[center][h2][u]Rostov[/u][/h2][/center]

In distance, beyond the Don River and somewhere among the farms fields, the sun dipped languidly below the horizon.  After bidding Nikolai farewell Pavel had stopped on the side of the crumbling road to watch its descent.  It was not a decison made out of sentiment, or even exhaustion, but rather one born of anxiety towards a situation as old as man himself: coming home to the wife hours after you'd promised to.  It had been a long day, but what man had that excuse ever saved?  Even as he loitered in the open fields between Rostov and its airports as a result of that worry Pavel sought to purge it from his mind; after all if a sunset could not bring serenity to he, whose fears were trivial, what good was it at all?

Of course, the longer he was away the worse things would be, and as much as he didn't look forward to coming home the thought of frightening Yulia with his absence was worse.  With a deep sigh he turned away from the pageant of colours dancing in the sky and began his walk, the majesty that he abandoned was one he'd never be deprived of, the same was not true of his family.

By the time he made his way into town twilight had set in with night on its heels.  Candles burned in many windows, but others were dark still.  Pavel often wondered if the men and women who'd lived in those homes were dead now, or if they'd made the journey to betters lands so many in Rostov had in the bad times.  It was a great irony, that Russians would take refuge in places like Armenia.  Pavel would have laughed at that, but the bitterness the thought brought forward overshadowed any mirth it might have provided.

Russia was a husk of its former self, and in a way he was too.  He would admit it to nobody but Yulia, but before the Tsar had been butchered and his country broken Pavel had been a sociable, charismatic man.  He'd attended all the parties his status permitted him to, and often ones it hadn't.  He'd had more than his share of booze, women, and the high life.  Now?  Now he worked on old planes with a partner whose ramblings he tolerated only because they drowned out the thoughts that had haunted him for years now.  He spoke as little as he could.  He'd joked with Nikolai some days before that he'd have drowned himself in the river if he'd had a wife as terrible as the rusted write offs they worked on, but the truth was he'd been prepared to do that anyways.  It had been having her, Yulia, that saved him from that.

Still, at times like this the memories came.  The Governor had called him and his fellows heroes, the great defenders of Rostov!  He knew better.  In their mission to keep the animals out that was exactly what they became.  When the food ran short they'd eaten their dead, when the communists had failed to break them they'd crucified a poor bolshevik no older than sixteen in the blindness of their rage.  None of them had expected to escape with their lives, but then most hadn't.

Perhaps the dead were lucky, those that remained at the end had to live with what they'd done.  He'd told the Presbyter, he'd done what he could to repent, but perhaps absolution wasn't on the table for those like him.  He didn't know what Yulia would think if he told her what he'd done in those days, or what she'd learned from others already, but he'd long since resolved to never tell her, to let that part of his life die as he should have.

That, he had resolved long ago, was all he could really do.  Regardless of his past he'd ended up with a beautiful wife, a child scarcely a year old, and going forward his only responsibility was their well being.  Before he knew it he was deep into Rostov, nearing the old house he'd been awarded by the Governor.  It had been a fancy thing, once.  Now the once elaborate brickwork was covered in ash from the old coal furnaces that'd been restarted, it's decorative columns crumbling as their white plaster peeled off and revealed the wooden super structure below.

It was too large for him now, but perhaps one day he'd have a family large enough to fill it.  After wallowing in his memories the thought brought a genuine smile to his face, perhaps life wasn't so bad.  Without further adieu he ascended the houses steps and fumbled for his keys before opening the creaky old door.

It was less than a second before he heard her voice ring out from a hallway, “Is that you Pavel?  Where have you been?  You said you'd be back hours ago, did you run into some thugs?  You know how the streets are at night!”

This, he figured, wasn't the worst thing in the world.  As Yulia turned a corner and came into view he took a moment to appreciate how lucky he'd been.  She was a taller woman, but in Pavel's eyes it suited her.  Her hair wasn't perfectly blond, but darker yellow that contrasted well with her brown eyes and habit of wearing darker colours like the dark blue dress she wore now.

Before he had a chance to continue on that train of thought she all but ran into him, taking him up in a hug that was surprisingly forceful.  There would be no fight then, just shame.  She didn't cry, but as he returned the embrace he knew she would have had he been out much longer.  She didn't speak, nor did he.  Both understood that veteran or not, and patrols or not, the streets of Rostov were not safe at night and Pavel had taken a stupid risk without any real reason, but the deed was done and nothing had come of it but frayed nerves.

Yulia let him go and frowned, “Why must you work out there?  We both know Nikolai isn't worth the grief he puts you through fixing those things.”

Pavel hung up the jacket he'd worn on his way home, taking his time in an effort to think of a reply, “We do good Yulia, better than most.  The farmers thank us whenever we have a duster to sell.”

She shook her head, “You could do better without having to walk to the cities outskirts every morning!  The Governor announced an effort to rebuild some of the old power stations, so we don't have to burn that wretched coal in our own homes and rely on candles like our grandparents!  Why don't you sign up to do that?  They'd bus you out and back, no more dangerous walks.  Think of our child Pavel, what would happen to Anna if something happened to you?  What would happen to me?”

There was no answer to that.  Pavel didn't dislike his job, but he'd already seen men with pipes prowling the streets on his way to work.  They'd left him be for now, perhaps because he struck the presence of a frightening man, but how long would that last when a crop failed and they needed money more urgently?  In his heart he knew Yulia was right.

Instead of replying he simply nodded, putting a hand on Yulia's shoulder and embraced her anew, this time for the future rather than the past.  Behind them the incoherent babbling of a young child half walking and half crawling towards them brought about a mutual smile.