It is a home, though it's neither warm nor safe.
And after every skirmish, Iglika's room would end up looking worse than a battlefield.
Nusha: Aaaaghhhhh!!
The whole band squeezes in, soldiers spilling out past the doorframe and into the yard.
Her gatehouse is made for a cramped hospital, made even worse in moments like this when those who come along can't bring themselves to leave.
Maybe it's to witness Iglika's miraculous "stitching" skills, but more than that, their comrades' screams compel them to stay.
Nusha: AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!
Iglika: Stop it.
Todor's curly face twists up with each scream. Step by step he positions himself behind his lackey Kiril, looking everywhere but at the scene.
Artilleryman Ivan: Even your beard's quivering.
Todor: Shut up.
Shepherd: W-when she fixed herself up, it didn't look like it hurt that much ...
Nusha: Shepherd! Give me ... give me something!
Shepherd: Coming.
At his captain's call, Shepherd fumbles out a vial of powder from his pocket and pours it into her mouth.
Nusha: cough Gah!
The pain and powder cause her to hack up violently, yellow dust filling the room.
Iglika: Stop moving, or the seam will be crooked.
In the chaos, Iglika alone stays calm—cold, even. Like an icon carved from stone, untouched by feeling, untouched by the cries around her.
She cradles her captain's severed arm and stitches with precision.
Nusha: Aaaaghhhhh!!
A spark flashes from Iglika's fingertips, and the arm pulls back into place.
A ring of stitch marks remains around the joint.
Iglika: Done.
With the treatment finished, she gestures flatly for the next patient.
Nusha staggers to her feet, pain eased but not gone, and two fighters rush in with a boy missing a leg.
Shepherd: H-how are you, Captain?
Seeing her stumble, Shepherd hurries to steady her, only to get kicked away.
Nusha: Ooo pos th pour on woon! Mh tum's num!
(You're supposed to pour it on the wound! My tongue's numb!)
The troops clear space as they move Nunsha off the table, leaving Iglika holding the boy's severed leg, measuring it against the stump.
Iglika: This leg isn't yours, is it?
Panicked Fighter: What does it matter? A leg's a leg!
Iglika: No.
Panicked Fighter: What do you mean "no"? It's a leg! We're running out of time.
Iglika: No. He'll die.
Iglika lands her cold eyes on the two frantic adults beside the boy.
Iglika: You can't just defile someone's body like that. Death's grip will come for him, seizing him with ice and fire until he breathes his last.
The two men look ready to argue, words tripping on their tongues, but in the end they swallow them.
Panicked Fighter: What're you all standing here for? Go find the RIGHT leg!
The guerrillas rush out, leaving only Iglika with a dead limb in her hands.
Iglika: ...
This is the last of the wounded. Everyone else has gone out to search for his missing leg.
Iglika seems to realize once again why she is always alone.
Nusha shoots Iglika a puzzled look, pulling a twig out from her hair and poking her with it.
Iglika: Oh!
Her thoughts are broken by the childish prank, and she returns Nusha an annoyed glance.
Nusha: So, the little doctor does feel pain. You didn't show a single expression while you were stitching me ... I couldn't handle it.
She mutters to her men, waving them out of the room.
Nusha: Go. If there's any news, come back and tell me right away.
Even on calm days, Iglika's gatehouse is never truly quiet. No amount of cold, detached glares seems to stop them from arriving.
Artilleryman Ivan: When I was studying at the military academy, my hometown was raided. They said they'd keep me enrolled.
Artilleryman Ivan: The headmaster is still waiting for me to drive these bandits out so I can return. Do you know what rank I'll get when I finish? Major!
Whenever Ivan gets to this point, he gets shifty, and the medals pinned to his chest jingle with the movement.
Iglika: But we don't even have artillery here.
Artilleryman Ivan: Someday.
His voice drops as he strokes one of his medals with a finger.
Artilleryman Ivan: You know, these medals, only top performers get them. This one's for best trainee in camp, this one's for class representative ...
On sunny days, Ivan always drops by to greet her, and the conversation always circles back to that destroyed hometown.
Artilleryman Ivan: Have you ever been up to the northwest?
Sometimes, the visitors are far noisier.
Todor: The best place in the camp! Ha! I'm telling you, you got quite the setup.
Kiril: My boss had his eye on this spot first, you know?
Iglika: Shall I give it back to you?
She sits at the table near her bed like a sentry waiting to receive every visitor.
Todor: Hmph! Keep it! I've already found a better one!
He folds his arms, playing at authority, pacing Iglika's room and examining every object in it.
Gabriela: Hey, Hydra, isn't that mirror you dragged back from the battlefield enough to admire your beard? Why are you poking around in Iglika's room too?
Gabriela's clear, teasing laugh makes Todor's face turn liver-red, so Kiril rushes to the doorway.
Kiril: What are you saying?! Don't talk nonsense! Go stitch up your uniform.
The little "Firefly" Kiril is always faster to react than his heavy-set boss.
Todor's face flushes as he stuffs his big hands back under his arms, pacing circles on the floor.
Iglika: But there isn't even a mirror in my room.
"Bam!"
Todor pulls a small mirror from his coat and slams it down in front of her.
Todor: I knew it! My little sister could never be without a mirror, and neither should you ...
He stumbles over his words.
Todor: She's about your age. Just use it! Come on, Kiril.
Kiril: sigh ... Fine!
The two leave just as noisily as they entered.
Iglika: His head looks like it's about to explode.
Remembering Todor's flushed face, she thinks he ought to look at it himself.
But the little mirror only reflects one of Iglika's eyes—never the whole of Todor's red, puffed-up face.
Iglika: If it really does explode, don't expect me to stitch it back together.
Sometimes, visitors come late at night, with Nusha always arriving in the glow of candlelight.
Nusha: No patients tonight. Aren't you bored?
She slips inside, one hand clutching a wine bottle, the other carrying a roast lamb leg, with a wolfish grin on her lips.
Iglika: I've been busy.
Nusha: What, they can't fight without tearing arms off now?
Iglika doesn't answer, only glancing at the pile of things stacked in the corner of the room.
Nusha: Hah, you've got a stash here. Why not use some of it? What's the point of letting it pile up?
Her words are always matched with action. Before the sentence is even finished, she's already hauling the whole pile over onto the table.
Iglika: Don't. I don't want them.
Nusha freezes, lowering her face close to Iglika's, matching her hard stare.
She shifts back, keeping distance between them.
Nusha: They gave these things to you. Why not use them?
Iglika: Nothing comes free.
Nusha: You call this free?
She points at her body. Her palms, arms, and calves are all marked with Iglika's stitching.
Iglika: ...
Iglika: I don't want to be involved in all of this.
Nusha: Because we fight bandits or the occupiers? I didn't think you'd care much about that.
Nusha's teasing expression disappears from her face.
Iglika: To throw away your life for people who have nothing to do with you ... to trade your own body just so they can live in peace ... do you really think anyone will thank you for that?
Iglika isn't avoiding Nusha anymore. Instead, she presses all her pent-up frustration into her words.
Nusha: Nusha sits down, planting both hands on the table between them; for a moment she takes on something close to the real authority that she claims.
Nusha: What are you so angry about?
Iglika: I ...
Caught off guard by the question, Iglika falters.
She recalls the eyes of the villagers, their limp bodies, yet the strength and anger they showed when driving off starving refugees.
She remembers how they feared the guerrillas just as they feared the bandits.
All these memories churn, and a nameless rage surges up in her.
Nusha: We're not doing this for others. No. We're doing it for ourselves.
Nusha lets the words sink in.
Nusha: To reclaim what we've lost. Even if this war never ends, we still have to fight.
Nusha: Otherwise we'll just keep losing until there's nothing left.
Iglika: And what have you actually gained from all this struggle? Would the people you've "protected" agree?
Iglika: Don't try to rope me in with you. I don't believe in this fight, and I don't believe in allies either.
Iglika: You're just a bunch of violent people thrown together by temporary interests. Call yourselves liberators, conquerors, or murderers; I don't care.
That night ends on a bitter note.
Nusha: Let me spell it out for you.
Nusha: Those guerrillas treat you well because, one way or another, this war has taken away their own children. You are a living reminder of why we fight.
Nusha: And look at these marks.
Nusha rolls up her sleeve, revealing the stitches Iglika left behind.
Nusha: These stitches run deep. Whether you like it or not, you've already bound yourself up with us.
Iglika stares at the winding scars across her captain's arm, a phantom itch prickling her fingertips.
Iglika: A bond? The only thing holding us together is this room and the meals we share, nothing more.
Iglika: Not everyone is as naive as you, and I'm long past the age of believing in fairy tales.
Iglika: I only offer my skills because I want to be alive at the end of the day.
Iglika: It was never brotherhood that kept me alive.
Iglika looks up again, realizing now how close she has gotten to her.
She throws back her head in a laugh and carries on.
Nusha: You smell like Gabriela. Did she wash something for you?
Iglika: What?!
Nusha: Don't worry. It's hardly the worst smell around here.
Iglika half-jumps as she sniffs her clothes, but Nusha stops her and soon after takes her leave.
Iglika: Ridiculous.
Iglika: They throw themselves into danger and death chasing after a dream.
Iglika: A foolish excuse to pat themselves on the back.
