Ivan The Terrible and The Son He Killed

The first installment of Jayden Beaufoy's anthology 'Paintings in Words' assesses the infamous Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan an iconic painting with a devastating backstory. Ivan The Terrible and The Son He Killed details the events leading up to his son's death, and Ivan's final moments spent with his one and only heir, whose death he caused...

Ivan The Terrible and The Son He Killed

By Jayden Beaufoy (editor and chief of 'The Inkwell Ledger')

He hadn’t thought of what he was doing until the gold scepter hit his son’s head with a force so strong that you could hear the impact from the other room. 

    Ivan cradled his son's head in his hand, he felt the blood pour from the wound on his head, the warm blood pooling in his wrinkled hand. The smell of iron pierced Ivan the Terrible’s senses. His son, Ivan Ivanovich clutched the sleeve of his father's robe. His eyes were clouded in resentment and surprise.  

    Ivanovich had curled up like a child, as he laid in his father's lap, his head pressed against his chest. Ivan the Terrible wouldn’t dare to gaze down at his son, for that would mean he would have to look into the eyes of his blood, heir, and boy, whom he had struck in a rage. 

    Ivan Ivanovich opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a painful groan. Once again, unable to control his impulses, Ivan the Terrible glanced down at his son. Ivan's chin wobbled in despair as his eyes ran up and down his son's face, which grew paler by the moment.  

   “мой сын” My Son. Ivan murmured as he pressed his hand down on the wound, a futile attempt to stop the flow of blood oozing from his child's wound. Tears pooled in Ivan Ivanovich’s eyes “Отец” Father, Ivanovich’s voice cracked with emotion. 

    Ivan's throat felt heavy. He was a man who rarely showed emotion, yet he couldn’t contain himself. A sob escaped his mouth as he gazed down at his son's dying body. He had been so close to him once. Praying at church, mumbling their words to God under their breaths. His son had saved him from death years ago, preventing an attempt to end his life. Yet, Ivan the Terrible had done the opposite. Whilst Ivanovich had saved him from meeting death, Ivan had practically thrown his son toward the entity.  

    Tears ran down Ivan's face as he clutched his son tighter. Ivanovich leaned into his father, not out of forgiveness but out of need for comfort, he did not want to join death without the touch of life providing him comfort and confidence on the way there. 

   Ivanovich allowed a tear to drip down his face. He always imagined he’d either die in a great battle or at the hands of an illness which had no cure, instead, his death had come at the hands of his father, over an argument so meaningless that Ivanovich's death seemed almost like a sick joke.  

   Ivan Ivanovich glanced up at his father, who still gazed at his son in horror. Ivan the Terrible’s eyes bulged in shock, his regret, his shame, his anguish showing on his aged face. Ivanovich groaned not just in pain but in heartbreak. “Отец, почему?” Father, why? 

   Ivan let out a mournful cry that echoed against the throne room's ornate walls. Ivanovich’s breath shook, shock and fear covering the pain from the wound. Blood seeped between Ivan's fingers and dripped onto the detailed rug below them. The stains from the blood would leave a reminder for Ivan, look at the sin you committed. 

    Ivan glanced down at his son, Ivanovich was on the precipice of death, his skin had gone so pale that it resembled the snow that fell upon Russia during the winter.  

    “Мой сын” My son Ivan murmured as his eyes locked with Ivanovich's light brown eyes. “Сын мой, я вырвал из тебя душу.” My son, I ripped the soul out of you, Ivan croaked in anguish, pressing Ivanovich’s head against his chest. 

    Ivanovich could hear his father's heart beating rapidly, and he could feel his wound pulsating. His vision began to blur, and Ivanovich knew it was not his tears blurring his vision, but his soul reaching out for death and waiting for his skeletal hand to drag him away to meet God. 

    Ivanovich let out a whine and he gripped his father's robe tighter. “Отец, ты убил меня” Father you’ve killed me Ivanovich sobbed as his grip loosened on his Ivans sleeve as he grew weaker from the blood loss.

 His vision blurred further, the room moving in waves. Ivanovich blinked rapidly but it did nothing to return his vision to normal. 

   The pulsing from his wound was beginning to cease and for a split-second, Ivanovich wondered if perhaps his father's firm pressure on the wound had stopped the bleeding. For a second Ivanovich thought he was saved, but when his body began to feel light, and thoughts could barely formulate in his mind he realized that he had not been saved. 

   Ivanovich wondered if he should have prayed more, if he shouldn’t have questioned his father so much, perhaps then his death could have been avoided. He thought of his child, which was not yet born. Ivanovich’s bottom lip trembled at the thought of his child wondering what his father was like. Would his child get on his knees at the foot of a cross and pray for guidance from God because they had no father to advise him? 

   Ivanovich thought of his wife, whom he had grown to admire with time.  

   Dark spots began to block his vision, and Ivanovich began to realize what was happening, death's hand tightly gripped his soul. Ivan must have realized the same because he clung to his son as tightly as possible. “Сын мой, я не хотел причинить тебе боль.” My son, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Ivan gulped, naively believing that was enough to suppress the tears and the sobs that threatened to escape him. 

   “Мой мальчик, не уходи пока.” My boy don’t go yet. 

   Memories flashed in Ivan's head. He remembered teaching his son the art of battle and war when Ivanovich was a mere boy. Oh, how things seemed so simple then.        

    Ivan was thrown by the phantoms of the past to the present when he realized that he no longer felt the heaving of his son's chest and noise ceased to emit from the man's mouth. Ivan's mouth dropped, and a shaky breath slipped between his lips. 

    Ivan Ivanovich was born and now he was dead. Ivan the Terrible's head dropped backward, gazing up at the ceiling, he let out a loud wail. He brought his son's head to his shoulder, blood barely exuding from the wound.

    The man was filled with regret. He had no control over his actions. He had been so angry, so overwhelmed, and finally he could no longer control it, and he reached for his scepter, which had been placed against the wall, and swung it at his son. Ivan twitched when he remembered the sound that left his son's mouth as the scepter met his son's fragile head. If he had the power, he would take it all back. 

   Ivan cradled his son as if he were a small child. His wrinkled hands were stained with his son's blood and his clothes were soddened with the substance. While Ivan usually hated untidiness, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess.

   Ivan shook as tears fell from his eyes and ran down his face. 

   His son was dead, and it was all his fault 

   The boy he raised had died. 

   Ivan knew what people said about him. He was aware that people spat distasteful words at the mention of his name. He knew of the nickname they had given him and only dared to utter in private: Ivan the Terrible. He had never taken that title to heart, never truly believed it, until now. Killing your own child is a despicable thing, something only a man so unhinged, vile, and terrible would dare to do.  

He was Ivan the Terrible, and no number of prayers could redeem him.