Despite everything, it's still me.
Vae victis. It was allegedly said by a Gallic chieftain called Brennus, a leader of those barbarians that would eventually become the disgusting piles of meat masquerading as human beings we call the Francois. According to legend, during the negotiation of a peace treaty, the barbarian chieftain heard mumblings that the scale used to weigh the pounds of gold that the Romans would use as tribute was not up to proper standards. He laughed, threw his sword on the scales and declared "Vae victis!" before laughing to the bank as some would say. Of course, later on, the Romans would get revenge for this act by participating in a few genocides up there in Gaul and effectively replacing their culture with their own, but considering Brennus was already dead for centuries at that point, I doubt he cared that the Romans got revenge.
"Работай, Шваб! Хочешь плёткой?"
Hmm. Looks like Mikhail is a bit too uppity today. Maybe he has no more glue to sniff, so he's taking it out on the prisoners again. I should keep my head down. Only eight more hours in my shift. At any rate, where was I? Ah, yes.
Vanquishment. Defeat. Eternal shame. Well, not eternal in the case of the Romans, since they managed to bounce back pretty well and keep kicking for what… 1800 or so years? Though they were still rather pathetic in the end, being reduced to a small city, they had a good run.
Me, not so much.
I am vanquished, and even if Germania should reap vengeance upon the soulless and subhuman communists for my brave sacrifice… which I find highly unlikely due to the BETRAYAL I SUFFERED - CURSE YOU RUDERSDORF, I HOPE BEING X DRAGS YOU DOWN INTO HELL AND PLAYS JUMPROPE WITH YOUR ENTRAILS FOR ETERNITY - it would still not matter as I will be long dead by the time such a day comes. That, and the fact that Berun is little more than a pile of rubble now.
"Быстро к работе, фриц!"
The baton cracks against the back of one of my fellow prisoners, a 'Germanian' officer who isn't even a Germanian, but merely a clever young man with bad luck. For the crime of being born into a shitty life, disadvantaged from birth, the young man from some primitive village in Bosnia decided to enroll in the army first chance he got, and managed to show more than a fair bit of intelligence by learning not just Germanian, but also Albish, a bit of Ildoan and Russy in his spare time.
"Я не шваб!"
Combined with his potential as a mage being quite decent, I found him a solid reinforcement for the 203rd considering how many we lost. Not the most elite of mages, but beggars can't be choosers. And despite his somewhat brute accent and often humorous way of saying things, I found him preferable to Grantz, who could only be described as artillery bait on the best of days. Oh well. At least Grantz went out swinging, instead of being worked to death in some frozen shithole with no prospect of peace or prosperity.
"Мне плевать, сука." The barbarian says as he strikes the young lad once more with his baton.
Perhaps he will learn to keep his head down soon and simply shut up?
One can hope. Conversations are dreadfully nonexistent here, and any time there is one it is either moronic, banal, or just depressing, depending on who your conversation partner is.
At any rate, we lost the war. And I was offered up on a silver platter. Betrayed.
Summoned to Berun under the pretext of discussing 'potential terms of surrender' with the enemy, or so General Rudersdorf said. I was skeptical, naturally. But considering Germania was living on borrowed time. Blockaded from the sea, bombarded from the air, squeezed from all sides. I wasn't exactly drowning in alternatives.
So, I went. Met with Zettour and Rudersdorf. We spoke at length. I even let myself believe we were piecing together a viable endgame, one where we could secure terms without bleeding out entirely.
In the background, the world had kept moving. The Tsarist Russy government had finally collapsed. And unlike the usual drawn-out civil wars, this one barely qualified. The communists that seized power didn't waste months dithering. In two months, they'd crushed the Tsarist remnants with unsettling efficiency.
What stood out wasn't their speed, it was their methods.
Chemical castration for the loyalist men. Forced sterilization programs for the women. No executions. No martyrs. Just a silent guarantee that no bloodline could ever rise again. Ruthless and quietly effective.
But that wasn't my concern. My mistake was assuming the brass still valued me as a soldier.
When they offered me wine, I accepted out of courtesy, though I wasn't much for drinking. I noticed the scent half a second too lat - bitter almonds, something heavier beneath it. Mage-suppressant agents? Barbiturates? Whatever it was. It worked too well.
My limbs went numb before I could reach for my sidearm.
Rudersdorf caught me as I fell forward, voice quiet enough only I could hear.
"I'm sorry, little one... but the wolves demand a sacrificial lamb if Germania is to survive."
And then everything went black.
When next I woke up, I was on a transport headed east, wrists bound and future bleak.
And also, there is the fact that I have no word about my men. The whereabouts and state of the 203rd is a mystery to me. And Visha… Visha…
"Шевелись, фашистская курва!" The baboon with delusions of grandeur smacks me across the back with a baton and I stumble into the snow. Apparently even five seconds of break time is too much.
Back to work.
No hope. No joy. No future.
Just work, work, work, until the day I die.
I catch my reflection once in a puddle of melted snow and filth. The hair's darker now, dulled from ash, dirt, and some biological toll no one warned me about. Nails cracked and blackened from the endless labor, splintered fingers wrapped in rags, lungs that won't stop coughing—just enough blood mixed into the phlegm to be worrying, but not enough to kill me yet.
Is this what you wanted to show me, Being X? Is this the end result of communism, of atheism, as you so blatantly put it?
No. I refuse.
None of this would have happened had you not tipped your hand on the scale many times over.
A month passed. Longer maybe. It was hard to tell.
Each day blurred into the next. There was no Sabbath here. No rest-day. No workers' rights. No vacations. No paid time off.
No humanity.
Merely a machine built to take in cruelty and spew out raw despair.
The worst part wasn't the hunger. Or the cold. Or even the guards.
It was the smelll.
That faint, sour, human stink. Sweat, blood, rot, wet concrete. It clung to your skin like a film.
I hated it. This place. This prison. This existence.
I don't think I've ever had such hate in my heart for anything. Ever.
It was like it seeped into you. Into your bones. Into your soul. And I feared, truly feared, that it would never come out.
That it would infect me completely.
Some mornings I'd wake up and think: this is all there is now.
This stink, this rot. No uniforms. No rank. No Empire. Just this.
I'd bite down hard on my own tongue just to remind myself I was still me.
I wanted to cry sometimes, but I never did. What would be the point? No one would care. It would not help. I would still be powerless.
The magic-dampening field around the prison ensured it. Without magic, I was nothing more than a small pile of meat with former grandeur. A shiny trinket they could gawk at and humiliate, to make themselves feel greater than they actually were.
I was trapped.
The same routine, day in, day out. Straying from it got you beatings, starvation, worse.
So I found myself waking up again, readying myself to go to the cafeteria.
Yesterday my left leg hurt. Everything from the foot up to the glutes. Today, my right leg.
It was a good omen. If tomorrow both hurt, I might have some balance.
As for my arms, my left wrist and right shoulder throbbed more often than not. Sometimes it switched up. A delightful little variety.
Left foot. Right foot. Through the gray wastes, to eat more sawdust that passed for food.
The cafeteria - or rather, this shitpile that could pass as one - was a dim hall with concrete walls and the smell of boiled cabbage and bleach hanging thick in the air. That smell never went away.
They handed us our rations like animals in a zoo. One piece of hard bread. A tin of something resembling soup.
I even learned the word for bread, among other things, in Russy.
Funny enough, when Visha spoke the language to me it had sounded beautiful. Melodic, strong, and best of all, logical in the way it was written - unlike Francois.
But now? Now, every sentence, every word, every syllable I heard in this accursed Nazgul tongue grated my ears and scratched my soul.
I wished to exterminate this entire people sometimes. Would that I had the Type 97... I would level Muscovy to the ground.
But it was much too early in the day for daydreams, even if they were the only entertainment left to me.
My turn came. A piece of bread so dry it could have been a stone.
And next to me. I heard him again.
Pavle.
The young Bosnian mage.
His voice was low, murmuring in a language I didn't know completely. Some Slavic dialect. Maybe his village tongue. Maybe Serb, Croat, or whatever it was. Either way, it wasn't Germanian. That much was obvious.
It took me a moment to realize: he was praying.
A foolish notion, considering the guards followed an ideology that espoused atheism and strictly forbade all forms of religion. And doubly foolish, for if his God loved him, he wouldn't be here.
"Hleb naš nasušni daj nam danas..."
I frowned. Praying for bread. Quietly. Like a man keeping an old habit alive out of sheer stubbornness.
I wanted to smack him. But I did not.
Later, once we sat in the far corner and most eyes were off us, I risked it. Speaking in English. A language the guards rarely paid attention to.
"How can you pray to God?" I asked flatly, voice rough from the cold and too many nights spent coughing up blood. "When someone like you - kind, good, smart, disciplined - ended up here, suffering for nothing? You are no murderer. No rapist. No thief or traitor. No trickster. Or any other form of criminal to deserve such a fate."
He didn't answer right away.
Pavle tore a bit off his bread and chewed slowly, eyes looking past me toward some invisible horizon. Perhaps he was thinking of home.
Finally, he said: "No man is good."
His voice had that weary steadiness of someone who wasn't quoting from a book but from inside his own skull.
"The last one who was good was crucified."
The words hit harder than I'd expected. Too hard.
I didn't know if Being X was God. There was always a chance. But I sincerely doubted it.
He seemed much too vengeful. Much too petty. To be the same God who washed the feet of his followers and died with words of forgiveness on his lips for those who murdered him.
If Being X was divine in any way, shape, or form, he was either some discount pagan deity, or the Accuser.
The alternative - that he was the God of Abraham - was unthinkable. And terrifying.
"Still..." Pavle added. "I don't blame God for my circumstances. I blame men."
That night, while most of the camp drifted into restless sleep, I found him again. By the fences, where the guards couldn't hear.
We didn't dare light anything. Or speak too loud.
"You meant what you said earlier?" I asked him. "About God and men."
Pavle gave a quiet laugh. "Da. I meant it."
We stood there for a while. Each wrapped in our own silence. Until he spoke again:
"Man is condemned to be free," he said, almost like he was reciting something. "Because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. It is up to you to give life a meaning."
I frowned. "That's not scripture."
"No." He admitted. "Jean-Paul Sartre. Frenchman."
I clicked my tongue. "Of all the nations to quote from."
He chuckled again, quietly this time. "Ironically enough, I never really liked Germanian literature. Nor the writers from back home. It was always the Francois. The Russy." His breath frosted in the air. "They understood something my people, your people, never quite managed."
"Such as?" I asked, unable to help myself.
"The feeling of being lost in society." Pavle said simply. "The absurdity of it. Of seeking a purpose. In the Empire, order reigned. Everything had its proper place. Discipline. Hierarchy. It has its perks. Helped best both the Russys and the French on the field. Repeatedly. And yet, here we are. Dying in chains. Imprisoned by those we once soared over and vanquished."
Something cold twisted in my chest. Anger. Resentment.
"No." I snapped. "It wasn't fate. It was the high command. The Russys, the Americans, the damned French. Even God-"
Pavle didn't flinch.
"You can blame everyone you want, Tanya." His voice softened slightly. "But I knew the moment I signed up to fight that this could be my end. In some prison. Far from home."
He looked up at the stars. Pale lights through a frosted sky.
"I didn't expect it to be in such brutal conditions..." He admitted. "But it is my cup to drink. And drink it I must. For who else will?"
That quiet finality silenced me.
I had nothing left to say.
Another miserable day.
An indeterminate amount of time had passed since that night with Pavle. Days, weeks—it was hard to tell anymore.
I woke up to a curious feeling.
Light. Strangely light. My body still ached, but it was distant now, dulled as if someone had laid a fog over the worst of it. My ribs still counted under my skin like tally marks. My hair was blackened with soot. My nails cracked and jagged. I must've stank like an animal. But none of it seemed to matter.
The world felt… still.
The air hung heavier than usual. The trees beyond the fences - thin skeletons stripped bare by winter - stood in complete silence. No crows. No wind. Even the sky wore a muted light, neither dawn nor dusk, like everything around me was holding its breath.
Today, I thought, something inevitable will happen.
But there was no luxury in lingering on it. I rose from my slab, fell into the motions. Left foot, right foot. Through the gray wastes. The camp saw its usual flux: new arrivals, fresh faces already stripped of hope. Russys mostly. Native traitors, or people accused of being such. Some looked like they didn't even know why they'd been taken. Others already knew the drill: heads down, no talking, no looking the guards in the eye.
And then there were the departures.The dead. Or sometimes, impossibly, the 'exonerated.' It sounded like a joke. Like a story whispered by the mad. But I'd seen it with my own eyes. Once, maybe twice-some broken soul dragged up from the pit, clothes clinging to their bones, sent back out into the world. Alive, if barely. It could happen. But not to me.
I made it to the cafeteria. Bread. Soup. Same as always. I chewed, barely tasting anything, barely noticing.
By the time I was sent down into the mines, that strange lightness in my body was still there. I slipped into the cracks where someone my size could fit, into the narrow black places only children or the desperate could work. Left hand, right hand, chip and carry, chip and carry. Time blurred as it always did.
From what I remembered, the shifts were twelve to fourteen hours. Sometimes longer, depending on the whim of whoever was in charge that day. Somewhere in the middle-after six, seven hours-there was a minor break. Fifteen minutes. Time to stand outside, breathe what passed for fresh air. Fifteen minutes of mercy.
It was there, in that fragile pocket of nothing, that it happened.
I stepped out into the yard. Breathed in, slow. The cold air filled my lungs like cracked glass. My eyes wandered up to the fence - and I saw it.
A bird.
Small. Grayish-kind of off-white. Perched on the razor wire like it owned hte place. Beady black eyes staring at my soul.
I stared at it for a long moment. I didn't know why it mattered so much. Maybe because I hadn't seen a living thing in so long, something untouched by this place.
The thought crept up on me before I could stop it:
I want to be free.
I want to fly again.
Of all things… I missed that the most.
The sky. The feeling of speed. Of having no one above me, no one able to control me. I missed the quiet between orders. The crackle of radio static. The way the clouds looked from above.
I felt my vision tilt.
Slow. Like the ground was shifting sideways beneath me.
Confused, I tried to take a step. My body didn't listen. I was falling. Falling.
The cold hit my cheek first. More than usual. Sharper. A clean, absolute kind of cold, the kind that silences everything else.
I lay there, cheek pressed to ice, ribs pressing into my lungs. I watched the bird.
The snow began to fall. Slowly. One flake. Then another. And then. It stopped.
Everything stopped.
The snow hung in the air like frozen stars. The bird's wings were caught mid-flutter. The sky, pale and endless, turned utterly still. A guard was already rushing, but he was frozen mid-step.
And then I heard it.
A voice.
Soft. Near. From nowhere and everywhere all at once.
"Tanya." It said.
Being X.
For a moment, my body locked up as if seized by invisible claws. Pain returned—not sharp, but suffocating. Long enough to make me wish it would end.
Then… nothing.
The world returned to stillness. Snow fell once again. My breath faded.
My knees gave out before I even registered what was happening.
My cheek hit the snow: rough, dirty, gray as ash.
I couldn't feel my fingers anymore. Couldn't feel my toes.
The shift bell hadn't rung. Someone would notice. A guard, maybe. yes. I heard a crunch of boots through snow. I could barely lift my head, but I caught a glimpse of a man in a heavy winter coat moving toward me, rifle on his shoulder.
And then. He stopped.
Completely still.
Mid-step. Eyes wide, frozen mid-blink.
The wind stopped. The flakes in the air hung motionless, mid-fall. Even the smoke from the chimneys coiled upward like carved wood.
My breath shuddered in my lungs.
I tried to push myself up - but my body wouldn't move.
A single bird sat on the fence. Black-feathered. Its eyes, black pools, not reflective, not alive - watched me without blinking.
Then the voice came again. Smooth, echoing in a way that didn't match the bird's small throat:
"Remember, O Lord, what is come upon us: consider, and behold our reproach.
Our inheritance is turned to strangers, our houses to aliens..."
It wasn't a priest's voice. Too rich. Too heavy with… amusement.
I HATED IT HATED IT HATED IT HATED IT HATE HATE HATE.
The bird hopped once along the fence, but the world around it stayed still. It alone possessed the capacity to move in frozen time.
My lip twitched. Metaphorically.
"Lamentations, is it? Trying for drama now? You picked a hell of a time."
The voice laughed. Low, amused, predatory.
"LIfe is a crucible, Tanya Degurechaff. The forge where souls are tempered, or broken. Only the worthy may enter my garden."
"What do you want?" I asked. I had little patience for games.
He didn't answer directly. The flakes in the air hung like frozen stars.
It was a pretty enough sight… I wonder… I'll never see a cherry blossom again, will I? Damn shame.
"You ask why you suffer. Why I allow it. Why I simply do not destroy evil. The answer is simple. I love you. And because I love you, I must allow you to choose your fate. Do you choose selfishness, evil, to be turned into no more than pig iron once your time is up? Or do you choose the harder path, the one with trials and tribulations that temper you each day? Just as a blade is sharpened against the whetstone, so too must man's soul be tempered in the fires of adversity."
I barely suppressed a chuckle.
"Mankind isn't naturally predisposed to seek suffering or challenge, you know this."
"True. But for those who are worthy, there is more to life than to work, eat, and die. For those chosen by the hand of fate, just as there are many trials… there are many rewards."
Rewards? This is the first I've heard of it. But I was curious to see what he offered.
"Swear to me. Give me your soul, for eternity. And in exchange… wealth beyond imagination. Gold and silver piled at your feet. Castles. Empires. Armies kneeling when you speak. Safety for yourself, and those you care about. Never hunger. Never tire. Never fear. Never freeze. Never want."
He said such sweet words.
"You will walk among men as a queen. Or a goddess."
It almost sounded kind. Almost. If you ignored the fact that nothing else in the world moved except that bird's sharp little eyes.
But I was not moved. I needed nothing from him I could not gain myself. And considering HE MADE ME END UP HERE, I was disinclined to acquiesce to his request.
"Consider it. You can return to Germania a hero. You can lead the nation into a golden age. You can have revenge upon all those enemies, within and without, who made you end up here. You can finally build something. And it would be quite the story, a malnourished orphan ending up an undisputed monarch.
And then, once your house is in order... you can be with Visha. Without shame. Without subterfuge.
She still thinks of you, you know. She's alive. She waits. Lamenting her fate. Lost and purposeless.
She weeps in her sleep some nights. Whispering your name."
"Visha... I-You lie. You are a liar."
"Men lie. I do not. I am divine."
No. You're a deceiver. I won't fall for it.
My voice came out hoarse, cracked, bitter, full of pent-up wrath.
"Socrates asked: are the gods worthy of worship? If they are good, yes. If they are tyrants, no. And that is what you are. A tyrant. A deceiver. A pitiful little man-child with too much power and too much time, meddling in the lives of those who did not ask for it… like a child with a magnifying glass tormenting ants in the summer sun."
A silence stretched, filled only by the stillness of the world. I did not even feel pain in this state.
"Tsk. Still your stubbornness, and curb your hatred but for a moment, and hear what I have come to say to you." The pretender god responded.
"I have offered this to others. Some understood. Some refused... and regretted it. You need not share their fate. You have an ear, and thus you should open it and hear me well, for I shall not repeat myself.
Swear to me. Give me your soul, for eternity. And I shall grant you power enough to break out of here."
I forced myself to listen. The voice went on - too smooth now. Not wrathful. Persuasive. Almost indulgent.
"How do you plan to do all that, if I may ask? Your schemes do not seem to have worked as much as you think."
I tried to smile. Even if I couldn't smile outside, I felt joy at the fact that so many of this wretched pretender god's plans had failed.
"Fool. I am the greatest of schemers. The greatest of planners. What I set in motion is reaped a thousand years hence. I have been here long before your ancestors even dreamed of crops or iron, and I shall remain long after the sun dies."
"Enough talking. Give me your plan if you want me to accept."
"Tsk. Such arrogance. Very well. Come nightfall, a beast of the forest under my control shall sneak by the guards, for I shall conceal it. Then it shall attack the machine that dampens your abilities. It shall shatter the dampener. The guards shall panic once the alarm sounds. At that point, one of my faithful, a sheep hidden among wolves - shall deliver both the Type 97 and a weapon of Soviet make to you.
You shall use both to break free. For one of your abilities, even malnourished, it should pose no issue. But even still, my strength shall flow through you, and you shall not tire until the slaughter is done. You will smite the captors, liberate the captives, destroy this prison.
After that, you will serve me. And after that... you shall become my general. My sword in this world.
There is a greater war coming. And you, Tanya, will lead my vanguard."
My mouth was dry. My heart, if it still beat, thumped dully in my ears.
Something about the phrasing...
My faithful. My vanguard. My sword...
That wasn't how a true God spoke. That wasn't humility or judgment. That was ownership. That was pride.
My mind flickered-Pavle, weeks earlier, in the barracks:
"He who is greatest among you must be your servant."
I forced myself to laugh. A dry, cracked sound.
"I've heard your offer."
I looked up at the bird, meeting its dead black gaze.
"I refuse. I will never kneel to you, deceiver. Now shut the hell up... and let me die in peace."
The stillness cracked.
The voice turned sharp, no longer pretending to be holy.
"Fool." It said, then paused for a second before erupting:
"YOU THINK YOU CAN ESCAPE MY WRATH? YOU THINK DEATH IS AN ESCAPE? YOU SHALL FIND NO PEACE IN THE GRAVE! DEATH SHALL BE MERELY THE START OF YOUR SUFFERING. AN ETERNITY OF TORMENT AWAITS!"
The bird's wings spread fully now, impossibly large. Shadow swallowed the sky.
My vision swam. One last seizure, I thought. Lovely.
But even as my body convulsed, I held on to that last bitter sliver of thought.
Even after all the torture. All the suffering. I did not break. I did not kneel.
I'll never kneel. I won.
Time began to flow once more not long after Being X's last tantrum.
"I'm cold." I said, before I closed my eyes.
There was a puddle in the road. A filthy, cracked, worn out road, the consequence of corruption and neglect.
Gray, ugly water. A patch of oil floating on top, a rainbow but not the pretty kind.
I crouched down in the dirt. My shoes were too big. I don't remember if they were mine.
The face in the water was tanned, somewhat. Not brown, but not pale, something in between. Hair like yellow straw. Dirty. Eyes green and wide like I'd never seen anything before.
That's me.
Despite it all, it's me… why was that important?
That's me.
Right?
...Where's my brother?
That thought came out of nowhere. Like someone else whispered it inside my ear.
Brother.
But… I don't have one. Never had one. Only child. Only child. Alone. Orphanage. Orphan. No brother. No sister. No one. Alone. Always. Alone. Forever.
Yes, I do.
Wait.
No.
I'm cold. I'm hungry. My head hurts.
Where's mom…
Where's my desk? My office. Meetings. Deadlines. Snow. Cold. Hunger…
Snow? I don't… I don't know what I'm saying. There's no snow yet… it's summer, right?
"Tanya!"
I didn't turn right away. The name sounded far away. Like hearing it underwater.
"Tanya." The voice said again. A boy's voice, older than me. Steady. Steady enough to make me turn my head.
He was standing behind me. Pale face, dark eyes, dark hair. Slavic face. His sleeves were patched.
He crouched down, grabbed my hand.
"Mother's worried." He said.
Mother.
That felt heavier than the sky. My throat felt small. I didn't want Mother to be worried. Why? I didn't know.
"I…" My voice was quiet. I looked down again at the puddle. "Sorry."
He squeezed my hand. Pulling me up. Small fingers in bigger ones.
"I had to see myself." I didn't even know why I said it. It just came out. I looked up at him, blinking. "I… forgot what I looked like."
He didn't say anything. Just kept holding my hand.
I followed. I didn't ask why. I didn't wonder why. I could trust this person, I knew this. I didn't ask where we were. I didn't ask why the sky was gray or why the road was cracked or why everything smelled like wet earth and iron.
It was enough that Viktor was there.
The caravan wasn't far.
Strips of tarp and faded cloth flapping in the wind, bundled wagons and rusted cars.
Viktor kept my hand in his. His palm felt rough. Dirty fingernails.
He wasn't really looking at me. He was looking past me, eyes on the road. But he talked anyway, voice calm like he wasn't worried.
"I made something today..." He said. "From the old radio parts. You know the antenna piece? I twisted it into a coil. Made it spin. Was going to show Nicolai but he said it was stupid."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.
"It isn't stupid." His voice dropped low like he was saying it more to himself. "One day, they'll see."
One day.
That sounded important.
I looked down at my shoes again. My too-big shoes. Hand me downs. They were Viktor's, I think.
After a while, Viktor glanced at me sideways. His mouth twitched, half a smile.
"When we get back, I'll read to you." he said. "From the Japan book."
"Japan…" The word caught in my throat. It felt big. Like remembering a dream I didn't know I had. I shed a tear, I think. Why?
"You like that one. With the cranes. And the boy who… what was it…" Viktor's brow furrowed, thinking. "The boy who folded a thousand paper cranes."
I didn't remember. But I did.
My chest felt tight. My eyes were burning for no reason.
"That's right..." I whispered.
We kept walking. The wind pushed dust across the cracked road, and I watched it.
The smoke smelled like home. Not the bad kind. Not factory smoke or car smoke. Not the kind that makes your throat sting or makes you think of bombs or back-alley fires.
This smoke was warm.
Firewood smoke.
Campfire smoke.
Home?
It curled up from the center of the wagons like a lazy dragon. Orange and sleepy.
Viktor's hand let go of mine once we got close. I didn't want him to. But I didn't say that. Wouldn't be right. Big girls don't say weird stuff.
The wagons were all different colors. One had blue flowers painted on the side. One was yellow and peeling. One looked like it had been stolen from a circus. A real one. With lions. I think. Maybe I saw that once. Or maybe I made it up.
I saw a cross on a wagon. I looked at it. There was a man. I really looked at it. The man looked to be in pain. Arms wide. Left and right. Why did I know it was a cross? At any rate… I looked at it for a while.
It felt important.
I heard a dog bark in the background. I moved on.
There were women talking and men hammering and someone playing a radio, static and all.
My feet were cold. I forgot to wear socks again. Or maybe I didn't have socks. Or maybe I just iddn't like wearing them. I wanted my feet to be free. Yes, that was it. Freedom. That's fine. Didn't hurt. No socks. Evil socks. Wet socks can give you trench foot. Very bad way to go.
And there… There he was.
Tall. Not scary tall. Dad tall.
Hair golden like straw. A bit white near the ears. His sleeves were rolled up. His hands looked like they'd held too many people.
Green eyes, like mine.
No...Mine like his. That's how it works, right? Yes. I was the smaller one.
He was crouched down by a boy. Brown-haired, skinny legs, knee bleeding a little. His name was… Sanyi or Sandor or something like that…
"I told you not to chase the dog," he said. Not mean. Not angry. Just tired. But kind.
He wiped the boy's leg with something wet. It looked like it stung. It smelled like alcohol.
Disinfectant to clean the wound. A proper procedure to prevent infection and keep the soldier in the fight. Infection kills more men than bullets, after all.
"Thank you, Doctor Von Dumm." The boy said.
"No." He corrected, gentle. "Van Damne. You know this, little one." The boy giggled like it was a game. Maybe it was. Then he ran off, to do who knows whas.
I stopped a few feet away. Didn't want to get closer. Didn't want to breathe too loud.
I knew him.I didn't know how, but I knew him. Willem. Will. That was his name. Willem van Damne. My father. My father.
And behind him was a woman… that woman.
She was behind… Behind him, stirring a pot with one hand, brushing hair from her face with the other.
Laughing with the other mothers. I knew that she would protect me. Always. Until the end of days. I felt like she was strong, but I didn't know why. Were all mothers strong. Yes, that was it.
She looked like… well, like a mother. Dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair, but a bright heart.
Like someone who would wipe your tears and scold you for walking barefoot.
Like someone who would kiss your forehead and mean it. I felt a tear coming to my eye.
Why?
Why did I miss this?
Why did it feel… like this, to have it? Why did I feel like I was robbed of this? It's the only thing I've ever known… right?
She turned, eyes scanning the camp. She always knew when something was missing.
"Where's our daughter gone off to now?" She asked no one in particular. But I saw a smile, right, a smirk or is that what it's called? I think she knew I was there. She knew, but pretending she wasn't. A game.
I took a step. Then another.
I think I was trembling. Maybe it was the wind.
Maybe it was something bigger.
"I…" My voice barely worked. She turned around and looked at me and smiled. "I needed to know who I was."
It slipped out like it wasn't mine. Too big. Too grown-up. But it felt right to say.
Her head tilted. She didn't laugh. She didn't look confused. She just walked over and knelt in the dust. Hands warm, strong, cup my cheeks like they've done it a thousand times before.
She didn't say anything right away. Just came closer, knelt down, and took my face in both hands. Her fingers were warm. A little rough from work but not harsh.
"Silly."She said. Her voice was low. Steady like the man's voice. Absolutely sure. "You're my daughter."
Daughter.
That word made everything quiet. The dust stopped moving. The sun stopped feeling hot.
Her arms wrapped around me, and I didn't pull away. My face pressed into her shoulder, and it smelled like wood smoke and flour and something I couldn't name. Something like home.
My hands clutched at her shirt without meaning to. I closed my eyes.
For a moment I didn't know if I was three or thirty. Or sixty. Or older than that.
But I knew I was here.
And I was hers.
And the caravan… the wagons… the wood and the dust and the people moving quiet but always there...
It was mine too.
Despite everything.
It was mine.
And we were safe.
Together.
Three, Two, Five
Now… for the finishing touches. The flag.
A toothpick with some red cloth tied around it.
And voilà. Done.
A castle. I built it. Me. Well, okay- I did have some minor help.
"Well done, Tanya." Uncle said, leaning over to inspect my work. He puffed on his pipe, the smell of bitter tobacco mixing with river air. He's not my uncle, not really. I think. He doesn't look like Papa. Maybe a little like Mom. But everyone calls him Uncle. Why? No idea. Just how it's always been.
His name is… Ertu… something. Ertuğrul, maybe? Turkish man. Brown skin like old leather, a handlebar moustache, bald as an egg, but warm eyes under thick brows.
"Umu." I nodded, serious. Then I panicked.
There's no torches. If there's no torches, then there's no light. And come night, bad men can sneak inside. Not very good, that. Operational security is paramount to the success of any fortification.
"Uncle." I said.
"Yes, Tanya?"
"I need torches. For the castle. Give me some matchsticks. Please."
He raised an eyebrow at me, twirling that big moustache. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Aman."
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease." I really tried this time. Made my eyes all big. Cute face engaged.
It worked. A bit.
"Fine... but I want those back later!" He said, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out two matchsticks. Before handing them over, he ruffled my hair so much it went all puffy and wild. Oh well. Mom would fix it later.
The castle wasn't really a castle. Not really. More of a lopsided hill of mud and sand pressed into shape by my hands, its towers half collapsing whenever I shifted my weight on the riverbank. It wasn't impressive. But I built it.
"If it rains, it'll wash away." Said my companion.
Her name was Ana. A year or two older. Sharper face, kind of serious-looking, like she was always about to say something smart. She had this permanent scuff mark on her cheek. Red hair, freckled skin. Ukrainian, maybe Romanian? I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure about a lot of things, to be honest.
But Ana was nice to me. Helped me catch frogs sometimes. I liked her.
She crouched next to me, sticking a twig into the side of the fortress like a flagpole or maybe a tower.
"That's fine." I said. My voice was quieter than the wind threading through the poplars by the water. "All things fade, eventually. It is fate."
Ana tilted her head at me. "Have you been reading more of those books about filo... filo-jocky? With Viktor?"
"Hmm? What's that?" I asked, frowning.
"Nevermind..." she muttered, sitting back down carefully, smoothing out her dress so it wouldn't get too dirty.
"It's empty though... no one lives inside the castle. We should fix it."
"How? Bugs? Or ants, maybe?" I asked, head tilted. I imagined it now-an army of loyal ants. Hundreds. No, thousands strong. All obeying my every will. I could steal all the candy I wanted. Mwahahaha.
"I was thinking we put Popo there. But I don't really know if he'd fit…" Ana said, plucking the matchsticks from my hand and starting to use them to gently draw lines in the sand. Maybe making bricks stand out or something. I couldn't see too well from my side.
"Maybe. I don't know where he is though. Yana had him last."
"You think he ran away?"
Unlikely. Popo was the noblest of pets. Absolutely loyal. As expected of the greatest squirrel in the world. Umu, I nodded as I had a thought. I could go for some proper Viennese Schnitzel. Don't know what that is, but I want one.
Something crawled up my forearm. Some sort of bug. Nasty. I flicked it with my middle finger and it flew away. I turned my eyes back toward Ana.
She kept fussing with the castle, but my eyes drifted to the river.
The Olt River.
Transylvania was pretty this time of year. Yellow trees. Mist on the hills in the morning.
I'd been here before. I thought.
It was hard to remember, exactly. But I was pretty sure we were here last year too. There was a feeling about the place-like I'd seen the exact same bend in the river before. The same big stone under the tree near the water's edge.
This was our second time passing through.
We didn't stay in towns. We made camp outside, in forests, or in fields just far enough to see the village lights but not get caught up in the noise. Camp life wasn't so bad. Smoke in the mornings, horses snorting. Bread and soup for breakfast. Viktor reading under one of the wagons, always reading, some old books folded so many times the covers were falling off. They were hand me downs, old DISGUSTINGLY COMMUNIST EDUCATIONAL BOOKS written in letters I couldn't read. Why was that important. I couldn't read… yet. It wasn't that important right now.
Winter wasn't here yet. But you could feel it coming. Even now, in autumn, the wind carried a little bite if you weren't paying attention. Last winter an old lady… she didn't make it. It happened, apparently. I didn't like it. Viktor liked it even less. He declared that one day he'd make it so that no one ever froze again. I chuckled. He was what, almost 10 years old? Even I knew 10 was too small to do things like that, and even then the world would fight him tooth and nail to stop it. But mom didn't agree with me. She said he could do anything. Maybe she was right. What did I know?
"When we get big... do you wanna be a princess?" Ana asked suddenly.
I paused. The thought didn't fit right. Like trying to fold wire into paper.
"No."
My fingers pressed into the sand again, more deliberate this time. "General... maybe."
The word came out quieter than I meant it. Like it didn't quite belong to me yet.
Ana laughed. That easy, rough kind of laugh. Camp kids all laughed like that. No real meanness in it. Just dust, and sunlight, and long days.
The river glittered nearby, carrying driftwood and slow thoughts downstream.
I let my hands keep moving automatically as I thought. Towers, walls. A gate shaped by instinct more than memory.
Around me, the world smelled like smoke, horses, and river silt.
And I liked it.
It was nice. To sit there for a while. At one point, Ana said she needed to pee, and got up and left. I kept sitting though, and kept looking at the castle.
"All things fade…" I muttered and grabbed one of the towers in the castle with my hand, and squeezed. The mud could not resist. It crumbled. My hand got dirty. Mud under the nails. No matter, water was here, I'd wash it.
My eyes turned back toward the rest of the castle. "Eventtually…" I muttered and finished demolishing the rest of the castle.
It was fine. Wasn't the first one I built. Won't be the last. Perhaps. One dya I'd have a real one. Made of something stronger than mud and dreams. Something that'd weather any storm, break any foe, something that'd help things happen the way I wanted them to happen.
I picked up the matchsticks and put them in one of my dress pockets, then I went to the river and washed my hands, and then my face, and finally drank some of the water. It was very clean, not too cold, and very beautiful.
Hmm… I wonder what Viktor is doing. I should go bother him for a bit.
I got up and trotted toward where he was. Ont he way there I pet a cat. It was very cute. Black, white, and a bit of orange fur. She was a girl, I think. Girl cats had three colors. Boys never had more than two. Like me and Viktor. I had blonde, green, and brown, and Viktor had pale and brown colors. Maybe that said something about society.
Naaaah. Cats were just that, cats.
So, after saying hello to the cat, whom I named her General Katya just now, for no reason, I kept on trotting until I reached where Viktor usually sat.
Right where I thought. Under the big old wagon with the busted wheel rim, wood propped under it to keep it steady. Viktor had spread out a blanket in the shade, and there were books all over. Big ones, small ones, floppy ones that looked like they'd been rescued from a fire.
Viktor sat cross-legged, frowning so hard his eyebrows almost touched. Four boys sat around him. Most were six, maybe seven. Two Romanian kids, one boy from Serbia, and another who spoke mostly Latverian but kept slipping into Ukrainian when he got annoyed.
They were all looking at one book open in the middle. I knew that book. It had math things in it. Rows of tiny black numbers like ants. Evil numbers. Logistical numbers. ALways missing food and coffee and ammo and spare parts for hte machines. Ugh.
And Viktor was writing stuff down on a slate board next to him while one of the Romanian boys kept scratching his head, confused.
I walked right up behind Viktor. "Whatcha doing?" I tried to climb on top of his back but he just absent mindedly denied my attempt with no issue. Hmph.
Viktor didn't look up at first. He was explaining something, slow and clear. "No, no… if five times X minus two equals six times Y plus one, and Z equals X plus Y, then you must first isolate X. Understand?"
The Romanian boy just blinked. One of the others whispered something like "Ce vrea să spună asta?" in a lost voice. Viktor sighed.
He grabbed this fat old dictionary book next to him-one of those yellowed things with tiny letters, and started flipping. "Latverian… Romanian… no, Hungarian word here…" he muttered. Then louder. "Mulțire. Da. That's multiplication."
I tilted my head. I didn't know all those words yet, but I liked how Viktor sounded when he taught. Calm, serious. Like a real grown-up. Even though he wasn't.
One of the boys tugged at Viktor's sleeve. "Viktor, but… what if X is a cat?!" The other boys snickered.
Viktor exhaled slowly through his nose. Patient like a saint. "No, X is not a cat. It's a variable. Like… a name for a number we don't know yet. If X is cat, we have bigger problems. Maybe it is Armageddon then."
One of the other boys looked down at the paper in front of him, then hit his head against hte table and exclaimed something like "Curvă matematică…" All the other kids giggled when he did that.
Heh. He said the funny word.
I couldn't help it. I leaned in next to Viktor, eyes on the board. My brain ticked over quietly, that warm buzz in the back of my skull. I knew the answer, didn't I.
"X is three. Y is two. Z is five." I said casually. No one heard me though. That was fine.
Viktor was still looking at the paper, thoughtful now, when a new voice cut through the air like a sharp twig snapping.
"Viktor."
We all turned at once.
There stood my mother, Cynthia Van Damne. One hand on her hip, the other holding a folded scarf, eyes sharp as flint but not angry. Yet. Very pretty eyes, my mother had. Like the most precious olives in Greece, I heard my father describe them, before they wrestled a bit. They thought I didn't hear them but I did. I should pick up wrestling some time. It's a very valuable self defense skill.
Her hair was tied up, neat as ever. Pale red cloak over her shoulders. Boots dusted from walking.
The boys all went quiet.
"Viktor, my son…" she repeated, tilting her head slightly. "What exactly are you doing?"
"Teaching." Viktor said automatically, sitting up straighter under her gaze. "Math. We need education if we are to get… better." I knew what he meant. He wasn't happy with camp life. He thought I never noticed, but I did. He looked too much at the stars at night. But I kept him company all the same, cause he was my brother, and he felt lonely, I think. I knew loneliness.
How? Ugh, my heard hurts.
Her, my mothers' eyes flicked down at the chalkboar… or what could pass as one. A salvage thrown away when a school shut down. The notes on paper, the dictionary. Viktor could speak I think… three, or four languages, maybe? Hard to distinguish between a language or a dialect sometimes. Then back at the boys. THey were six, maybe seven years old at most.
"I understand my boy…" She said as she got a painful look in her eyes. "But… this is too soon. Third or fourth year work." She murmured. "These boys aren't even through their first."
Viktor blinked at that, glancing at the numbers like he'd only just now considered that part. His mouth opened, then shut again.
"But it's easy." He said quietly. "I'm not special. I'm just… a bit older. They should be able to do it... Maybe I'm just a bad teacher."
His shoulders hunched a little, eyes lowering.
Mother's expression softened just slightly. She stepped closer, crouched down next to him—not all the way down, but enough to talk without looking down on him.
"Viktor." Her voice was quieter now. "If you want to teach people… you have to be patient. Everyone's different."
She set her hand gently on top of his head, smoothing down his messy brown hair. "Not everyone has the same gifts. Some take longer. Some faster. It doesn't mean they're less."
Viktor just stared at the board.
I padded up behind her then, tugging at her cloak.
"Up." I said simply.
Without even looking, she slipped her arms under me and lifted me against her shoulder. I leaned in, head resting against her collarbone. Her hair smelled like incense and mint leaves and flour.
One of the Romanian boys piped up suddenly, voice breaking the moment:
"Miss Van Damne, what's for lunch?"
Cynthia turned her head slightly toward them, her arm steady under me.
"Stew." she said. "But one of the hunters caught a rabbit. There's meat in it."
That set off a round of happy chatter. One boy cheered. Another clapped his hands. Someone else muttered something in Hungarian I didn't quite catch but it sounded happy enough.
I stayed there against her shoulder for a bit. Warm, steady. But after about thirty seconds, I got bored. My legs wiggled.
"Down now."
She set me down without a word. My mother went to look through the book Viktor was using to teach, perhaps trying to make sense of it for herself. I dusted off my dress, then wandered back toward the table where the papers were.
There it was again. The same problem Viktor had written earlier. I looked at it.
The numbers clicked in my head again like they had before. Easy as breathing. I knew the answer.
"Three. Two. Five." I said again, louder this time.
Everyone turned again, Cynthia, Viktor, all the boys.
Mother's brow furrowed. "Tanya." She said slowly. "How do you know that?"
I shrugged. "I dunno. Can I have a lollipop?"
For the first time I saw mom's s eye twitch. Barely. A tiny muscle near the corner.
"Two of them." she muttered under her breath, just quiet enough I almost didn't catch it. "Damn you, Werner."
Viktor, though-he wasn't bothered at all. In fact, he looked like he was going to explode from smiling too hard. He stood up, grabbed me in both arms suddenly, lifting me off the ground in a hug so fast my legs kicked.
"Aha! I knew it! Tanya, you're special too! You're just like me!"
I wriggled a little in his grip but didn't really mind. Viktor was warm, and he smelled like metal and paper. Then he started tickling me and I laughed a bit until I bit his hand and then he stopped.
"I'll make a study plan." Viktor was saying now, eyes shining. "We'll start easy, no, wait, she already understands variables, so maybe algebra next… Maybe I'll borrow that old book from Uncle Ionnes… But I can't neglect the other subjects… Mathematics is natural but social and natural sciences demand study… I'll need more books. But maybe I can barter-
One of the boys finally spoke up, still looking confused.
"Does that mean Tanya is smart now?"
I have always considered myself to lie on the lower precipice of above average intelligence, truly. Smart enough to be called clever but not a genius or near-genius. Maybe he was right.
And right after that, another boy let out the loudest, most echoing fart I'd ever heard in camp. He blinked, like he wasn't sure it was him.
"… I think I need a bath now." He said in a dead serious voice.
Oh dear.
That broke everyone. The boys started laughing so hard they nearly fell over. Viktor finally let me go, shaking his head with a grin. Cynthia just sighed and walked off toward the cooking fires, before abruptly stopping, sniffing a bit and screaming out a loud "TÜNDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !" And then muttering something quite low to a somewhat chubby brown haired woman who looked positively ghastly once my mother finished talking. As for my mother, she probably decided she'd rather deal with rabbits and stew than all of us for now. I don't blame her.
And me? I just stood there, matchsticks in my pocket, dirt on my dress, and my head full of numbers that felt like puzzle pieces waiting to be put together.
It was a good day. A noisy, weird, perfect day. But it made me wonder… in my dream last night… Why did I dream of fighting under the harsh sun, with golden sand as far as the eye could see, and shooting at boats till they were swallowed by the waves? Why did I feel the weight of a rifle in my arms and hear the crackle of radios in a language no one here spoke?
Why did it feel so familiar-like I'd done it all before, long ago, under a different sky?
My head hurts.
White and Red
I didn't like the snow. I just didn't. Something about it rubbed me wrong. Like an itch in my mind I couldn't scratch. It made me angry.
Plus, it was cold outside.
So, I stayed inside. I was reading a book about some girl with red freckles and long socks. It was written in German. My papa wanted me to learn the language because it was apparently super useful and a lot of people spoke it, including himself. I asked him if he was German, and he said close but not quite. I didn't find it too odd though.
A lot of people inthe camp were from a lot of different lands. We had all sorts. Even a dwarf. Well, we HAD a dwarf, but he joined a circus. Something about having a more stable pay?
At any rate, German was apparently a useful language and a lot of the older people in the caravan spoke it. And, for some reason I found myself learning it quite well. Maybe cause I was still little? Or maybe it's cause I'm a bit like Viktor. Either way, it was nice.
At any rate, I was inside with my papa inside the carriage he used to put all his meidicine stuff in. He, scrunched blonde eyebrows, shining green eyes, hairy arms, was sitting on his low wooden stool, cleaning his tools under the yellow lamplight.
Scissors, pliers, knives. Some things with shapes I didn't have names for yet. Long needles. Small glass bottles full of cloudy liquids.
His doctor's bag was open. Black leather, worn smooth on the corners. I knew most of the items inside by now. Not just what they were called, what they did.
"Pass me the iodine." Papa said, not looking up.
I stood up from my corner, set my book aside, and walked over. There were four small brown bottles on the shelf. I picked the right one on the first try. Had to extend my fingers just a bit, but I managed.
Werner accepted it with a quiet nod. "Danke."
"Tanya, don't you want to play outside in the snow with the other children?" my father asked as he worked on cleaning something that looked like a strange pair of scissors. Apparently, it helped with babies somehow.
"Not really, no…" I answered, leaning in to sniff at a dark brown glass bottle on the table. The smell hit sharp and sour- ugh . I wrinkled my nose, set it down, and went back to my book, glancing toward Papa every so often.
"You know..." he said after a while, wiping the blade of a scalpel with slow, deliberate movements. "You pick things up fast. Your letters, your reading... faster than Viktor even. And the way you're learning German... it's almost scary."
"Is it?" I frowned. My heart gave a quick little jump.
Had I been found out?
Where'd that thought come from?
"No, not at all," Papa said, still focused on his scalpel. "But those who are gifted... often have troubled lives. They find making friends difficult. Finding purpose, satisfaction... happiness. It's harder for them."
Should I say something?
"The pursuit of happiness. Do you know what that is?" he asked as he picked up his glasses, cleaning them with that little square cloth he always used just for them. Napkin? Handkerchief? Words were hard sometimes.
My brow scrunched. "Pursuit of happiness? It's in the name, right? To pursue happiness."
"Yes, but do you know what it really means?" He set his tools down and pulled up a chair across from me. I lifted my book higher, pretending to read.
Schelm... hwhat does that mean again? Helmet?
"Papa, what's this word?" I pointed.
He sighed and leaned over to take the book from me.
"Hey!" I protested, but he just gave me a patient look.
"It means prankster. Or rascal. Much like you can be sometimes." He smiled a little, then tapped the page with his finger. "Now... about that pursuit of happiness."
I shook my head quietly. "No... I don't really know."
Papa set the book down and gave me that look. The kind adults gave when they were about to say something important. It felt heavy somehow.
"It means chasing something that gives you fulfillment. Contentment. Not just smiling all the time or enjoying toys and sweets... something deeper. A reason to wake up each day and go through life's struggles. Good days, bad days, boring days where nothing happens." He paused to let it settle.
"This goal, this 'pursuit,' can be selfish or selfless. It might be becoming the greatest athlete, a brilliant inventor, a small-town doctor. Or..." he paused again, adjusting his glasses, "it might be becoming someone ruthless, chasing power for its own sake. But whatever it is, it's your 'why.' And often, the goal is the journey itself, not just the finish line."
I blinked slowly, taking it in. He rubbed his forehead like he realized something.
"Too soon," he muttered under his breath. Then he smiled again and tried it simpler:
"Tanya, my dear... the pursuit of happiness means giving yourself a goal in life that you can look back on when you're old and say, 'That wasn't a waste.' Do you understand now?" He leaned forward and ruffled my hair gently.
I put my hand on my chin, thinking hard.
"I see. Umu. I don't get it." I nodded very seriously.
Papa stared at me, then laughed softly, that kind of laugh adults do when they aren't sure if they should laugh at all.
"Right... well. Where was I? Ah yes. I was going to have a chat with you about how some kids are different... but I'll leave that for your mother. Or Viktor. Let him deal with it." Then he changed his mind and quickly muttered "Or maybe not…"
I just looked at him for a while, mind blank, then blurted:
"Walnut?"
"Walnuts... right." He patted his vest pockets, found none, then opened a little glass jar in one of the drawers. He handed me a few, kept one for himself.
"You're young, Tanya, but you pick things up quick. Your letters, your reading... even German, faster than most. Makes me wonder if you wouldn't make a good doctor someday." He watched me as I munched on the walnuts. "Maybe that could be your pursuit of happiness."
I didn't answer right away. My mouth was full.
"Would you like that? Helping people? Like your Papa?" he asked, with a note of hope in his voice.
I shook my head. "Maybe? I don't know. Not really."
"Why not?"
I thought about it. Honest felt easiest. "I don't really care about other people."
That made him pause. The kind of pause grown-ups do when they want to say something wise but can't find the words fast enough.
"That's fair," he said after a long breath. He set down the scalpel and folded a cloth over it. "But I do. I care. My father... my father was a medic. Second World War. A bad time. A lot of bad times. But he always said: 'Blood is blood. It doesn't care what uniform you wear.'"
"Your papa helped soldiers?" I asked.
"Soldiers, farmers, mothers, drunks... anyone. After the war, he kept helping. Opened a clinic. Just a small one. I followed in his footsteps."
"You wanted to be like him?"
"Exactly. Though not 'exactly' exactly. I wasn't content to stay in the Netherlands forever. Wanted to see the world. Help those no one else woudl help. I figured... there wasn't a better way to spend my life." He looked around the caravan. "And I ended up here. Caravan life. Not what I pictured as a boy... but I think I've done good."
I stood up and moved closer, climbing onto the crate next to him. My legs swung back and forth. He rested his hand on my head again, scratching gently. It felt nice.
"Are you a good doctor?" I asked.
He chuckled quietly. "I am. Not to be arrogant... I'm a very good doctor."
I looked at the row of clean tools. Some new. Most not. "Do good doctors get a lot of money?"
"Sometimes they do…" he said, voice low. "Sometimes they do not."
That made me frown. "Then... why don't you buy a car?" I asked.
Papa blinked, like I'd spoken in Martian. "A car?"
"Yes," I said, flat and clear. "The caravan is slow. And cold. A car is fast. And has air conditioning inside. It could be very useful. Viktor could learn how it works. Make it better."
He stared at me a few seconds longer, like I'd surprised him more than he expected. Then he laughed. Quiet, tired, like it hurt his ribs a little.
"You're something else, Tanya. Maybe someday, yeah?" He stood up slowly, no rush in his movements. "I need to stretch my legs. Maybe chop some wood."
He leaned down, close enough I could smell the faint soap-and-metal scent from his hands, and tapped me on the nose with one finger.
"And you need to exercise too. You're a growing girl. Go on, run along now."
I nodded, recognizing an order when I heard one. I put on my hat, scarf, and gloves all by myself-because I didn't like anyone helping me dress-and ran outside.
The first thing I noticed wasn't the cold. It was how white iet was. Winter had well and truly blanketed the land.
It was almost blinding. I instantly squeezed my eyes as much as I could to limit how much light could get into my eyes. Urgh. Evil blinding snow and its reflective light properties.
At least there's no snipers hidden in the snow.
Eyes still squinted, I found myself walking for a bit, thinking about how to occupy my time, when I heard a source of noise. Kids playing. I trotted toward the sound, careful not to step in mud and get my boots dirty(I had just the pair). Shoes were expensive.
I thought for a second, 'where's Viktor', then I remembered he was out hunting with some of the men.
I was left behind. A shame. I would've liked hunting. I think. I'd be a good hunter, I feel like. But maybe that could happen in the future? Now, it was time for play.
The sight before me was… interesting. There were about 7 kids of various ages, split up into two teams, a 3v4 setup. Some kids were more serious than others. There was a decent siege setup going on, with kids hiding behind rocks, trees, an old thrown out piece of sheet metal that stood there for who knows how long.
I surveyed the battlefield for a while trying to find familiar faces. One of the kids shouted, "It's Tanya!" and the others instantly piped in, heads turning around fast and locking on to my position. I was propositioned to join quite quickly. I would even out the teams, they said. My heart wasn't in it, though.
"I don't really want to though," I said.
Ana was having none of it. "C'mon, Tanya, please."
"Yok ma. I just came outside cause Papa forced me to."
"I think she's just scared of losing," a dark-skinned gypsy boy named Joszef or something, who we all called Joshko, muttered to one of his friends. He was on the opposing team.
His comment made my eye twitch.
"So be it, it shall be your funeral." I declared, imperiously, with certainty.
I instantly surveyed the members on the field.
Ana, Nicolai, Valentina were on one side, and Joshko, Marko, Tsvete, and Yana on the other. Ana was a good friend of mine. She had red hair, freckles, and a stubborn streak that showed even when she wasn't talking. Nicolai was a bit annoying because he was smart and not as smart as he thought he was. Skinny kid, glasses always sliding down his nose. Valentina was annoying because she talked too much but she meant well. Always smiling, cheeks round and flushed from the cold.
I didn't really interact with Joshko or his friend Marko, who were two years, I think, older than me, mostly because Marko was a big asshole who I once saw tormenting a turtle by flipping it on its back and laughing at it as it struggled. And I responded to the senseless cruelty the only way I could, by jumping on his back and biting him until he stopped. He couldn't do anything in return to me 'cause I then ran away and my Papa was the doctor, which meant I had immunity. And I didn't apologize because why would I apologize when I'm never wrong.
They also had Yana, who was a quiet Ukrainian girl who didn't talk much, probably roped into it by peer pressure or 'cause she was forced, and Tsvete, a new girl from Macedonia or Bulgaria or one of those places that we picked up last month. She was pale, freckled, with bright brown hair and big blue eyes, teeth like a bunny and ears that were a bit floppy, but overall very cute. The poor thing was found wandering the streets begging for food when Uncle went into town to buy some things (because he was the one who spoke Bulgarian best from the group and we still needed to buy things from time to time) and Tsvete didn't really understand us as well we'd have liked even considering that we were all bilingual with Latverian being the most spoken language.
Thinking about it, caravans like ours didn't exactly have a main language. It depended on where we were. Bulgarian around Vidin or Dobrudja, which were places near the Danube which was a very big river that was veyr important because it flowed through all the countries we went through, or almost all of them. Languages were hard and easy and sometimes they were dialects, but we had to make do and spoke what we had to. Sometimes, but mostly rarely, it was Macedonian, Serbian was more common, when we were further south near the border areas. Romanian and Hungarian were the main ones, since the Carpathian basin was quite large and very stable climate wise and where we spent most of our time. We went to Moldavia a few times, apparently, but I never did, or at least don't remember doing so. Apparently the people there were worse off than us, if that's possible. We didn't go further east towards the countries that were part of the recently dissolved USSR. Apparently because it was unstable, but I also overheard once because there were some very bad men there who didn't like us.
All the same, communism failing was always welcome. It brought a smile to my face.
We went to Czechoslovakia and Poland once. Nice places. But we didn't stay long. We weren't welcome. Even more so than here. People looked at us like we were diseased. I hated it. So we stuck to our routes. At any rate, Uncle knew enough of the languages to get us by, and he wasn't the only one. Pretty much all the adults spoke at least three languages…
We had a lot of languages. And that… That was just normal. Kids picked up whatever the grown-ups spoke. And honestly, that was another reason why Tsvete mostly stuck quiet: language barrier. She was trying, though. We could understand her easily enough for the simple things. There was enough mutual intelligibility between the languages.
I kept my eyes moving, analyzing. Already my brain was piecing things together. Strength, weaknesses, cover positions. Seven kids, like I said. And no proper team balance. I hated imbalance. I hated wasted potential. Three boys, five girls—so boys vs. girls wouldn't work. Mixed teams were the only way to keep it fair.
"Alright," I said finally, cracking my knuckles. "But not like this. We're doing a new selection. Mix it up."
I waved them all into a line. Nicolai groaned. Valentina was already chatting about who should be on whose side. Marko rolled his eyes. Joshko muttered something under his breath, but he listened.
Of course, I wasn't doing this just to play fair. It was about structure. Efficiency. Even in something as dumb as a snowball fight, there was always a right way and a wrong way. The teams had to be balanced.
Once they were lined up, I started picking out names, rebalancing teams as I saw fit. I wasn't going to let some slapped-together mess stand. No way.
In the end, we had rearranged the teams so that it was me, Nicolai, Tsvete and Yana vs Ana, Valentina, Joshko and Marko. Relatively balanced. There were also about 10 minutes or so, not that we had a watch or anything, for us to set up some ammunition(snowballs) and defensive cover(snow forts).
I used a few of those to organize a pep talk.
"Company, form up!" I barked. For some reason. They looked at me weird. Tsvete most of all. I scratched my chin for a bit and scratched my brain for a bit longer. Then I came upon a word I heard once.
"Tsvete, ehla!" I said as I gestured for her to approach us. Her face lit up and she understood.
We laid out our battle plan, or what passed as one.
Then, the battle began in earnest.
The first throws were clumsy, to be sure. Well, there was some warm up before hand, but when teams swap there's bound to be soem minor confusion. Kids were scrambling for cover, shrieking when snow smacked against shoulders or backs, or the worst of it, when it hit them in the neck and got down their shirts. Potential for catching a cold was high, but it didn't matter.
The pace picked up though. The rhythm settled. I ducked behind my own makeshift trench, something I'd commandeered from a previous combatant, Ana I think, who didn't mind me using something she built, but did mind it when I started changing it. It wasn't much of a defensive fortification. Just some piled-up lines of snow that were kicked together, but edited to be a bit taller and have some gaps where I could throw and still hide. Kind of like the tips of a castle wall.. If that makes sense. I was cautious, coming out only to fire a shot or two.
Tsvete was sticking close to Yana ont he left flank at first, timid. Her throws barely made it halfway across the field. But with each try, each laugh, she got a little bolder. Her face flushed from the cold, from the effort, and then…
When Valentina poked her head out from behind a tree, arm raised to lob a snowball at us, Tsvete flung one on instinct. It smacked Valentina square on the nose. Valentina yelped, stumbling back in surprise, eyes blinking, mouth filled with small bits of snow, not enough to be an annoyance but enough to wet her tongue.
But there wasn't much force in it. Just enough to be noticed. Valentina wiped her face, then laughed.
"Bravo, Tsvete!" Yana called out, and Tsvete's ears turned even redder, but she grinned. It was very good, praising subordinates when they did their job properly was common sense. Always better to invest in employees/soldiers/minions/friends(my head hurts…) you already had and build them up rather than chasing replacements…
I blinked a few times as I felt a headache coming on… but I said internally 'no, not now, go away' to the headache, and it did.
Back to the fight, as I threw a snowball that hit Marko right in t he arm, destroying his snowball before he could fire it. Heh. Bullseye. As I ducked to reload, I thought a bit about the team compositions.
It was a bit confusing, now that I thought of it. Ana, ginger girl, older than me by a year. Yana, Ukrainian girl with black hair and black eyes, also older than me, but younger than Ana, I think? And Tanya, me, the youngest, with dirty blonde hair. Diversity in colors, but not in naming, looked like.
Oh well. What can you do?
My musings were interrupted by a rather unmanly welp as Nicolai took two to the chest one after the other. He was getting pummeled. Marko and Joshko had him pinned down in the open. Why was he out in the open? Fool! Get to cover.
But there was no mercy. Marko and Joshko, and even Valentina and Ana took the easy target when necessary, but didn't have too much free time to fire since I started providing covering fire, so he could retreat.
But the two boys… they were vicious. They kept calling out, loud enough for everyone to hear:
"Come on, Nicolai! Only boy on a girl team and you're still losing? Hah!"
"Pathetic!"
Snowball after snowball smacked into him, until he just dropped to his knees and scurried off. Were those tears? Tears of joys or tears of laughter?
It was getting a bit too exciting, perhaps. Cruelty was unnecessary.
The pace picked up. Kids dashing through snow, diving behind cover. Marko was ruthless. Ana and Valentina were shouting. Even Yana started really getting into it, silent but dangeruos, lobbing perfect arcs.
I ducked down behind my trench again, noticing my stockpile was running low. I crouched, hands working fast to pack fresh snowballs. I needed ammunition. Always. Ichi, ni, san…
When I stood up again-
I saw it. The bird. Black against the pale sky. Perched on a dead branch. Looking at me with those beady black eyes. Was it a raven? A crow? Or an omen?
I looked at it. It looked at me. I looked at it, looking at me.
And everything just… slowed. Deja vu? What's that?
I stared at it for a moment too long.
I blinked.
There was no reason for it-
But I remembered snow. Real snow, not this half-melted slush.
White skies. Fire on the horizon. A battlefield where the snow wasn't just play.
Infantry lines breaking under artillery. Screaming.
What… what is this? Is this now?
I saw a young woman's face… I saw her face for a split second. Curly brown hair. Green eyes. And rage. Pure rage. I knew her name… Mary Sioux. Why did I know her name? Why did it make me mad… and afraid, a bit?
Then… That punch, the shattering barrier. The statue behind her. My sidearm raised. Her computation jewel breaking.
I blinked.
The cold wasn't as fun anymore.
A sudden sharp pain lanced through my temple. A headache. Felt like something was clawing its way through the back of my skull. I hissed through my teeth and pressed two fingers against my forehead.
Ana noticed. "Tanya? You alright?"
I grunted. "Yeah. Just… got dizzy for a sec."
But there was no time to recover, because the pain just got a whole lot sharper as I fell on the snow once more.
Something slammed into the side of my head-right in my ear.
A snowball. Ice-cold, compacted too hard. Sharp little chunks digging into the sensitive skin. For a second, everything blurred in white and red flashes.
I let out an involuntary, pained grunt as I stumbled tot he ground.
And I heard Marko laughing. "Bird-brain!" he called out, voice echoing. "That's what you get for standing around like a statue!"
My fingers twitched. Jaw locked. Eye twitched.
Bird-brain, huh?
Inside my chest, something old stirred. A whisper from behind the headache.
Not anger. Not really. More like… inevitability.
I crouched, hand closing around the last snowball I'd packed. I didn't even think about it-fingers working instinctively, pressing down, squeezing tighter and tighter. Snow compressing, harder, smaller. Not quite ice. Not yet. But dense. Denser than it should've been for a kid's throw.
My head still hurt. But it didn't matter. My arms moved on their own. Like I'd done this before. Like riding an old bike after coming home from years in a foreign land. Like muscle memory tied to something bigger than muscle. The echoes of my soul, the now roaring embers of the long buried child of training and instinct.
I stood up.
Time slowed.
Marko was still grinning. Wide, teeth bared, oblivious. His face clear as day. Wind catching his scarf. Sunlight glinting off melting icicles. I could even see a snowdrop falling. It was beautiful.
But this was no time for beauty.
My arm cocked back. My eyes narrowed.
Target sighted, and locked.
I felt it: the aim, the arc, the right angle. Not control. But guidance. An urge. Half-remembered. But I knew. He was already neutralized.
A perfect trajectory.
Then-
I threw. No. That wasn't accurate. I released.
The snowball whipped through the air like a bullet.
And hit him dead center in the forehead.
Like David slaying Goliath.
A solid crack. Followed by silence.
Marko's grin dropped instnatly. He staggered back a step. His face was that of pain.
A thin red line trickled down between his eyebrows. Blood. Not much. Just enough to stand out in the snow. He fell.
The quiet broke all at once.
"What the hell—?!"
"Marko!"
"Oh my God-"
"Shit, shit!"
Valentina was already crying. Nicolai swore under his breath. Someone was running towards Marko, who was lying on the ground, unmoving. In shock. In pain.
Good. I hope it hurt. Asshole. You deserve worse.
But me?
I didn't move.
No rage. No hate. No joy. Well, maybe a small amount of joy… But more than that…wonder.
I looked down at my hand, flexing my fingers slowly.
That wasn't normal. Was it?
But it felt so natural.
Was I too strong? No… that wasn't it. I was supposed to be much stronger than this, right? Much deadlier… right? I earned it, right?
How did I do that…?
How can I do it again? I must do it again.
I do hope he isn't dead though. That would be troublesome.
And then, a quiet thought underneath it all—cold and small:
Have I been found out?