Vladimir Ilyich was dying.

Around his bed stood Trotsky, The Georgian, and a few others. Five to be exact, although as he faded in and out of consciousness, they flickered and wavered. As if slowly being rubbed out of existence.

The women had gone. In a corner they’d left a samovar, percolating and hissing softly.

Vladimir Ilyich felt his heart rattling, the breath forced by his lungs seemed heavy, oozing, and spots and motes danced in his vision. He was thinking of a blacked-out train, of glimpses of Teutonic place-names seen with a mere glance through heavy curtains when they’d stopped. It was centuries ago. Millenia. So much time past.

“The masses will need to see,” this said quietly by The Georgian.

“It is idolatry. We must not create a new opium for them,” Trotsky replied. One of the five shadows cleared his throat, as if to say something, but thought better of it.

“Nevertheless. They will need to see.” The Georgian’s eyes held no expression. It was as if he were remarking upon the plainest fact, as if mentioning the sky were blue, or grass was green. He walked casually to the samovar, poured himself a cup.

Trotsky looked down on the bed, a strange selection of expressions playing over his face. He seemed distraught. This open display of emotions disgusted Vladimir Ilyich. You fool, Vladimir Ilyich thought to himself with a burst of loathing. You stupid, muddle-headed fool. He will eat you alive. You and the other fools. He will tear off your heads and drink your blood and stand bathed in red while the masses bay for more and ask, no, beg him to do the same to them.

From the samovar came The Georgian’s voice, quiet as ever. “It can be done. Properly. The application of rational science does not end with life. I have seen the most astonishing man, a former doctor. He can preserve any body, human or animal, in exactly the state desired.”

It didn’t bother Vladimir Ilyich that they spoke of him thus in his presence. That they were discussing even now, as his life weakened and his organs failed, his future use to the revolution. History was ordained. Everyone had to fulfill their role. It did not bother him that they spoke of him thus, but it tore at his very being to have them consider using him as a totem, an idol, a waxen image for superstitious peasants to genuflect before and pray to for forgiveness of their trivial sins. The revolution was not trivial. The revolution was fact. It was science, a new science, cold and pure and untethered to bourgeois notions of truth or sin.

He summoned a last burst of energy.

“No,” he croaked. He was to say more, but the effort rattled his lungs, the pain of the effort forcing him into silence again.

One of the shadows started, looked in perplexion at the others.

“What did he mean,” he asked of no-one in particular.

The Georgian came slowly back over to the bedside, holding his cup by the handle and blowing casually across it as he gazed down at the dying man. The Georgian ignored the fact that anyone had spoken.

“He has been my brother, as he has to all of you,” The Georgian said, addressing the others quietly. “He has been a man of iron will, of brilliant leadership and of the noblest purpose…”

Vladimir Ilyich suddenly lost track of the other’s speech. The words were jumbling, his mind couldn’t keep track of the sounds. A roaring in his ears. He was dreaming. The vast fields. They spread out before him, waves of wheat, already harvested, the stubble covering the ground. A cloudless day. A body by the side of the road, a little figure beside it crying softly. The revolution was inevitable. It was scientific. Further along the road, thin stick figures mewling as they tried to gnaw at the very roots of wheat. The sun beating down. The road continuing. Leading into forest. A group of sullen men in overcoats, a few with gleaming insignia on their fur caps, standing and looking at the rifles facing them, resigned. The order to fire, and the men falling as if slumping from exhaustion. Red seeping into the ground. The revolution was unstoppable. It was scientific. The visions flickered, changed. The Volga passing outside his office window, turgid. Smoke rising from the other bank as the last few pockets of resistance were crushed. A body floating by, the river holding it in a cold, furtive embrace. Then another body. And another… The revolution was inevitable. It was scientific.

He heard the last words of the Georgian, “… a symbol forever, of all that the revolution stands for.”

There was silence. Trotsky cleared his throat, looked to the others, the five shadows. Not one met his gaze. He looked down, as if ashamed. The Georgian sipped his tea, looking down at Vladimir Ilyich, expressionless. Only a deep gleam in his eyes betrayed the fact of his humanity.

Vladimir Ilyich sank into the bed. His breath stopped. He was looking out a window, past a heavy black curtain at a sign of some Teutonic name. It had been so long ago. But what did that matter? The revolution was inevitable.