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Anya, Summer 1914, Volgograd, Russia
The blooms upon the lime trees were a riot of scent. Anya sat beneath one, a forgotten length of fabric on her lap. Her long, dark curls were twisted up and resting just under her loose kerchief. The water sparkled 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 sat with his back to the tree. He had been very quiet. So had she. The sounds of the river and the village beyond seemed far away. Oleg and Anya were handfasted. Their wedding was set for the following year, though with the coming of the inevitable war and the toppling of the current regime, Oleg felt his time was running short. He would go with his father and brothers to serve. He was anxious, and small shudders of fear coursed through him. He felt ashamed, 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 reached for her. It was not proper. It was not right. He felt like ocean waves were crashing against him, and he wanted so desperately to let go. He felt her full lips under his and her small hands quicken on his chest and neck.
There was no sound, only the humming in his ear, in his head. Her mouth tasted of cranberries and sugar. Klyukva S Sakharom: frosted cranberries. He brought it from the village for her. It was a rarity. The taste lingered on her tongue. She felt his desperation in his mouth and under his hands. She pressed all the more. The fire burning in her belly blossomed and spread to her small breasts, and her cheeks reddened with heat.
They would not wait for the planned ceremony but would steal away together into the village to find the priest. There was a small village chapel where a Catholic priest of Byzantine origins practiced. 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 was an isolated village, and there was little worry just yet of the religious persecutions suffered earlier and closer to Moscow and larger ports.
They had no rings, they explained, but Anya held up her locket. The priest, a small brown man with skin soft like tissue paper and eyes that had witnessed too much sadness, said nothing. Another man was there as well. His name was Petrov, and he was mute. He stood by the door like a statue.  Here is our witness, Anya thinks. There was little hesitation, and the priest lit and gave them each a long-tapered candle. He recited prayers and petitions, his voice smooth and unbroken.
The priest placed his epitrachelion (stole) around their joined hands and led them thrice around the small table, where the gospel book had been placed. Then there was silence. The priest and Petrov melted into the walls of the small chapel. The enormity of what they’d done enfolded them, and Anya’s heartbeat painfully in her chest. But the certainty of war and death was so close. The peace and need of constancy was their only barrier.
They walked lightly back by the river, through the trees and the sun. Oleg’s eyes were strained. There was an old lean-to half covered by wet leaves, the color of the moss near the riverbank. His arms encircled her, and she leaned into him. There again was no sound. The sun glinted down upon them, and Anya kept her eyes focused on it. They began to water; from the sun or the aching of her young body, she did not know. The scent of the lime trees was strong at their backs. Oleg let the slow trail of tears make their way down his face and soak into her pooled hair.

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