Black Tulip
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Farn Baumrinde the zebra woke up with a groan. “Blyad’,” he yawned, stretching himself out in the dim morning’s light. He plodded over to his desk and took a small draught from the bottle of bourbon on it. He had slept poorly, but no nightmares or flashbacks, so it was a comparatively good night. Farn snorted in his red-striped telnyashka. From his bedpost hung an Afghneighnka jacket. On the back on his jacket was a massive black patch with gold embroidery spread across his shoulders reading “Gendarmerie”. Two Zebrican flag patches adorned one shoulder each.
He growled. Today was Tuesday, therefore he had to go to the morning class at 7:00 AM. “Fantastic…” he slid into his clothes, a strichtarn-patterned Chechneyan jacket, a black tee-shirt, a pair of chinos, and a boonie hat emblazoned with the Zebrican emblem of a circle containing a star, an eagle, and a maple leaf, separated by white lines which split the space into thirds. Above his bed was his Bizon SMG chambered in 9x18mm Makarov, hanging by its two point sling. His Makarov PM, chambered in the same namesake caliber, was already cocked and locked in the jacket’s integral holster. He knew not from where these things came from, other than that they came from some farway, exotic land. Rumor held that the answer lay in the Chechneyan Zone. He grabbed his gun and his computer and his boots before he stumbled out the door.
He was late to Peace Studies -- his first class of the day. It was ironic that he chose this class, after all, he was a warrior, and well, they were not; to say that that they were different was like saying that ice was just a little chillier than a thermonuclear explosion. Still, that was of little concern to him. The resurgent March sun did not preclude the sight of frost on the grass, nor the sight of his breath in the air.
“Wait, today is Tuesday. That means…” He pumped his fist, hissing, “Ura! Zelmenya comes back today. I just have to make it through this one last battery of classes and bullshit.” Farn smirked. His boots crunched over the lawns and paths. Farn jogged, his Bizon jauntily prodding him along. He sang under his breath a Griffon song about memories, things undone, and friends lost. “Proschajte, gory, vam vidnej, kakuyu cenu zdes' platili, vraga kakogo ne dobili, kakih ostavili druzej. Ham vernut'sya syuda bol'she ne suzhdeno, skol'ko nas poleglo v jetom dolgom pohode, I dela nedodelany polnost'ju, no... My uhodim, uhodim, uhodim, uhodim… Farewell, mountains, for you saw what price we paid, what enemies escaped, whose friends are all lost. We won’t return here. How many of us fell in that long campaign, not all is done, but we’re leaving, leaving, leaving, leaving…”
Farn saw three other armed zebras during his jog to class. They were always alone and similarly equipped, but each also wore a plate carrier on their chest, and each wielded a Colt 9mm SMG in their arms and a Colt Combat Commander, a 9x19mm ripoff of the Colt 45 -- the M1911, on their hips. Their safeties were all on and their chambers were clear, as shown by indicators on the slides. The broad patches across their shoulder blades all read “Marshall”. In their eyes, he saw respect, envy, and a small amount of fear. In his classmates, he seldom saw anything but mistrust. They were not like him. They are right in one way; they could not possibly understand me or my problems. How does one come home from war? How can you come home after being in a dark, bloody battlefield, deafened by gunshots and explosions, killing guys so close you could count every line on their face? How do you go home after seeing your best friends fall around you, screaming on the ground in a puddle of blood, begging for their mothers? How is it even possible to go back to normal after you’ve seen the shots flying, guys burn alive in APC’s, been up for days on end, praying that a sniper or a mortar didn’t find you as your comrades fell one by one? How can I just pretend that I’m okay, that what happened either wasn’t hellish, or didn’t affect me? Can they understand waking up almost every night, sobbing uncontrollably, reliving the worst moments of your life? Of course they can’t. He kicked open the front door to the building harder than necessary.
Arriving at his destination, he took a seat at the back of the class. The two mares flanking him shifted ever so slightly away from him in their seats, not looking at him. Everyone sat up just a little bit straighter and made their hands purposefully obvious and empty on the tables. They knew that he was a stallion to be taken seriously, and that he had extremely generous terms of engagement. The professor’s brows always furrowed whenever she glanced in his direction during the course of her eternal patrol back and forth in front of the chalkboard. They were already deep into a discussion about the ongoing upheavals in Chechneya.
“The current troubles in Chechneya have many causes, but I’m looking for the three core ones. Can anypony tell me one?”A stallion’s hand shot up. “Yes, Ahorn?”
“Because they’re Chechneyan!”
The class laughed. Farn made a fist and squeezed, thinking of Zelmenya. The professor reprimanded, “Ahorn, you’re in my class – not in some Zebrikanner supremacist rally. I’d appreciate if you’d at least try to act like it.”
A mare’s hand shot up. “Yes, Lavendel?”
“Because they asked for our help, Professor Heidekraut.”
“Correct, Lavendel. Because Gromdo, the Byachi of Ichken, called to Bremane asking for Zebrican military aid to resist Griffiyan invasion, we answered the call of our fellow zebras. And when Gromdo asked for help in uniting the other tribes and clans of Chechneya in order to be prepared for the return of the griffons, we gave him our strength again, bringing all of Chechneya under one ruler, not that this was uncontroversial, with all the different tribes and clans always arguing and fighting each other over everything. We stayed in Chechneya for over two hundred years of stability under the rule of house Ichkeray, staying there only under the permissions and guidelines renewed at the start of every year. This was until the False Spring Bombing seventy-five years ago, which killed not only Dimav, the current Byachi, but also killed his son, the prince, as well as his wives, ministers, and courtiers, throwing the country into chaos. To stop the turmoil, Bremane placed Chechneya under martial law and helped an interim government to form. They ultimately asked to make Chechneya a permanent part of Zebricy, which we did.” Professor Heidekraut paused and looked around the room. “What is the second reason for the troubles?”
A hand shot up with a nasaly, male voice pipping, “I know, Professor Heidekraut.”
“Go ahead, Bromebeere.”
“Proliferation of religion out of The Zone in the middle of Chechneya, Professor Heidekraut, is promoting radical seperatist groups. Christianity and Islam are main religions these terrorists follow.”
The professor nodded. “Good, Brombeere. Chechneyans have always been a superstitious race with their tribal and clan customs, but nothing like this has ever happened before in world history. The Zone was created in some disaster forty years ago, religions came out of there, but didn’t start catching on until about thirty years ago, and the first religious extremist terror group, Tublaka Nrak, came into being from a literalist-fundamentalist sect of Pentecostal Christians. Does anypony know the last reason? How about you, Melone?”
All eyes turned to Melone, a brash, athletic mare. “Professor Heidekraut, Chechneya has not historically had free democracy, so the people go looking for strong leaders, which creates warlords, and so makes war.”
“Excellent, Melone!” Professor Heidekraut clapped and began pacing to lecture again. “Get ready to take notes, class. This will be on the exam.” Farn smirked and pulled out his computer, pretending he didn’t notice while he inwardly cringed and clenched his hands and jaw every time the professor made a mistake in her lecture.
“The government has the situation under control.”
Like hell it does.
“The majority of the citizens there support the government.”
What else do you think zebras say when StateSec comes around giving ID’d surveys.
“Outlaw and terrorist elements are unpopular and few.”
Hence exactly why Bremane is enforcing its will by an occupation force with shoot to kill orders.
“They are poorly equipped.”
Only in comparison to military and gendarmerie units.
“The unrest comes from nativist and religious extremist sources.”
Negative, meatsack.
“They are jealous of our way of life and hate our freedom.”
What are you smoking and where can I get some? Farn seethed. Heidekraut noticed this, her lips pursing slightly. Farn faced a decision; he technically wasn’t sworn to any sort of secrecy, but being a blabbermouth was stigmatized. At the same time, he wanted to let people know the truth of things.
“Is there something you wish to say, Baumrinde?”
It was a split second decision. It wasn’t like anybody in the class was going to squeal on him. He inhaled, not quite sure of himself. Everyone watched him. “Heidekraut, I say that many of your assertions are untrue.”
She gasped, “Oh. Do tell if you know better. We’re curious.” He had disrespected her by not addressing her by surname and title. It was on now. The gazes of the class circle around like sharks.
“Certainly, professor. Firstly, the government does not have the situation under control. Yes, we firmly are in control of the population centers, but once you go out into the boondocks, it’s like Afghneighnistan.” He pronounced it like ‘off-gah-es-tawn’ instead of like ‘af-gnane-is-tan’. “Secondly, while one can argue that the majority of the population does support the government, there are two problems with that. The Marshalls give the surveys, but they’re also the same guys in charge of dealing with insurgents. Nobody without a death wish is going to express doubt or opposition. Thirdly, there are lots of bandit and rebel groups with strong popular support. It’s like Afghneighnistan but with fewer Atheists, and nobody seems to have gotten the memo that the tribes came to a peace agreement over six hundred years ago.
Snickers. The pack was looking more skeptical by the second, taking the professors side. Is that all, Baumrinde?” The Professor was looking underwhelmed.
“Negative.” Farn sat up straighter and looked everyone in the eye. “Fourthly, the troublemakers are well funded and well equipped. Granted, they are seldom equipped to the level of proper gendarmerie or military, although seeing antitank weapons and heavier machine guns is not uncommon. Fifthly, they primarily self-identify as Atheistic or nonreligious, but they have proportionally more religious adherents, despite those being a minority. Sixthly, they are reacting against what they perceive as tyranny by the central government; they really just want to be left alone by revenuers, regulators, and ‘peacekeepers’. To be completely honest, their main complaint is their loss of sovereignty and self-determination following from when they were forced to join Zebricy against their protests, and then integrated into a unitary system versus their old federal one.”
The professor drew back slightly, eyes widening just a little bit. “And how would you know all this?” The real moment of truth was here. Farn had to decide between the social graces of his peers, and making his point. There was absolutely no contest.
“Because I am active duty Gendarmerie.” Old news – nobody batted an eye. After all, it was the world’s worst-kept secret. “And I participate in combat operations in Chechneya.”
Silence. Nobody’s expression was impassive. A few looked vindicated. Whispers slipped back. A couple looked crestfallen as they reached for their wallets. A few looked at Farn with approval. A scarce handful looked surprised. However, the mode response was various degrees of horror masked with levels of effectiveness ranging from pretty damn good to not even making an attempt. The professor’s lip curled. Then everyone’s gaze fell upon the Bizon. They all watched it, some like it was a cobra, others like it was an exhibit, but their pupils all dilated, and many of their number leaned, if not scooted away. He had crossed the line from being just some military nut into being a confirmed, admitted, unabashed, unashamed, killer.
Clink! Something rang out from the silence like a gunshot. Baumrinde’s hairs stood up. His heart raced! He kicked his chair out behind himself as he snapped into a kneeling position, covering the direction of the noise and the door. No time or space to deploy the Bizon -- like a flash, his hand shot towards the holster in the breast of jacket. The practiced fingers wrapped reassuringly around the grip of the Makarov, and drew it, but --!
Nothing. All clear. No hostiles. A student sat sheepishly back up with a pencil in her hand, holding her hands up like some perp on a cop drama. “Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly with far too many teeth showing and far too little curvature on her cute little mouth. Farn Baumrinde froze. Here he was, in the middle of class, freaking out behind a desk, his eyes bulging, his chest shuddering, his pale skin ashen, everyone staring at him, and he had his pistol half drawn from its holster.
He slid it back in carefully and slowly so as to not scare them further, and to avoid instigating chaos with a bang. Blyad’ suka! Okay, tiho, tiho, tiho… That was really bad. I lost it just for a half second, nearly causing Illex to involuntarily share her brains with the entire class. He looked around. Everyone was staring at him. He shakily apologized, “Sorry, I- I just… I’m sorry; I thought there was a situation, and…” Their expressions turned from confusion to anger. “And... I don’t wanna talk about it…” He slipped his handgun into its holster and actively engaged the safety. Their expressions changed to confusion.
Rage, hot and raw, suddenly bubbled up from under the surface. Oi, bitch! If you don’t want to get shot, then get out of the fucking way! Stop staring at me! He wanted not to lash out at them, but his restraint hung by a thread. No… I am not going to hurt anyone. I’m just… I’m just so mad right now, and I don’t even – Why!?! God damn son of a bitch! This is what happens when you guys keep bringing up that shit! Small shudders and racing, phantom terrors reverberated throughout the zebra stallion, who squeezed his wrist hard enough for his longish nails to draw blood. And then you just keep pressing me and pressing me. I do not want to talk about it. I don’t want to remember! I NEED BOOZE! Quit looking at me like that, you bastards; I’ll be alright in a few minutes; sooner if you get me a drink. He breathed in and out, slowly and methodically, gradually feeling his body slow and his mind calm.
Eventually, the professor found her voice. “Now, moving on…” Farn’s eyes remained glazed over for the rest of the class. The professor chose to talk about the economic features of old Chechneya, deliberately staying away from anything related to the ongoing crisis. She spoke slowly and clearly in gentle tones, casting nervous glances at Farn often, even while she strutted back and forth further away from him than usual.
Class was over within an hour, simultaneously too short for Farn, who wanted to stay put, but also too long, because he wanted to disappear and drink the episode away. Nobody said anything to him afterwards, as was normal. He returned to his room briefly to get his things for literature class. He chunked the textbook and his paper on symbolism in Roadside Picnic into his backpack and reached for the bottle of bourbon on his desk. He opened the top, poured four burning swigs down his throat, and then stashed it away. He immediately set out for class.
That falling sensation he got whenever he chugged spirits washed over him. Whee, booze. Make life more tolerable. Buzz. Buzz. His phone went off. He fished it out, flipped it open, and read the text message. His heart leapt and soared as he saw that it was from Zelmenya, his beloved Zelmenya. “Salut, iubita mea. C U @ 1700.”
Farn typed back, “Wunderbar. O.K. Patrol tonight @ 1800.” He reached the academic buildings and shut off his phone, stuffing it away before she could reply. There was a slight swagger to the stallion’s steps as he made his way into the classroom. A student wearing a white cap pulled out a chair for him. He sat down next him, Red River, an exchange student from Equestria.
“How’s it going?”
“Tolerable enough,” Farn responded.
“Good.” Red’s sharp eyes traced over the slightly unfocused muscles comprising Farn’s expression. “Are you drunk again?” He fingered his coarse beard.
“Ja… Nur ein bisschen.”
Red’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Farn?”
“As fine as I’ll ever be, Red,” answered he.
“Want to talk about it?”
The awful memories and their tempestuous emotions, though dulled somewhat, surged back for just a moment. He tensed, glared, and grimaced. Farn gave Red a stare and hissed, “No.” His friend’s stare darkened. Farn relaxed and then grinned. “But I do have some good news: Zelmenya gets back tonight.”
“Ah, that’s good, my friend. How long’s it been since you’ve seen her?”
“Almost a half a year; we’ve been waiting for the visa stuff to go through, and she’s been finishing up her studies back home in Chechneya, and waiting on her damn visa.” He couldn’t resist flashing the simple silver ring with an oval piece of onyx set into the band, which sat on his left ring finger.
Red grinned, laughing, “Nice! I wish you the best!” Farn smiled and nodded. Their conversation ended as the professor came in and class began. They handed in their essays pertaining to symbolism in books they had chosen before they turned to the day’s lecture about symbolism in The Bible, the book of Judges, in particular.
That class ended. Farn and Red traded some more words before splitting up, the latter to go to class and then to work, and the former to do some homework to make some time for Zelmenya before he went on patrol that evening.
The homework was easy. He finished soon, and surely enough, he shortly got to drinking. Drunkenness wasn’t a concern. After all, he’d have hours to sober up. Besides, on more than one occasion, he had been on patrol, and even in combat, while drunk. The idea of seeing his beloved Zelmenya again after so long, made him happy. He drank to her. He drank to himself. He drank to stop the pain. He drank to forget the memories. His heart was a whirling firestorm, and like any other wounded animal, he reacted on instinct. His was to throw the first liquid on it to douse the flames, and while that might work initially, there always came a point where the inferno fed on the alcohol to intensity his suffering.
The memories gained clarity the more he drank to forget them, and they progressed from haunting his mind to bombarding his thoughts. Nyet, ya ne hochu pomnit’! No, I don’t want to remember! Sounds, they always began as sounds. Gunfire. He tore out of the smothering jacket. Sweat poured out of him and he shook. The sounds of AR-type weapons, M16’s, M4’s, HK-416’s, REC-7’s, and their ilk, tore through his consciousness. The smooth, science fiction siren sound followed by explosions rocked him. Incoming mortar! Then came the screaming. Almighty Allah, the screaming! “Make it stop…” He propped himself up with the bottle and took another swig. He had lied about things; they were so much worse than he told…
“MAMA!” He heard the wounded, the dying ones, the scared, plead in between screams of agony in their terror and last despair. The still images began. Faces twisted by agony beyond comprehension. “Help me! Please! For the love of god! Help me! I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die!” Pure terror mixed with existential dread in realizing that at any second, he could be killed like a dog for no good reason. Dead bodies. Pools of blood. Guns pointed at his head. Bodies hit by so many bullets that they fell apart. Mares and stallions, zebras and ponies, griffons and wolves, torn and mangled so badly that the only thing he could do for them was…“Kill me, please!” Guys burned alive. Then the tactile hallucinations began just then. Desperate, Farn Baumrinde began to release tears, even as he took another feeble sip of bourbon.
His hands squirmed. He opened his eyes and looked at them. There they were, plainly open and clear, but his sense of touch insisted otherwise. He felt the rough, disgustingly scablike surface of skin charred black by fire. It was somehow perversely soft… Just like fried chicken… The images began to play. And then the flashbacks consumed his every sense but smell.
He tried to pull the charred arm out of the devastated Humvee. The dead Staatssicherheitsgarde was not trapped by anything. He got a good grip around the forearm, feeling the place where the ulna broke through the skin. He closed his eyes, and then he pulled. There was a disgusting, rip-sliding sound, but it moved easily. His hands touched something big and bony. Surprised, he stopped. Then, horrified, he saw what he had wrought. He clamped shut his eyes and snapped back his lands on instinct. Rip! They felt wet and sticky. Let this not be real. This is a dream. This must be a nightmare; it just has to be! He looked down at his hands. His body froze and soaked it all in, even as his mine screamed, no, begged for it to just stop. Stop! Stop! Stop, you damned war! Just STOP! There, in his grasp, was skin and muscle ripped from a dead pony’s body as easily as a morsel of cotton candy.
Then that stench assailed him. Sticky, sweet, sweaty, smoky, scorched, sulfurous. Farn fell onto the table, sobbing uncontrollably. He could just barely force down another half mouthful of bourbon before the will forsook him. Then, to make his misery complete, he began to relive even more things he wished to forget.
“Stoi, suka!” He yelled, pointing his AK-74 at a figure in woodland camouflage fatigues. The figure froze and turned around, hands held high while wearing an anxious smile, just like Emily. He saw the face, and instantly knew from the delicate features and acne, that this was just a colt just in his early teens, if even that. Orders had been to exterminate; they were to purge the guerrilla compound of all fighters to send a message about what happened to those who dared to mount an armed insurrection against the government of Zebricy -- their very own government. The filthy traitors had to die. Farn stood there, Kalashnikov ready. The colt took steps towards him, slow, cautious, steps. “Stoi! Ya skazal stoi!” No luck. “Continie aut necabo te!” Why can’t I speak normally? “Halten Sie!” The boy kept coming. “S-Stop!” Farn aimed down his sights. “làm dừng lại!” He pulled the trigger. BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!
“Auch.” He gulped, yanked to the present. Bile rose in his stomach. “Too much booze.” Farn shambled along the walls to the bathroom and commandeered a porcelain altar, over which he kneeled. And then his stomach emptied out naught but liquids, for he seldom ate real food. Memories continued to assail his mind, forcing themselves upon his consciousness. He sprinted across an intersection., gunfire exploding all around him. He fired back with his Bizon and saw his rounds impact someone in the chest. In another flash, he was rifle to rifle against his opponent, They locked eyes. His were cold. His opponent only had terror. Bang! Another flashback. Two bandits were set up in a sniper team in an old café overlooking a ghost town. He rushed with his bayonet, eager for the kill. One startled, looked up. Farn thrust with all his might and momentum, instantly opening the throat. He turned to the one behind him. As he drove his blade through the chest, the bandit squirmed and fought desperately with this most piteous pleading look of help in his eyes, boring directly into his own. At the time, I felt nothing but adrenaline as I killed them. Now, I wish I never felt the adrenaline rush of combat, or that I at least hesitated.
Another memory put him on his back, just as his assailant hacked at him with an ice ax. Flooded with terror, his body acted on its own, behaving according to its training. He deflected the point by knocking away the shaft. Next, he drew his fighting knife from its sheath. Then, he lunged upwards, stabbing it into his enemy’s neck just as their eyes met. He instantly saw the change from aggression to helplessness, just as he ripped outwards – the fatal blow. The eyes lost focus and glazed over and his foe collapsed onto him with a rivulet of hot blood pouring from his shredded throat. Lastly, he recalled having caught a bank robber who had shot the teller and wounded bystanders. He had pressed his Makarov to his forehead and executed him without hesitation. He didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He went home the next day.
He fell into a dreamless, restless, slumber. Farn awoke hours later, feeling like shit, but it wasn’t a total loss; he did feel better, sorta. He did this sort of thing at least once a week. To his credit, at least he hadn’t almost eaten his gun this time. There was a new text on his phone from Zelmenya. “Unexpected delays. Will get in late tonight.”
Well, I guess the only thing to do now is get to work. It’s almost time for my patrol. He couldn’t wait to see her again. He needed her. When she had been with him, things were bearable. The nightmares went away. The fear subsided. His emotions stabilized. Not only that, but she cared about him in terms of who he was and how he felt; around her, it was like he was a real, functional, being again, rather than the professional warrior or the erratic gunman. Farn prepared himself, putting on the Afghneighnka, bronezhilet, helmet, and all that stuff. He felt cool, but was visibly shaken. His eyes were red and he stunk. He was calm now, but he could rachet right up again once he got to work.
Farn went down to the campus security building to await the rest of his patrol. He saw them come in one by one, and they greeted each other with polite words and salutes. Farn wasn’t in charge, but thanks to his Gendarmerie experience and veteran status, he had a certain clout. Ultimately, six individuals, himself included, reported in for their assignments. They were nearly all students like him, who had sold themselves to the Zebrican security services in exchange for the money needed to earn their degrees. Farn Baumrinde majored in pre-med. Of the two non-students, one was a certified Marshall from the border with Griffiya, known for being the cream of the crop nationally for law enforcement, but they weren’t fighters in the same way as Baumrinde, who was the only one from the Gendarmerie. The other was a donkey immigrant, a Baalamite Marine with a bushy moustache, fuzzy ears, and an even thicker accent.
They set off after the usual briefing and all that jazz. They split off into two groups of three. Farn’s group was led by the Hafer the Marshall, and consisted of him, the Marshall, and a black pony mare whose name Farn unfortunately always forgot, which truthfully, he did all the time. As always, he and Marshall Hafer chattered away. Their perimeter patrol took them around sleek modern buildings, manicured grass lawns, and groves of deciduous trees. They were constantly on edge.
“Y’know,” said Hafer, hugging his Colt 9mm SMG, “Giving students automatic weapons and then letting them go all over colleges and universities is pretty crazy.”
Farn nodded. “Konechno. But, it does make sense from a training standpoint and a security standpoint, no?”
“How?”
Farn explained, “Because it gives recruits lots of organic training, and because they’re dealing with their own friends and such, they have extra incentives to get it right.”
The mare, “That makes sense.”
Hafer nodded, “Guess so, Glitter.”
Glitter added, “But I’ll tell ya’ll one thing.” The stallions pricked up their ears. “Baumrinde here isn’t like us Marshalls; he’s a warrior.”
“Thank you, Glitter." That’s what I’ve been wishing I could say. Farn truly meant it. I guess that perhaps others can understand me... The chatter carried on throughout the patrol, which lasted until long after dark. He largely kept quiet, because he could not separate this civil routine from the real thing. At the end, they came back together in the depressing office with the big table for a debriefing.
Farn walked off, wasting no time. He wanted to get out of his combat gear, and then all cleaned up for Zelmenya. He was near his dorm building when he heard footsteps behind him. He tensed up, automatically going on edge. I could open fire and get away with it. That would be the pragmatic thing to do, but that would be hasty. The footsteps are getting closer. Just relax, there’s nothing to fear. Chyort! “Mmmph!”
He was seized from behind and bent over backwards. He would have shouted had not a pair of soft, warm, luscious, lips clamped over his. Panicked, he reached for his pistol, but stopped when a gentle hand held his wrist. The lips released him and whispered affectionately, into his ear, “Don’t have a heart attack, iubita mea, or should I say sotul meu?” Her words – I am no longer her lover, but her husband!
“Zelmenya!” He kissed his mare, his tall, darkish, slender, sweet, zebra mare from Chechneya with the long, silver mane and the ample bosoms and the shapely legs and the musical accent. “Svoya zhena.” They embraced and kissed over and over again in the moonlight. It had been too long for both of them. He trembled, tears leaking out of his eyes.
“Is something wrong, Farn?”
He looked her in the eyes. Out of all the eyes he had seen, only these reflected back into his with compassion. Can I really tell her? He sighed a mighty sigh. The stallion, in all his tactical gear, slumped down and wrapped his arms around her middle. “Yes,” he softly cried into her flat belly. She put her hands on him.
“It’s okay to cry. I’ll be here for you, just like you are for me.”
What are you? Some sort of plot device to make me feel better? Fresh strength, warm and good, filtered into his limbs slowly. The stallion stood up. He was some inches shorter than her, but not by a full head. “I love you. I’ll be okay; it’s just going to take some time and a lot of work. Listen, I’m fucked up with a host of issues. If you still want to be with me, then I’d be grateful. If you don’t, then I don’t blame you.”
Without hesitation, she clasped his hand and began walking. His fingers, calloused and scarred, intertwined with her softer, but still dexterous ones. “I said in Tiraspone that we’d always have each other. Davaj, my uhodim.”
They sang together a snippet from one of their favourite songs. “Hot' vremya luchshit lekar' ran, tuskneyut kraski, ponemnogu, no ne zabyt' moim druz'yam, sred' gor vedushhuyu dorogu. I jetot boj sredi kamej, korotkij kak klinok kinzhala, kogda kogo-to iz parnej sledaya smert’ k sebe zabrala… Posmotrite rebyata, posmotrite devchata. Pamyat' litsa postavila v ryad. Jeto parni, kotorym budet vechno po dvadtsat', eto te, kto proslavil desant. Though time best heals wounds, and the colors fade away, don’t forget my friends pressing through the mountains. And that fight on the rocks, short like a dagger’s blade, where some of the guys blindly rushed to their deaths… Look, boys, look, girls, their memories stand in a row. It is these guys, who will be forever twenty, who hallowed the landing site.”