Iglika: She was right. By the end of that night we'd lost over half our men, and the enemy was clearly prepared to return.
Nusha: We'll fall back to Thermaniky.
Iglika: On my knees in that snow and mud, stained black by fire and red with blood, Nusha spoke words that filled me with shame—at that moment I was sure I wanted vengeance.
Iglika: Thermaniky, "a rich and beautiful city," at least by the standards of the time. Whenever I think back to it, I can still see the sunlight glinting off the sea.
Iglika: I think it must have been at dusk.
Iglika: Now I know. It really is dusk.
Iglika perches on a roof beam, staring out toward the glittering sea. The winter sun leaves the water languid and tranquil, almost like it was made of ice.
She pulls the belt from her pocket; it is a travesty of bloodstains and dirt. But she can't force herself to wash it.
Iglika: I remember you said you'd like to visit "once we've won the war," but you didn't win, did you, Gabriela?
It was December 30th by the Julian calendar when Nusha brought what remained of their troops into the city.
Nusha disappeared; she said it was to report to "headquarters," though the notion they had been a part of any formal army confused her.
She was left alone in the backstreets, watching countless unfamiliar faces pass below her perch.
???: Iglika! Iglika!
Iglika: I thought for a while that she must have run away, but two days later I heard her voice again.
Nusha looks rougher than she had before but nonetheless energetic as she rushes toward her.
Nusha: Iglika! Iglika!
Iglika: She was like some wild woman clutching a fat rabbit; only her catch seemed to be a stack of rolled-up documents.
Nusha: We're not beaten yet!
The words barely leave her lips before she begins to stumble and collapse.
Iglika: While she rested in a hospital, I was tasked to begin recruitment.
Iglika: She directed me to a "station," though it soon became clear it was far from anything I expected.
Iglika: I began to understand this organization was more secretive than I knew.
She finds herself in a church, surrounded by young men and women, no older than her. Some are younger. None of them look ready.
Solemn oaths are sworn, and the choosing begins.
Brave Male Guerrilla: You, you, and you ...
The chosen march proudly behind him, mimicking the older soldier's steely and grim expression.
He leads them to a corner of the underground chamber, a spot where they can look out over the others, with a strange and dark sense of hostility.
Another steps up, her demeanor entirely different, though no less joyless as she begins her selection.
Nonchalant Female Guerrilla: Arcanists, step forward.
Several of the young recruits obey. She quizzes each one about their arcane skills, then takes her pick from them.
Other commanders whisper and then, one by one, claim more recruits.
The numbers dwindle. Those left to be chosen stand awkwardly in the widening space.
Iglika: ...
In the silence, two of the elders presiding over the recruitment trade glances. One walks up to Iglika.
Old Man: Which unit do you represent?
Iglika: Nusha.
Old Man: I see. These are your recruits then, girl. They'll make fine soldiers, every one.
He beckons the shy youths forward.
Iglika: No ...
Iglika steps back, refusing to meet their eyes.
Iglika: These weren't soldiers. They were the walking dead.
Iglika: We weren't marching to war or glory. Just to our graves.
Iglika: To blood-soaked snow and charred ruins.
Iglika: I'm not Nusha. I couldn't take their lives into my hands. I couldn't bear their deaths.
The elders falter at her rejection.
Iglika: This was just a trick. From the very beginning she's dragged me deeper into this mire.
Iglika: So, I would find myself bound to them, just like I was before ... to make me care so that I might throw my own life away for them.
Iglika: Fine, I will.
???: The rest of these recruits are mine.
She turns to face the doorway, where Nusha stands steadying herself against the frame.
Nusha: For our homeland.
Iglika: Nusha.
Nusha: Come in.
Iglika: These are the files you wanted.
Nusha: Good work.
Iglika lays down the thick stack of papers but doesn't leave.
Nusha: What is it?
Iglika studies the woman. Calm, steady. Too calm—it only fuels her anger.
Iglika: Why did you send me there?
Nusha: I needed someone I could trust, that's all.
Iglika: That's not it. I'm not going to be like you.
Nusha: What are you talking about?
Iglika: You think I don't see it?
Iglika: You wanted me to get attached. So that I'd carry their lives with me, just like you do.
Iglika: Because now ... now ...
She sees a thousand stitches running from body to body, a homunculus of corpses wearing her seams.
Their quirks, their rambling words, their dreams, their homes.
Nusha: Are you scared?
Iglika: Scared?
Iglika lets out a scornful snort, then frowns at her own anger.
Nusha: What is it you're resisting?
Iglika: ...
Iglika: If I took any lesson from her, it was cutting straight to the point.
Iglika: Will I have to stitch myself together before you're satisfied?
She takes a step back, avoiding her captain's sharp glare.
Iglika: I am afraid. Is that enough? I don't want to start over; I don't want to lose everything again.
Iglika: I doubt I'll ever be able to feel warm on a Christmas morning again.
Iglika: Each body we found, each one sapped some warmth from me that I think I might never find again.
Iglika: And now we just do it all again?
Iglika: With kids—stupid kids that think war is a game. They have no idea what's waiting for them.
Iglika draws in a deep breath and looks up at Nusha.
It feels as though she's begging for their lives before an angry god.
Iglika: Are you willing to watch them die?
For a moment, a flicker of pity passes through Nusha's eyes, but it sinks back into the dark of her brow.
Nusha: They chose to join us, and there's no one else willing to fight.
Iglika: I won't watch them die.
Iglika rises abruptly.
Nusha: Blame me if you like, but you want this too, Iglika.
Nusha: You told me then that you wanted to do your part. You chose to remember them—to avenge them.
Iglika finds herself at a loss for words. She slides down against the table leg until she's seated on the floor.
Her pocket bulges with that red belt, drooping with her against the ground.
Nusha: You will keep remembering them, and you'll soon remember more. You'll leave your mark on new bodies to keep them fighting.
Nusha: Tell me, do you really want to leave? Or did you come looking for the excuse you needed to stay?
Iglika buries her head in her arms. Tears drip into the dust.
Iglika: I'm just afraid. Because ...
Iglika: I want to train with the recruits ... I want to ...
I won't bleed for them! I protected that tavern keeper, and what did I get?!
Iglika: I put others' lives before my own ... I want revenge ...
Iglika: I want to protect them.
Nusha: Then you will.
Iglika: Just like Nusha said, I remembered more and more people—but this time I saw their faces first.
Iglika: That made each loss even more vivid.
Iglika: I kept wishing I could mend that red belt, so I started wrestling with her old needle and thread.
Iglika: I guess I ended up with a knack for stitching of more than one kind. Eventually word got around. Until one day a shy recruit asked me to repair a hole in their pants.
Iglika: I unpicked the stitches and patched it up, no different than if it had been an arm or a leg.
Iglika: In that moment, I finally understood Gabriela.
From winter to summer, another kind of stitching began to spread across the recruits.
Something that brought people together in trust.
Iglika: They left far better scars than the other kind.
