I feel blades of grass brushing against my back.
Grass? Why is there suddenly grass?
"Wake up, young man. Arise."
Above me, a voice drifts down, speaking in that curly, flowing tongue—the kind of dialect those frog-eaters would use.
Wait, frogs?
Is this French?
"Gah!"
I snapped my eyes open.
"Ah, you've returned to us."
"You are...?"
Are you Proudhon?
I had no idea why Pierre-Joseph Proudhon was standing before me.
Is this a dream?
The clinic was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a hill blanketed in lush flowers and grass.
"I was just about to wake him, but he beat me to it."
The one who spoke—either to me or to Proudhon—as I surveyed the landscape was a bearded Russian brute. Bakunin.
Does this man ever wash his hair?
While I was drowning in these absurd, bewildered thoughts, Proudhon turned his gaze toward Bakunin.
"The young man interrupted us, but as I was saying: the priority is reform. Society does not change in a sudden flash. We must critique the abuses of private property and pursue gradual transformation based on mutualism. Anarchism is a historical labor that spans centuries."
Bakunin nearly had a seizure at that.
A torrent of Russian hammered into my ears like a sustained burst from a rapid-fire rifle.
"Labor? Laaaaa-bor? You spout nonsense like the typical reformist you are! Reform is irrelevant—only revolution matters! Oppression must be shattered into pieces. You cannot bring down power through persuasion or negotiation. The State and the Church must be uprooted entirely!"
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Kropotkin approached, sipping from a cup.
He wasn't there a moment ago... was he?
"Both of you make interesting points. However, I believe the principle of cooperation is paramount. Humans are, by nature, beings of mutual aid. Revolution is necessary, yes, but it must not be mere violence or destruction; it must be the creation of a new social structure—a cooperative and voluntary commune."
It was deeply, deeply jarring to hear an old man with a face full of white beard speak with such polite, formal honorifics.
Is it because he's the youngest of the three?
Proudhon—the Frog—looked at Kropotkin.
"Hmph. I once said, 'Property is theft.' But that statement took issue with the structure of ownership rather than property itself. Even if we have a revolution, if a new power takes hold, won't another form of oppression simply take its place?"
"That is precisely why the State must be abolished entirely! Proudhon, you speak of reform within the system, and Kropotkin, you are far too idealistic. I say that right now, the people must rise and blow the ruling class to kingdom come!"
"Revolution without reform is merely changing the name tag of power. What we need is a new contract. A contract voluntarily forged by free individuals!"
"Contract, contract! You're still trapped in that bourgeois delusion! State power and capital can only be toppled through violence. To call yourself an anarchist while naively preaching 'gradual reform' makes me laugh!"
What kind of fever dream is this?
Proudhon and Bakunin were gnashing their teeth, fists clenched tight.
Kropotkin stepped between them to mediate.
"Calm down, both of you. Listen for a moment. Bakunin, your theory of revolution is necessary, but it often degenerates into a means unto itself rather than a path to an end, does it not? You failed in the First International, after all. And Proudhon, your anarchism... frankly, it's too detached from reality. You speak of equality, but you look like someone trying to maintain the existing power structures. Besides, these days, almost every anarchist becomes one by reading *my* books. Aren't you two just losers whose time has passed?"
Ah.
I suppose he wasn't trying to mediate at all.
The faces of Bakunin and Proudhon turned a deep shade of crimson.
Together, they glared at Kropotkin and screamed.
""You deceptive, dogmatic wretch!""
Then they looked at each other.
And screamed again.
""You're just as bad!""
Bakunin's fist collided with Proudhon's jaw; Proudhon's boot slammed into Kropotkin; Kropotkin's knife-hand struck Bakunin in the ribs.
What... what kind of idiotic situation is this?
I watched the chaos unfold with trembling eyes.
Suddenly, Kropotkin, sent airborne by Proudhon's kick, came flying straight at me.
"Argh, my back! These damned Frenchmen don't know the first thing about respecting their elders!"
"Wait—"
The moment his body collided with mine, my vision cut to black.
...Seriously, what a god-awful dream.
*********
"Kuh... argh...?"
I had accidentally fallen asleep while writing.
It really was a stupid dream. Even if I could accept Bakunin, why on earth were Proudhon and Kropotkin engaging in fisticuffs?
Setting aside whether they were close or not, I knew they had some level of mutual acquaintance; the entire scenario was absurd.
I must have been beyond exhausted.
As I shook off the dregs of sleep, I remembered the manuscript I had been working on yesterday.
The clock on the wall showed the hour hand pointing at five in the morning.
That meant seven hours had passed since I drifted off.
What if Maxim found my writing while I was asleep...?
I didn't know the exact year of this era, but wouldn't being caught with such a text be a death sentence? My legs felt weak at the mere thought. I looked toward the desk where I had left the papers.
The desk was empty.
...Why?
"Oh, heavens!"
A vision of myself dangling from a gallows flickered across my mind.
'Please, please, please!'
I scrambled out of bed and yanked back the white curtains surrounding the cot.
Light filtered through the gap, and seeing what it illuminated, I fell into utter despair.
The doctor was reading my book.
He must have heard me; he lowered the pages and looked my way.
Then he spoke.
"This text... did you truly write this?"
The tone of his voice... it didn't feel like the prelude to sending me to a labor camp or a hangman's noose.
It was all or nothing now.
I opened my mouth.
"Yes. I wrote every word of it. The revolution of the masses, the freedom of the people, the class struggle, and the resistance against the ruling elite. It is all mine, and it is what I believe."
Please.
You've been radicalized, haven't you?
In my mind, I was practically gnawing my fingernails down to the quick. Finally, he spoke again.
"Truly. Is it truly your own work?"
"It is."
"Then... then...!"
He approached me.
He sank to his knees before my bed.
"In all my thirty-two years of life, I have never seen a text that so piercingly critiques the absurdities of this world and offers such a lucid solution. The incompetent monarchy of this foolish, contradictory nation only seeks to suppress such words when they find them."
His reaction was overwhelmingly positive.
Wait, thirty-two? I thought he was in his forties or fifties.
The tundra must have aged him prematurely.
I should probably avoid growing a beard... no, wait. It looks formidable. I'll grow one eventually.
He leaned closer to me.
"Is this... is this the full extent of your thought? Or do you have more—enough to write more books? I can help you, anytime. So, please... would you take me as your disciple?"
He took my hands in his.
His rough, calloused hands gripped my soft ones.
The sensation... wasn't unpleasant.
I looked at him, then knelt down on the floor to meet him.
"It is I who should be asking for your assistance, Doctor. There is no need for you to kneel. I am still merely a fledgling intellectual."
He searched my face.
I returned his gaze and continued.
"Tell me... what do you think of revolution?"
He answered without hesitation.
"...It is the destruction of the old order to establish the new. Casting out the current ruling class so that another group may take its place."
I asked him once more.
"Then what do you think of a Communist Revolution?"
"Communism?"
Oh? He doesn't know the term?
I was momentarily taken aback.
Then my brilliant liberal arts education brought me back to reality.
Ah, I hadn't explained 'Communism' in the manuscript yet.
No wonder he was confused.
I maintained a perfectly composed expression and spoke.
"What I described in that book is Communism. I coined the name myself. I've only just laid down the very foundations of the theory. So, what do you think of a revolution through this Communism?"
This time, the words flowed from him instantly.
"The intelligentsia, the oppressed classes, the workers, the peasantry, and the Infected—all uniting to cast out the incompetent nobility, the royals, and the bourgeoisie. To build a society where all people are equal, ensuring freedom and rights, and thereby writing a progressive history for all of mankind."
The fire in his eyes... it burned like the blood-tears of the persecuted masses, like the gore of those murdered by systemic violence, like the crimson flags of trampled unions. It was a flame destined to incinerate every shred of the old regime.
It was only then that I realized.
Here, in this place, the first seed of my dream had been planted. The realization hit me so hard that the tension finally snapped, and I found myself embracing him.
He, too, seemed overcome with emotion. Through tears, he spoke to me.
Thankfully, the moment wasn't misconstrued as anything other than revolutionary fervor.
"I am ashamed... truly ashamed... That I, a man of education, saw the suffering of the masses and did not actively resist. That I believed some hero on a white horse would appear from nowhere to fix it all. I am so ashamed of myself."
"It is alright. Can we not wash away all these past failures by serving the people and the oppressed now? Besides, it's not as if you ever validated this corrupt, illegal system like those who have fallen into depravity."
"Truly... can my errors truly be forgiven?"
"They can, and they will."
He continued to weep for a long while after my words.
Alexandra Ilyinichna—Alya—happened to be passing by the clinic and heard Maxim's sobbing. She eased the door open a crack to peer inside. Upon seeing the two young men locked in a tight embrace, she softly pulled the door shut and vanished. It was a story better left forgotten.
The calendar on the wall marked the year: 996.