The hourglass that held time so frugally this past month spilled it all out at once. I threw on the first garment that I found and flew down the hill from our house. I rushed through the narrow streets, wading in mud, pushing people and cattle away, deaf to the swearing behind my back. I saw other people doing the same from the corner of my eye. We all had someone out there.

But I didn’t care about their men, fathers, or brothers. To me, it only mattered that he got home in one piece. I only felt pain in my chest and feet when I reached the town square. The column was already passing through, and I couldn’t catch my breath to yell his name. But I didn’t have to scream. The moment I saw the armored mass in front of me, I saw him. The color of his hair was like a bonfire, and his eyes were the sparks that set it ablaze. I could recognize him in any crowd.

We rushed at each other. I didn’t have the strength to talk, and neither did Roric. I held him in my arms, touching and gripping his shoulders, hands, and head. Just to make sure it was really him.

Around us, people yelled in joy and cried in pain. The father that got his boy back and the mother that didn’t. The sister that got her scarred brother and the lover that got only a broken heart. The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. Even though we won the war, many of the people around me had lost. But I didn’t care about them. As cruel and as savage as it may be, I only cared about him. I had won my war.

“My love for you grows like the flowers in the plains,” - he whispered.

He put his hand out and gave me a small blue flower, the color of the sky. Time had finally started again.

Each day of his absence, I prayed to the gods. To Perun and Svarog and to every other deity my mother had told me about. The only thing I wanted in this world was for him to return. But as they say, be careful what you wish for. The gods may as well give it to you. The Roric I got in return was nothing like the one that left a month before.

I longed for everything I considered mundane. The talks about the weather, the walks around the market, and his complaints about the sour tomatoes. The fights over who left the cattle’s gate open were a treasured memory. But nothing could be the same, no matter how desperately we tried to make it happen. Like a rock thrown in the river, this war’s ripples would echo until our lives end. The water could never be still again.

I only asked about it once. Spring was coming and we drank hot herbal tea before we went to the field. Idania was teaching me to weave and I was showing him the formless shirts I was so proud of. He told me how he wanted to learn to build or maybe make a small garden in front of the house. I enjoyed the smell of herbs, the touch of the wooden table under my elbows, and the occasional kiss on my forehead.

But then it would happen.