“SASHECHKA,” SHE CALLED, AS SHE STRODE EASILY CLOSER — ground damp with the blood of their foes and water from their makeshift trenches, a telltale sign of battle. their ghosts will haunt the grounds evermore, and those living must carry the burden plainly upon their shoulders and eyes. tatyana zolotova had lived a thousand lives, perhaps, and she must forge on in this one, relentlessly and with fervour. “you have blood on your face.” her tone light, conversational, it prompted the few first army soldiers a handful of paces away from them to look up from their hastily patched up wounds, half in interest and half in weariness. tasha handed her friend some damp cloth; grisha must be presentable at all times, of course. “that drüskelle was determined to maim you, it seems — he left those three relatively unscathed.” she tilted her head at their ( hardly discreet ) audience, all of whom had the good sense of averting their eyes.