Chasing Dragons
The farmer's daughter was a solider at sixteen. She didn't understand people, had no empathy or compassion. She knew how to fight, how to kill, and how to die for her country. When he took her hand, it was calloused with the practice of war. When he asked questions, she answered with the stiffness of a soldier suffering through an interrogation, her answers guarded and saying very little of anything.
She looked like a princess with baby blue eyes, pale skin, and pale blond hair. She was petite, barely five-foot tall, but she held herself as if seven foot tall and unstoppable. He learned about her only passion – flying. She was a pilot. An ace, with over fifty kills.
He could fly too. And although he wasn't supposed to let anyone know about his magic, he showed her. See, he loved to fly too. Only instead of a fighter jet, he flew a broom. Ruled by logic, she didn't believe him at first. Looked at him like he was a stupider than the usual civilian.
That changed when he showed her the sky. See, when she flew, she could feel the motions of her craft, the tight turns and sudden acceleration. She didn't feel the wind on her skin or the mist from the water when flying low. Once he showed her the sky, it was over.
At first she resisted. But slowly, he unraveled her armor. Taught her the simple pleasures in life. They moved from flying to walking in the fields, swimming in the river. Talking beneath a harvest moon, him about his family, and her . . . well, she listened. She had a large family that she loved very much, but when he talked, she realized that she only loved them because they were her family. She didn't have stories about normal sibling things. Like when his older brother and him baked their mother a cake, which ended up exploding and sticking to the ceiling of the oven. Or the story about how his little sister wiggled in his arms and burped white milk all over his brand new shirt when he picked her up.
Instead her stories revolved around war. Like the time she'd used the knife her brother bought her to kill an assassin when she was only six. Or like the day her little sister was born, and they'd been stuck in a bomb shelter, listening to the scream of enemy planes and the blare of the air-raid sirens. She didn't tell him her stories at first, and when she did, they came slowly, hesitantly.
Sometime during the summer, she fell in love. Around him she changed. Developed a passion for living, breathing, and the simple joy of seeing him smile. But all good things end, and as summer faded to fall, she received orders.
Her father, the general, decided that he'd wasted enough of her time. She was still the perfect soldier in his eyes. He didn't want a solider for a daughter, but he worried that if he kept her from war for too long, she'd resent him. He was wrong. She wanted to stay, but an order was an order. She said goodbye to her boy, promised she'd try and return.
On base, she felt trapped by the grey walls and cold corridors. There was no sunlight, and she missed his smile. She wrote her resignation, but feared her father's reaction. She respected him and loved him. She didn't want to see the furrow of disappointment on his forehead. So she tucked the letter into her personal effects. She wrote a second letter to her boy. The one all soldiers write. Just in case.
She was a good soldier. An excellent pilot. But even the best make mistakes. Her squadron was ambushed by enemy fighters. Outnumbered and outgunned, the captain called for a retreat. They fought across the lines. She'd reached the clear zone, ready to jump away, when she realized her wing-mate was floundering, cut-off. She went back, fearless.
Maybe that was her mistake.
She shot down two enemy fighters, watching them explode in clouds of melted metal and expanding flames. Her wingmate jumped to safety. She took a hit to her hyperdrive though. Stuck. There wasn't even a thought of giving up. She thought briefly of her boy. If she died now, she'd never get to see him.
Never in her life had she flown so well. She jinked and juked at the right time, blasting her opponents from the sky. One, two, three . . . seven, eight, nine. Until there was just one left. Then none. She exhaled slowly, checking her gauges. Low fuel. No shields. Damaged engines.
It would be okay. They'd come back. Not for survivors, but for revenge. And they'd find her. Their capital ship was less than ten minutes away. And they'd come. At the very least they'd send a scout. It was the standard operating procedure. They'd come. Not leave her to die alone.
She powered down almost all her systems, and leaned back. Her boy was probably at school right now. He was so cute. The way he smiled! The scent of his skin. She remembered their first kiss, a brush of lips, and felt giddy. Then guilty. Why was she out here? Would it really be so bad if she stayed on Earth? Would her father disapprove so much? She missed her boy – missed his smile.
The minutes turned to hours. Then longer still. She was in space, fuel levels getting lower and lower. The cold crept through the metal as the heating system failed. She saw on the sun on his smiling face in her mind, her breath frosting her face-shield. "Ahh, Charlie, I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice broken by her accent and the cold, bitter slap of mortality.
He got her letter. The one all soldiers wrote. She wasn't eloquent. So it was like she was, straight to the point. "I love you. Thank you for everything." She didn't explain why he was getting the letter, didn't say she was dead. He knew though.
His family never knew about her. She was the farmer's daughter that he had occasionally mentioned. He hadn't wanted to be teased about liking her. He kept a photo of them, kept it tucked into his pocket. Always. He'd been good at sports, and everyone thought he'd go pro. Instead he went to Romania. Off chasing dragons, his family thought. Never loved a woman more than his dragons.
It wasn't true though. His girl's father had a military base in Romania. And he liked to delude himself into thinking that one day she would come back. Leave the military. And they could walk by the river, holding hands and talking about nothing much of anything.