Winter blows cold and quickly, the evening snow binding this poor town to the endless distant east.
Something faint and hard to name takes shape. Somehow, this day is special.
Nusha sits on a rooftop barking orders while her soldiers bustle in and out of the base.
Iglika leans alone against the guardhouse outside, watching them dress up the ruins around them with scraps of holiday cheer.
Iglika: Regardless of the reason, their fight continues on over the next year, and over time their little force gains a new name.
Iglika: The "Tin Soldiers."
Iglika: They had almost forgotten what death meant. No matter how deep the wound, as long as they were breathing when they reached my table, I could put them back together.
Iglika: My stitches spread over them until they each looked like patched-up tin soldiers. An "invincible army," like something out of a myth.
Iglika: I only focused on the torn flesh in front of me. I never gave any thought to what it meant.
Iglika: That word, "invincible." Turns out someone took it as a challenge.
Gabriela: Try this pojas, Iglika.
Amidst the stream of people going in and out, a guerrilla steps out holding a red belt.
She gently wraps it around Iglika's waist, studying her carefully.
Gabriela: You should wear more red, Iglika. It suits you. Hm ... a bit of white embroidery would look even better.
She unties it with a smile and slips away.
Iglika: Now they're out there celebrating Christmas Eve, like drunken fools.
Iglika: So noisy.
Iglika: ...
Iglika: It's quieter here.
She brushes snow off a rock outside the courtyard and sits down.
After a while, the cold seeps in through her boots and into her flesh.
Gabriela: Iglika!
The girl turns. Through the mist of her breath she sees a face, the red belt in her hand shining bright against the snow.
Gabriela: What are you doing sitting out here?
Iglika stares out toward the town.
The guerrillas can't risk staying in the town itself; there is always a risk that the occupiers might arrive. Instead, they set up camp in an old woodcutter's camp on the side of a barren slope.
But for now, at the foot of the mountain, children walk house to house, singing carols.
Smoke curls from chimneys. Someone carries a bundle of straw to lay on the floor.
Gabriela: Not a fan of the season?
She sits beside Iglika, holding the belt against her waist before pulling out a needle and thread.
Iglika: I wonder why you are. Do you really believe in all that stuff about God?
Gabriela: Sometimes I struggle to, but I believe even my doubts are a part of His will.
She folds her hands and bows her head in prayer.
Iglika watches the snowflakes settling in Gabriela's messy hair.
Nusha: You there! Todor!
Nusha's voice rings from afar, and up the slope trudges Todor, a massive bundle of straw on his back.
Kiril: Boss, hand over some of those. You've carried them all the way up here.
Todor: You think you can carry it all yourself?
Even out of breath, Todor still finds the strength to kick Kiril aside. Kiril stumbles but follows, the two exchanging a brief greeting before passing by the two girls sitting there.
Gabriela: I have to believe the Good Word could benefit even someone as thick-headed as "Hydra."
Dusk falls. At the foot of the mountain, the carolers have already visited three homes, but they'll never climb up here.
Behind them, Nusha's voice keeps ringing out as she directs the squad. Iglika looks back, catching the scent of bean soup.
Iglika: What about the captain then? Why's she so fond of Christmas Eve?
Iglika looks back at Gabriela.
Iglika: I don't really take her for a true believer. She just wants to fight the occupiers.
Gabriela: She thinks of it as a time to pull us all together.
Gabriela presses the needle against her lip in thought.
Gabriela: To celebrate our heritage and remind us of where we come from.
Gabriela: And to show those trying to carve us apart that even if they tear us away by force, our spirit will always bind us back together.
Her brows knit, carrying the same expression Nusha wears when barking orders.
Iglika: Sounds like she made quite an impression on you.
Gabriela touches her ear, then nods.
Iglika: Our spirit will always bind us back together.
The bean soup smell thickens, and Iglika lets out a sarcastic laugh.
Iglika: You know what this reminds me of? There was a year that I wandered through a city. I found myself in a district celebrating Christmas Eve.
Iglika: That day, a group of kids led me to a big house where a woman was handing out food.
Iglika: We all waited in line forever, and at the end, each of us was served a thin bowl of bean gruel.
Iglika: The woman who passed out the bowls led us in a prayer of thanks to the Lord for our food. She made sure each of us said it too. Only then were we allowed to eat.
Iglika: I sat there mouthing the words as she went on and on. I can't remember what saints she was talking about or why it should matter. But I remember the smell.
A pair of cold, reddened hands pat Iglika's knees.
Iglika: What is it?
Iglika's gaze follows the hands up until she meets Gabriela's eyes.
Gabriela: That doesn't sound like the best memory, but now you have something new to think about when you smell those beans again ... Maybe that's what Nusha was talking about.
Iglika: Huh?
Gabriela: My sister.
Gabriela's face is cold, but Iglika can't tell whose feels colder.
Gabriela: Wait here for me, all right? The belt's almost done.
The thread has run out, the needle dangling from the red cloth as her body shifts.
Gabriela: I'll be right back!
Iglika: Ah.
She runs back, leaving Iglika only then aware of her warmth.
Iglika: Brrr ... It's cold.
Night settles. The winter woods feel lonelier than ever.
Nusha: Down! Get down!!
Nusha's warning cuts through the air.
Iglika: ...
Iglika cannot make sense of any words that are said; the chaos around her comes as muffled noise rising up through silence.
Shards of brick smash into her back. She turns to see Nusha waving for Ivan to rush over.
Artilleryman Ivan: ...
Ivan gestures to her, but finding no answer, simply grabs Iglika by the wrist and pulls her into a run.
Iglika: ...
She tries to wriggle out of his grip but he simply pulls her tighter. Her words make no noise against the ringing in her ears.
Iglika: ...
Still she refuses to be dragged away, placing a hand on a tree and stitching herself to its trunk.
A shard of bark comes with her as she's yanked down behind a deep ridge.
The night is silent, but the scene is unholy. The village is lit only by the dying flickers of flame.
Iglika arrives to find Nusha atop the ruins, grimly surveying the scene.
Others are digging through the rubble, searching for survivors. It seems not a single one escaped uninjured.
Shepherd hurriedly tends to the wounded, staunching cuts and bullet holes with rags that reek of his herbal medicine.
Iglika: What happened?
Nusha: Nusha doesn't look up; she yanks a dirty cloth tight around a gash that runs down her arm.
Nusha: The occupiers ambushed us. I still don't know how they got through our sentries.
Iglika: Where's Gabriela?
Nusha: There are people that need your help now.
The sharp ringing seems to return, rising in step with her frustration. The smell of that damned bean soup is still caught in her nose.
She runs toward her old guardhouse, in part out of duty, in part out of hope, scrambling past bodies still half-buried under rubble.
One—an arm with two stitch marks. Dimitar.
"Who rides faster than me? Look, she's a beauty ..."
One—a left thigh shorter than the right. Bilyana.
"Scum, wipe your damn face!"
One—thin arms, no wounds, but a tattoo. Kiril.
"Ouch, boss, ouch, boss ..."
One—with a thick brown beard ...
"Where's my little sister ..."
Nusha: Iglika!
Iglika: Why do I remember every word they said ...
Nusha: Iglika!
Iglika: This one's Todor ...
Nusha rises, strides over, and drags her out of the ruins.
Iglika: And Mihail ... Mihail ... Where's Gabriela?
Nusha: She's gone.
Nusha offers her a blood-soaked red belt, crusted with sand and stone, the stains gleaming in the firelight.
Nusha: Shrapnel. It went straight through her skull. Not even you can repair that.
Iglika: Arghhhh!
Iglika collapses to her knees.
Iglika: ... I want ...
Nusha: Iglika ...
Iglika: I want a gun! Let them taste death too—I'll stitch their faces to their damn BOOTS!
Sparks crackle at her fingertips, the air faint with the smell of burning.
Nusha: That wasn't part of our deal.
Iglika: ...
The sting on her cheek leaves Iglika dazed.
Nusha: Now, if you don't want to lose more comrades, you'd better go help Shepherd.
Iglika stares blankly toward the firelight. Through a blur of tears, she sees a dark figure rushing about.
Nusha: If you have even a shred of sense left ...
Nusha brushes her swollen cheek.
Nusha: ... You'd know these hands of yours weren't made for killing.
