It was early morning. The sun was slowly beginning to crest over the northern Vlastnyy mountain range, giving the snowy peaks a golden sheen. In response, the sky began transitioning from the black of night to the fiery red of sunrise.
Demyan Aliyev, Serzhant in the 32nd Motorized Rifle Company, stood in the doorway of his own home, tenderly embracing his wife. Her tears stained his uniform as her head nestled against his chest.
“I don’t want you to go,” she said weakly. “I don’t want you to go.”
“My dear Anya,” he kissed her forehead gently, “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Then don’t!” Anya retorted quickly, pulling away slightly and looking up at him with reddened eyes. “Can’t you just say no?”
Demyan didn’t respond immediately, taking the time to gently draw her back into his arms. He brought one hand behind her head protectively. “You know I can’t,” he whispered softly, barely holding back tears of his own. “I’m not a deserter, and my country needs me.”
“So do we,” her voice was muffled by his uniform. They stood that way, lovingly entwined, and time seemed to have no meaning. There was no Urth, no war, no mountains, only the two of them.
A faint little voice interrupted their loving caress. “Mommy? Daddy?” Their young daughter, Elana, yawned sleepily. “Whuzz going on?”
Anya quickly broke away from Demyan and turned towards the nearest wall, not wanting their daughter to see her crying. Demyan knelt down and beckoned Elana over. “Hi, dear heart. What are you doing up?”
Elana’s feet pattered against the floor as she half-ran, half wobbled to him and threw her arms around what she could grab of him. “I didnit sleep gud,” she eloquently explained. “Daddy, where’re you going?”
“I told you last night, dear heart,” he replied.
After looking at him blankly, her eyes widened as some of the sleepiness left her and her memory cleared. “But daaaadd-y, why do you need to go stop the Dey-suck Repub-ic?”
Demyan chuckled loudly, and the atmosphere of the room lightened a little. Anya, having regained control of her outward emotions, walked over and knelt beside them, stroking her daughter’s hair. “It’s the Daccic Republic, Elana.”
Still not fully grasping what was going on, Elana nodded and said sagely. “I’m sleepy. I’ma go back to bed.”
Holding her tightly for a moment more, Demyan released her. “Goodbye, dear heart,” he said as she padded back to her room. Standing, he turned back to Anya. “I need to go now,” he stated, as gently and lovingly as he could. “There won’t be one moment when your beauty won’t grace my thoughts.”
Anya could only nod. “I love you.”
Demyan took her hands into his own. “And that’s why I will come home to you,” he promised. After a moment, he reluctantly let go and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. With one last, longing look at his bride, he opened the door and slowly walked away, hating himself for leaving her. The minute he was gone, Anya slowly sank to the floor and began to sob, fearing she had lost her husband forever.