won’t be enough.

I will make it excruciating.

I will make it last.

And when the cage is quiet, and the blood has dried, and the world is forced to look upon what I have wrought?

They will not cheer.

They will not weep.

They will remember.

I love you, darling Mother. Rest well.

I will inscribe the name of the one who insulted your son with his own blood.

He will pay.

Just like you wanted.