A beach of turquoise blue waters stretched infinitely, the white sand shimmering under the sparkling sun. The air was warmed by the sun but cooled by a gentle breeze that caressed the skin. The sea, in a calm and serene sway, kissed the shore delicately. There, a woman with golden hair like the sun's rays, her silhouette dancing to the rhythm of the wind, had her feet caressed by the gentle waves. Suddenly, she turned.
"Gregory!" Her sweet and familiar voice echoed in the vastness.
In the blink of an eye, the vision faded. Gregory, a man of medium height and sturdy posture, stared at the rustic wooden ceiling of his sanctuary, marked by the wrinkles of time and the humidity of the climate. His black hair, now speckled with gray, flowed down the sides of his head and shoulder. His bear-like beard covered his entire face. A cutting breeze entered through the open window, bringing with it the relentless cold of winter, but he knew today was just the solstice. His bones, still strong but tested by time and hard work, ached on the makeshift straw bed, where the blanket, no more than roughly stitched animal skins, caused an uncomfortable itch on his rough skin. The crude reality of Krasnaya Truda enveloped him again.
"Gregory! Wake up, wake up!" A young girl shook Gregory as she called out to him.
Mila, at nine years old, had light brown hair that fell in disordered curls to her shoulders. Her large, expressive blue eyes reflected the innocence and hope of a child who still believed in better days.
"Mila? What time is it?" Gregory, now brought to his senses, rose from the bed.
"It's seven-thirty, just like you asked me, okay?" Mila flashed a small smile, her curls bouncing as she made a face indicating she was about to ask for something.
"What do you mean, okay?" Gregory got up, still in his pajamas, scratching his head a bit with his calloused hands and closing the window. "Did you open it?"
"No, Gregory, it was like this when I got here..." She clasped her hands in front of her, swaying her waist a little.
"Alright, what do you want, Mila?" The priest showed impatience.
"I wanted to know... if you..." Mila said slowly "are going to play... with us today."
"Mila... You know I'm going to be busy today, don't you?" Gregory approached.
"Yes..., but..., but..." Mila's expression turned as if she was about to cry.
"Okay... If I have time, we'll play, okay?"
"Promise?" Mila looked hopeful and excited.
"I promise!" Gregory ruffled the girl's hair with his hand.
Mila screamed with happiness and jumped on Gregory with a big hug.
With a tender smile, Gregory watched Mila run out of the room, her youthful energy and contagious joy filling the gloomy atmosphere. He headed to the small bathroom, whose foggy mirror reflected his tired appearance. He washed his face with cold water. Changing his simple clothes for the priest's garments, he couldn't help but wear a fur coat for the cold day ahead.
Leaving the bathroom, Gregory headed to the common area, where he found the other children. In a room with large benches facing a shrine with a sun face symbol, the priest saw Mila telling something to Anya and Pavel.
"Gregory promised he would play hide-and-seek with us today!" She placed one hand on her chest, raised the other above her head, and took a slight step forward, proclaiming this information with great eloquence.
Anya, a four-year-old girl with blond hair and eyes full of happiness, clapped and jumped with joy.
"That's right! This time I'm going to hide with Rudy!"
Pavel, a seven-year-old boy with blond hair and dark brown eyes, recoiled.
"I don't know if I want to play hide-and-seek today..." He closed off and turned his face away.
Gregory approached them, heading towards the wooden double doors of the sanctuary.
"Kids, I'm leaving now. Take care." Gregory turned to look at them one more time. Their faces were so peaceful and happy.
Stepping out of the sanctuary, Gregory was confronted with the harsh reality of Krasnaya Truda. The hard, frozen dirt streets stretched ahead, flanked by old, weathered wooden houses. Their warped boards and broken windows testified to the constant struggle against the relentless climate. It had snowed last night.
The exterior of his current home was larger than the average house, though not by much. It had two floors, but the second was almost a tower. There was a poorly made fence, falling apart around the sanctuary.
Gregory noticed child footprints in the snow around the sanctuary, leading towards the forest. "I'll think about that later," he told himself before walking on.
The villagers moved slowly, their expressions laden with deep fatigue and endless sadness. Their worn and patched clothes barely protected against the biting cold.
Gregory walked among them. He could hear whispers and fragmented conversations as he passed; words of fear, rumors about the military coming later that day.
"Did you hear? They say they're going to take more of our food this year than last year," murmured an elderly woman, huddled in a tattered shawl.
"Winter's going to be long... I don't know how we'll survive, may Lord Orlov and Lord Callahad have mercy on us," spoke a man, his eyes lost in a distant and unreachable horizon.
Gregory felt each word as a blow to his heart. He knew the weight of his responsibilities, he would speak with Leontiev, the oldest man of Krasnaya Truda, in order to seek negotiations with the military.
Leon's house stood out in the labor camp. Although simple compared to common houses, it was relatively luxurious compared to the average in the town. Gregory approached it and knocked on the wooden door. No response. After a few moments, Gregory knocked again.
"Leon! Open the door! I want to discuss matters with you!" The priest shouted, waiting for a response.
The door slowly opened, revealing Leontiev, a striking figure even in his aged and fragile condition. He was a thin man, his pale and cracked skin. His eyes, although marked by the adversities of life, still shone with notable cunning and intelligence.
Leontiev was dressed simply, but his clothes were better preserved than most of the camp's inhabitants. He wore a thick fabric shirt and pants which, despite being worn, were clean and well-kept. A faded wool vest covered his torso.
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His thin and sparse hair was pulled back, revealing a high forehead. A sparse beard covered his chin, giving him an air of dignity.
"Gregory," he said with a hoarse but firm voice. "Come in. Let's talk."
The priest then entered the house. It was disorganized, appearing even abandoned.
"Life hasn't been the same since Ekaterina's death, has it?" Gregory asked with sorrow, sitting down on a chair.
"Keep her name out of your mouth," Leontiev turned to Gregory, looking at him deeply. "You let her die." As he said this, Leon sat down.
"God writes straight with crooked lines; we don't know what his plan was—" Gregory was interrupted.
"I had to watch my wife die of hunger. My daughters die of hunger. All you promised me, Gregory, were good harvests!" Leontiev threw some empty jars that were on his table to the floor.
"Yes, I promised that, Leon..., but there's nothing I can do. Day after day I pray, but the years get colder... I have children to take care of, soon winter will come and I doubt more than a handful of us will survive. We need to talk to Lord Orlov, ask him to let us speak with Calla-"
"Lord Callahad to you, Gregory. Don't forget that you're a shitty political dissident, and you're as trapped here as we are. Haven't the years you've spent here taught you anything, Gregory? To them, we are less than the worms that crawl through the snow."
Gregory absorbed Leontiev's harsh words, the truth in them weighing on him like lead. He momentarily lowered his gaze, acknowledging the pain and loss Leontiev had suffered, a pain shared by many in Krasnaya Truda.
"Leon, I know there are no words that can fix what was lost. But if we don't try to negotiate with Captain Orlov, more people will suffer. We can't let hunger and despair consume us without a fight."
"Gregory, we've already lost. He's going to come here today, and he'll take as much food as he wants. If you beg for mercy and compassion, he might gouge out your eyes and make you eat them... He's done that to people before you."
"I know, but we have to do something. I'll try to negotiate that he comes for the tax next year, and until then, we'll figure out how to pay the interest."
"Ha... I doubt that will work, but who knows... Just don't get yourself or us killed, Gregory. Though, dying might not be so bad after all..." Leon lowered his head.
"Things will get better, Leon, I know it," Gregory said confidently, as he left Leon's house.
After leaving Leontiev's house, Gregory walked slowly towards the entrance of Krasnaya Truda. His steps were firm, but his heart was heavy with uncertainty and worry. He knew that the meeting with the military could be dangerous, but it was also his only chance to try to negotiate a better future for the inhabitants of the camp.
The gray sky above reflected the grim color of the camp. The cold air pricked his skin, but Gregory barely noticed it, lost in thoughts about what he would say to Captain Orlov. He went over different approaches in his mind, looking for the right words that might persuade a man known for his cruelty and lack of compassion.
Reaching the entrance of the village, Gregory positioned himself where he could clearly see the road leading to Krasnaya Truda. The path was flanked by bare trees, their leaves long fallen, and snow was starting to accumulate on the edges of the road. The quietness of the place was unsettling, a silence that preceded the storm that would come with the arrival of the military.
As he waited, he observed the faces of the people who passed by. There was a mix of fear and resignation in their eyes. Each of them carried the weight of life in Krasnaya Truda, a life of suffering and hard work under the constant shadow of fear.
As Gregory waited, the minutes dragged on slowly, each seeming longer than the last. He watched the desolate landscape, his breath forming small clouds of vapor in the cold air. The tension grew as time passed.
Gregory shifted restlessly, alternating his gaze between the path leading to the village and the villagers who occasionally passed by him. He could feel the expectation growing not just within himself but also among the people around him. Everyone knew that the arrival of the military was imminent, and with it, the uncertainties too.
Then, on the horizon, a cloud of dust began to form, growing gradually as it approached. Gregory squinted, trying to see through the distance. What appeared first was the outline of a military truck, a robust and imposing vehicle.
But what really caught Gregory's attention were the figures accompanying the truck: two mechs, approximately three meters tall. They were imposing structures, with legs bent inward in a design that maximized their mobility and agility. Instead of hands, they had machine guns, ready to be used at any sign of disobedience or revolt. Each was piloted by a single soldier, visible through a small glass window on the front of the machine.
The mechs moved with a surprising grace for their size, each step creating small shockwaves in the frozen ground. They flanked the military truck, like menacing guardians of an unquestionable power. They emitted an incredible amount of steam and smoke, through pipes on their backs.
Gregory's heart raced as he saw the vehicles approach. He knew that the following moments would be critical. Gathering his courage, he stood firm, preparing to face Captain Orlov and his soldiers, hoping to negotiate some form of clemency for the inhabitants of Krasnaya Truda.
The truck stopped a few meters from Gregory, now with the mechs even closer than before. The priest smelled a strong scent of smoke.
The door of the truck opened, and out stepped a man in official army attire. He had medals on his uniform, a mustache on his face, and a pair of eyes that despised what they saw.
"Come on, you shits! Call that old man Leontiev over here!" shouted Viktor Orlov, the captain.
Some soldiers emerged from the back of the truck, readying themselves beside him.
"Captain Orlov, I would like to talk to you..." Gregory said, a tightness in his chest.
"Hm? Who are you?" The Captain narrowed his eyes, trying to discern who he was speaking to.
"I am Gregory, the priest of this place. I've come to make you a proposal."
"Gregory?" Viktor seemed to have heard that name somewhere. "What's your proposal?" The man smiled, covering his face, the tips of his mustache pointing upwards. He approached with his soldiers.
"I would like to negotiate a debt with Lord Callahad," Gregory said firmly.
"Debt? What debt?"
"I was going to negotiate directly with Lord Callahad to exempt us from tax payments this year; we would pay double next year."
"Are you serious?" Viktor kept smiling. "You're really serious? Ha! Ha! Ha!" Viktor began to laugh uproariously while everyone else remained serious.
Gregory felt something was wrong.
"Gregory, is it? Are you that revolutionary who got arrested?" Viktor asked while twirling the tip of his mustache.
"Yes." The priest trembled.
"Men, teach this shitty revolutionary some manners. He's been standing up for too long."
Before Gregory could say anything, a sharp pain covered his stomach, and then his thigh. He fell to his knees. The soldiers had struck hard with the butts of their weapons.
"Gregory... Gregory... Let me tell you a few things. First, Lord Callahad would never speak with trash like you. Second, you could never convince him to accept that debt. Your value is less than the land you're on. It's cheaper to kill you or wipe out this place."
"Please... Stop..." Gregory pleaded, kneeling in the soft snow.
"Third and last point, he doesn't command here. You have to speak with me."
Gregory prepared to say something, but butt strokes covered his body.
"That's right, men! Soften up this fucker's flesh!" shouted Viktor Orlov, caressing his mustache while watching Gregory's blood in the snow.
Pain was the last thing Gregory remembered before everything went dark. Now, he slowly emerged from an abyss of darkness and confusion. A throbbing pain pulsed throughout his body, each heartbeat reminding him of the blows he had suffered.
His heavy eyes opened with difficulty, the faint light of candles dancing in his blurry vision. He lay on a bench in the temple, the smell of incense mixed with the iron of his own blood filling the air. Gregory tried to move, but a sharp pain made him groan and give up the attempt.
Gregory was all bandaged, with purple marks all over his body. His nose seemed to be torn, his ribs especially hurt.
Gradually, the shadows in the room began to clear, and he realized he was not alone. Mila sat by his side, her blue eyes full of tears and concern. Anya and Pavel were with her, their faces marked by fear and uncertainty.
"Are you okay? What happened?" Gregory asked, struggling to sit up on the bench, leaning against the arm.
"No Gregory! Nothing is okay!" Anya screamed as she cried.
All the children approached Gregory to hug him.
"I was so worried about you! I didn't know when you would wake up," said Mila, squeezing his ribs.
"Ow, ow, Mila, gentler!" Gregory adjusted to talk to the children.
"What happened?"
"Gregory... Rudyard is very sick!" Anya screamed again, while crying.
"What happened to him? Where is he?" Gregory began to stand up, and with much difficulty and willpower, he managed.
The children led him to Rudyard's room.
"Gregory, it was Miss Isabel who brought you here, she told us to keep an eye on you. She tried to treat Rudy, but she couldn't," Pavel felt sad and guilty.
Gregory approached Rudyard, a young boy of only five years with his black hair cascading down his head. He was in the bed where the children sleep together, it is more comfortable than the priest's, but don't expect much.
Normally the child has very clear and rosy skin, but now it is red. He is sweating a lot for such a cold climate. Gregory then puts his hand on Rudyard's forehead and realizes, he is burning.