Seven Witches

thirty-four

Hera;

It had been more three weeks since Mikhail Kutuzov, the commander-in-chief, had left to mend relations with the Ottoman Empire. Had been thirteen days since he had returned back to the palace after delivering the Tsar's consent to sign the treaty. Three weeks and Cythera was not returned.

They have been preparing to march soon for two weeks, the men growing more tense with each day that they are kept waiting. Hera herself was weary because her meetings with Paul were brief and in none of them did she tell him she was leaving.

And Paul, he was becoming a stranger, each day the bruises beneath his eyes growing more stark, those dreamy green irises fading with concern and exhaustion. She worried that if he remained this way, he might die or turn into a walking ghost. She wanted neither of those.

Mikhail stayed in his tent most of the time when he was in the camp, always discussing the war plans while everyone was to pretend to have a regular day. Hera resumed her training in those three weeks when everyone took a break, she practiced her aim and worked on making her arms stronger.

She had found that when shooting an arrow, the longer you pull the bowstring the weaker and less accurate the shot will be because your arms will shake and you'll start to doubt. Hera began to love the sound of wood stretching as she pulled, the kiss of air that passes over her when the arrow flies, the sound of metal piercing hay as the arrow finds its target.

Her hair had grown over the course of the past two months, now curling softly under her cheeks. She did not bother cutting it since it was no burden, and to be fair, she missed it.

There was a loud stomp on the snow, crunch of boots and then the emerging of two figures, one of them the commander-in-chief and the other the Tsar's secretary. "Gather everyone, we will be leaving in the first break of sunlight," Mikhail said, mouth quirking downwards. "We will be heading to Smolensk, west of Russia. I want all of you to get enough sleep and food, no drinking tonight you hear me?"

The men began murmuring and when the Mikhail shouted the question again, they all quieted and chanted 'yes sir'. They were finally moving, and Hera had not said goodbye to anyone, not to her sister nor to Paul.

Unlike Cythera, Hera did not have an excuse to not bid him goodbye. But in the moment that Mikhail announced the time of their departure, she got the sudden urgency to see him one last time.

It was midnight, and Paul was usually in the stable at that time when he was supposed to be sleeping. Paul loved horses, or maybe he hated sleep, either way the stable had become the home of her kitchen boy.

It was the best thing to have the war camp so close to the palace, that she could walk to it, but this time Hera wanted to arrive as fast as possible so she took a horse.

She left her horse at the gate and ran towards the stable, unable to think straight. She remembered that she never told Paul that she loved him, that when he said it she did not return it back. Her legs moved faster and she was soon standing by the door to the stable, panting loud enough for the boy sitting by the foal to hear her.

Paul came up to her, wiping his hands on his apron as he walked. "Why are you in such a rush?" Hera ignored his remark, only took his hands and nuzzled into him. "What's wrong?"

She waited, counting his heartbeat, trying to keep this moment to herself as long as possible. "We depart in a few hours, as soon as the sun rises," She said, head resting on his chest. "I wanted to tell you, before I leave, that I love you. If something happened to me please tell Cythera that I love her too."

"Hera," he murmured. "Don't say that."

"Just promise me you will tell her," she urged.

He nodded, and it was only then that she released a breath. He took her face up and kissed her heavily but slowly, as though this was the last time he'll ever get to do it. It was all she go to do, there was no time for anything else, not if she wanted to get any sleep.