1
The thin and pale features, battered robes, a scarf half covered in the dark, gloomy colour of blood. Sitting back against the cold rock, the person's head rolled weakly against his chest, face down as if all the life had been drained out from him. Face stained with blotches of blood, the ruffled pale blonde hair covered a large half of the person's features.
A rifle stood, shoved into the snow, holding up most of the person's weight.
It was as if the next second, the person would collapse into the snow and stop breathing.
In that flash of a moment, I could have thought that I had mistaken the person. If it weren't for being too familiar with him, I would have really mistaken him for someone else.
Ivan Braginsky.
The one that was always at the top.
The one that always had everything his way at the palm of his hands.
The man who has blood that of a flagitious wild animal flowing through his veins.
The man who had once terrified the world.
Now all I see
Is a defeated nation who has fallen too deep.
2
—Bolshevik's belief is a path filled with thorns.
A long time ago, when I had just started on this path for not long.
I stood at the foot of the steep hill, head tilted, gazing at the frightening mountain range.
The other comrades have already gone up, only I remained at the foot with endless hesitation.
At that time, the man stood by me.
"Take my hand, Middle Kingdom."
I looked up, I saw the bright sun light that shone at the back of his head, darkening half of his face, making it difficult to see the man's expression.
Only the side that has been illuminated by the light had shown clearly, a blinding sight for a second.
I wavered for a moment, before I took his hand.
The man pulled me up, enveloping me in his arms, hugging me. He patted my head like one would to comfort a child.
"Don't be afraid, you won't fall because you have me."
The man smiled brightly, and rested his cheeks on my head.
"As long as I am here, you won't ever have to worry, my little Bolshevik."
Ivan Braginsky.
At that time, in my eyes, he was an impossible mountain to climb.
Every time I stumbled across dangerous cliffs, he always held out his arms, pulling me into his protective embrace.
The warm chest, the steady heartbeat, I haven't forgotten either of those, even until now.
3
"You won't be able to leave me, because there's only the two of us in this world." A childish smile spread across the man's face, oblivious of how cruel his words were.
Yes, it was true. In this brutal time, the only thing they had—was each other.
Hence, there are some things that I could not give up, no matter how brutal the world was.
"Приходите?" the man asked.
"No, Стоп." I replied, brows knitting together.
Ivan remained silent for a moment, then suddenly broke into a smile.
He grasped my shoulders harshly, pain seeping into my joints.
"My little Bolshevik, I don't like it when your defiant like this." He said with a smooth voice and a gentle smile.
Yet, his grip on my shoulders tightened with every syllable said.
Who was right? Who was wrong?
I didn't know.
The only thing I knew was that I had my own principles as well.
Despite the fact that we could only see each other in this world.
"My little Bolshevik, will you come with me?"
"No. I won't, and I can't. Because you are the Soviet, and I am myself."
On that day,
He and I broke apart on separate ways.
—Until the end, the Bolsheviks still did not bring any hope to this disaster—
Lithuania was the first to leave.
Then, one by one, they all left.
Finally, there was only one person left.
And that was one with a life full of trust and faith towards the Bolsheviks.
Ivan Braginsky.
Through the snow, I treaded towards him.
The snow crunched under each step I took.
Upon my presence, the the man awoke with shock. The next second, with great speed, the man had his rifle pointed at my chest.
His features were haggard and exhausted, yet, in those violet eyes still glistened the glare of a fierce beast.
I remained silent and collected.
My gaze stayed resting on him.
Upon recognizing me, he only stared. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
After a short moment of nothingness, he laid his rifle down, flat on the snow.
"Are you here to see how I die? China."
He uttered bitterly and remained in the same position; leaning back on the cold stone, sitting in the snow, drained of energy.
I shook my head, still not talking. I stood still, not moving an inch, and gazed at the man.
"Complete rubbish! That bastard Alfred is always chasing after you everyday, do you think I'm blind? You and him—the United States—are simply trying to figure out how to deal with me, aren't you!" the man suddenly started screaming. He pulled my hand tight, with frightening strength.
His next sentences were full of agony, misery, and pure despair.
"Yao, I don't want to lose you to someone else. What should I do?"
"If only you became one with me just a little earlier…"
"I am now ill, I can no longer fight."
The sickly and pale young man clung to me. Clutching the cloth with balled fists, knuckles turning white.
His lavender orbs showed the edge of insanity. Ivan tilted his head to gaze at me, his expression twisted, his lips tugged upwards into a distorted smile.
"Alfred went to find you, didn't he? I'm going to lose you, aren't I?"
"…"
"No, that can't be. All the others have gone. But only you…you can't go."
"…"
"My Bolshevik, if you were to go, if you were to become someone else's, then it's better if I just—"
"That's enough, Ivan!"
I gently but firmly clasped my hands around Ivan's face.
"I won't become anyone's possession, I am not yours either." I said, gazing deeply into his eyes.
"And my name is not Bolshevik."
"You have your beliefs and I have my own pride." I stated, voice resolute, every word punctuated clearly.
"My name is China, I have been through four thousand years of history, and nothing will change me."
Ivan stared blankly, his demeanor confused and startled.
His dry lips parted open, but he just couldn't find the words.
Without warning, soundless tears began to roll down his blood-stained cheeks. It was as if he finally reached his limit.
The once unstoppable man was now a sobbing mess, curled up in my arms, weeping like a child.
But all I could do was to hold him silently.
How did it become like this?
Well, I guess it was inevitable.
His principles, my pride.
King to king.
A dead end.
4
"Must you go?"
"Yes."
Ivan stood, bending over to retrieve the rifle half covered in snow.
He walked forward, away from me. For a moment, our shoulders brushed. His light blonde hair disappeared from the corner of my eye.
I did not turn around.
I knew he was already far, the distance between us meant to increase.
"You will lose your life."
"I know."
"You'll die!"
"I know."
It was like a casual conversation.
The distance between us continued to grow.
I stood still and clenched my fists, trying to hold on to our last string.
But I released my hold.
The sound of crunching snow grew quieter and quieter.
Further and further.
Suddenly, I turned and ran. I sprinted, I raced towards the disappearing figure.
I extended my arms and grabbed his hand.
The man turned around abruptly, face filled with surprise.
I panted, slightly bent over. I didn't talk—or maybe it was because I simply didn't know what to say.
Then,
Ivan smiled.
I saw Ivan smiling. The warm, glowing, long lost smile.
It was so similar to a blooming sunflower under the beaming sun.
I felt my face being cupped into large hands. Before I had a chance to react, cold, yet soft lips found its way on mine.
It was as if he had been melted away from the cold, harsh everlasting winter.
I opened my eyes wide. I watched the color return to his face.
His cheeks
The corner of his mouth…
What a bitter taste.
"Did you know, Yao, that when a sunflower blooms, its spirit would fly towards the sun. But before it could reach the sun, the sunflower would already wilt, and the spirit too, would die."
"Efforts in vain…how foolish."
"Indeed. Look at all those wilted sunflowers—"
"Why leave in the first place?"
"If they don't chase the sun, then it would be as if they were dead already."
The soldier of the Bolsheviks left by himself.
All alone.
His long robe hiding the painful scars that covered his body.
Wiping the blood away from his face, he sets off yet again on the path with no future.
The hero's impasse.
The Bolshevik's grave.
—Да здравствует большевик—
—Long live the Bolsheviks—
At that time, I saw him off with my gaze. The madly swirling snow made it hard to see his figure. I only saw the deep his footprints extending far out.
In the end, even the footprints will be gone.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath.
When I opened my eyes again. I was ready to go.
I straightened myself up, then one step at a time, I walked determinedly to the opposite direction Ivan had gone.
Farewell, Bolshevik.
Farewell, Ivan.
—1991, The Fall of the Soviet Union—
"Yao, let us head forward, to that place full of warm sunshine. There, we can see the golden sunflowers surrounding us. And that, is the most beautiful place."
"One day, we will find that place, right?"
"Goodbye Yao."
"Farewell, Ivan."
End.