That day in the olive groves, they fought their last battle.
The one she had chosen was losing.
“You are wounded,” she said to him. To Jovanen. “You must rest.”
His face was drawn. Sweat matted black curls to his brow. “I will not rest today. I have not rested for ten years.”
Ten years of war, since that day she had refused Kolael and married Jovanen instead. Since then she had watched a hundred thousand die for the love of two men.
“Drink a little at least,” she said. “I will prepare you warm milk and honey. It will strengthen you.”
Idle words. They both knew strength could not help. Kolael had taken all the land, from the northern seaports to the southern deserts. And they, Jovanen and she, had only these ancient olives and this ravaged army, while Kolael approached from all fronts.
“A drink. Then I must fight.”
She warmed him the milk, stroked his hair as he drank. She sang to him, soft psalms of spring and youth, the songs they would sing before Kolael demanded her hand. Jovanen tried to stay awake--he would fight this war to its end--but she had always known how to soothe a man to sleep.
As he lay, snoring softly, she put on her cloak and stepped outside the tent. Spears could not help now; perhaps there was just this one way...
For two hours she walked between the olives, these ancient trees, the hot sandy wind flapping her cloak. When his soldiers saw her, they tried to seize her, but she held them back with her palm. She would walk by herself. Under the simmering sun, after ten years of war, she entered Kolael’s tent.
He sat inside. He lifted his head and stared.
He had changed in ten years, since that day he had confessed his love and she chose his friend instead. His eyes were shallow now, and gray had invaded his hair.
“Batshalom.” His voice, at least, was the same. Forever sad.
She nodded. “You won this war. You won me. I will marry you if you spare him.”
“I never wished him harm. I loved him once. I only wanted you.”
She walked past him, lay down on his rugs. “You have me now. Lay beside me.”
Confusion flitted across his eyes. Fear filled Batshalom; was she appearing too eager? But Kolael was too weary, he had wanted this for too long. He lay beside her.
She sang to him, stroking his hair, soft psalms of spring and youth, songs they would sing before she had refused him. She gave him warm milk and comfort. She had always known how to soothe a man to sleep.
As he lay, snoring softly, she pulled out a tent post and drove it into his temple, watching, staring at the life spilling from him.
When she left his tent she ran. Ran over stones, thorns, this earth that had seen too much. As she ran happiness filled her. She had just slain a man, but after so much death, she could feel no horror, only bliss. Would that she had done this years ago! She had finally ended the war. Jovanen and she would finally find peace.
She burst into her camp, desperate to see him.
“Where is Jovanen?” she called. She needed to hold him now, cry with him, tell him the horror had finally ended. Then she saw the soldiers’ faces, and paused.
“Jovanen...”
She pushed the guards aside. They had been hiding him behind them. He lay under the olive tree where they had first met.
“Men came,” a soldier said. “They told us you chose Kolael. Jovanen, he...”
“Fell upon his sword,” she finished, eyes dry as the soldier wept. She knelt beside her husband. Clutched him.
“You would have stopped me,” she whispered urgently into his ears. “I could not have told. Could not have!”
She wept then. Something broke inside her. She lay his head down, and all around men stood, watching. She turned him over, grabbed his sword, pulled the blade from his body.
“Curse this love that had caused this. Curse us for our love!”
She fell, and Jovanen’s blood mingled with hers, and as soldiers ran forward she crawled toward him. Their life fed the ancient tree, and she stroked his hair, and sang to him psalms until she was silent.