The blooms upon the lime trees are a riot of scent. Anya sits beneath one a forgotten length of fabric on her lap. Her long dark curls are twisted up and resting just under her loose kerchief. The water sparkles in the rapid sunlight along the black river. She could not get much closer to it without losing her pale shade under the trees. 

Oleg sits with his back to the tree. He has been very quiet. So has she. The sounds of the river and the village beyond seem far away. Oleg and Anya are hand fast. Their wedding is set for next year though with the coming of the inevitable war and the toppling of the current regime Oleg feels his time is running short. He will go with his father and brothers to serve. He is anxious and small shudders of fear course through him. He feels ashamed.  He feels hot and drowned. The scent of the trees suffocating him. And Anya before him, her dark eyes knowing and her hands silent in his. 

Oleg reaches for her. It is not proper. It is not right. He feels like waves of ocean are crashing against him and he wants so desperately to let go. He feels her full lips under his and small hands quicken on his chest and neck. 

There is no sound, only the humming in his ear. In his head. Her mouth tastes of cranberries and sugar. Klyukva S Sakharom. Frosted Cranberries. He has brought it from the village for her. It is a rarity. The taste lingers on her tongue. She feels his desperation in his mouth and under his hands. She presses all the more. The fire burning in her belly blossoms and spreads to her small breasts and her cheeks redden with heat. 

They will not wait for the planned ceremony but will steal away together into the village to find the priest. There is a small village chapel where a Catholic priest of Byzantine origins practices. It had been almost ten years since the Concession of Religious Liberty in Russia and many of the people chose to cling to their native Byzantine rites. Theirs is an isolated village and there is little worry just yet of the religious persecutions suffered earlier and closer to Moscow and larger ports. 

They have no rings they explain but Anya holds up her locket. The priest, a small brown man with skin soft like tissue paper and eyes that have witnessed too much sadness says nothing. There is another man there as well. His name is Petrov and he is mute. He stands by the door like a statue.  Here is our witness Anya thinks. There is little hesitation and the priest lights and gives them each a long tapered candle. He recites prayers and petitions his voice smooth and unbroken. 

The priest places his epitrachelion (stole) around their joined hands and leads them thrice around the small table where the gospel book has been placed. Then there is silence. The priest and Petrov melt into the walls of the small chapel. The enormity of what they’ve done enfolds them and Anya’s heart beats painfully in her chest. But the certainty of war and death is so close. The peace and need of constancy is their only barrier. 

They walk lightly back by the river through the trees and the sun. Oleg’s eyes are strained. There is an old lean-to half covered by wet leaves the color of the moss near the river bank. His arms encircle her and she leans into him. There is again no sound. The sun glints down upon them and Anya keep her eyes focused on it. They begin to water though from the sun or the aching of her young body she does not know. The scent of the lime trees is strong at their backs. Oleg lets the slow trail of tears make their way down his face and soak into her pooled hair.

Next Chapter: Lyllian, October, 2016, Seattle