"Alone, again?"

Covered in crimson snow to my left, a face of shock. What once was a man young enough to be my student, is now a stiff corpse forever clawing at the shard embedded in his throat. Extinguished, like the dozens of frozen and forgotten corpses around us.

Aside from the white armband, he shared a uniform similar to me and the buddy to my right – whose expression of resignation made me consider how his friendly warmth might've all bled away by now. The pain in my leg worsened as the adrenaline wore off.

Dozens of other drones whirred into the horizon as they sought more targets. I applied pressure to my leg wound and grabbed the pocket multitool knife from my vest. It was my father's gift to me when I turned fourteen. It was also my gift to my late husband back when I got licensed to teach, just before we were married.

My quivering blood-soaked hands struggled to find the knife among the myriad of tools on the device. I straightened my arm to slash the sleeve off between my yellow armband and where my blood type was written, sliding it off to begin improvising the sturdy fabric as a tourniquet over my right thigh to deal with the injury.

My heart raced after the initial sight, but the blood stopped pouring as I tightened the tourniquet using a small flashlight as the tensioning rod. It wasn't perfect, but it worked, and I'd already used my Individual First Aid Kit's gauze on my comrade prior. Once I secured the tourniquet in place with a paperclip and a cable tie, I checked my friend's faint pulse.

An echo of artillery tolled in the distance, but my ringing ears can't tell from which side. My old rifle works better as a crutch to help me limp over the frozen bodies littering the ruined trench. Slowly I stand, and glare at my friend who's never been paler. We've barely slept in days. I then move the multitool's blade to his neck, and carefully snap off his identification tags.

"Fuck, I'm sorry I can't carry you anymore – but I can go get someone to come back for you. Don't you dare die on me, too."

Shells began to sparsely land one after another, obliterating the barren fields behind me. I helped haul those two for too long. Fatigued, I fell to a crawl over the disgusting mush of decomposing cadavers as the bombardment crept closer. Just a bit more and–

A shell detonates beside my trench. Muscles seize-up. Tons of blasted dirt instantly shroud the view ahead of me with soil. Frozen and heavy; all that solid mud piled over my tired body with no room for light, or air. I tried to move, but all I could muster was to squeeze the multitool in my hand which barely stuck out the dirt. The ringing in my ears hadn't waned, yet I could now hear my own pulse. Nonetheless, my body had finally given up, and so would I.

The scorching sensation in my suffocating chest intensified, reminiscent of the day a rocket strike destroyed my apartment – and my family, during the invasion's first week. I've never felt so alone since that day, two years ago.

I choked every time I saw the kids in my classes at the university, constant reminders of losing my own. Fuck it. So I chose to enlist. Though they wanted reservists, the recruiter gave me a pass after seeing the loss in my eyes. I begged my sister not to tell mom and dad that I'd join. Yet I bet they already knew I would, and that they couldn't stop me.

Faced down with my head slightly lifted, I opened my eyes to nothingness. My lungs are ravenous, yet I must scream. This is it. Burning stiffness reverberates; a numbness slowly creeping through me. Seconds? Minutes? Eitherway, this war killed me an eternity ago and the void can't take what's no longer there. My racing mind ends with my failing grip over the beloved tool in my hand that stuck past the dirt. My sullen, weary eyes slowly ease themselves shut as I bade farewell to this sick joke of a conflict.

Darkness overwhelms – yet a warm breeze crosses my cheeks. It kinda tickles.

Delusions of death? An odd brightness seared past my eyelids somehow. The caress of such gentle winds have always been rare to this region, let alone the season. I felt light, and the numbness wore off. Paradise, perhaps?

My eyes flash open to a shimmering lake under a lavender sky, bordered by towering grass that glistened under a setting sun that crests over distant mountains. A faint beam shot across the sky. In my hands were the same bloodied multitool knife, and the two colorful beaded bracelets I made for my kids. Anton, and Anya. I stumble to the lake's edge to wash the dirty tool. Behold, a rippled reflection of a freckled, dark-haired toddler with amber eyes. But the ears looked off – and the truth dawned on me as I slowly reached for mine. Who, and where the hell am I.

Trotting on my short legs to sit by the silty shore, I basked in its tranquility. From the vibrant sky to the warm winds, it's all a far cry from the constant snow and frozen breaths I'm used to. I haven't sat to watch the sun set in ages. Last I remember doing something like this was when we went camping as a family years ago. I can still smell the charred barbecue we had; my husband Viktor wasn't the best cook.

"..Forlasita?!"

A stern voice ambushed me during my trance, causing me to drop the multitool into the water. I turn around to see a brawny woman with a maroon ponytail in an oddly tattered hand-stitched tanned leather outfit; the kind I'd only ever seen in my great grandparents' closet. Before I could even reach into the lake for the tool, the woman grabbed me with both hands and hauled me away. She kept muttering foreign sentences in a reprimanding tone, probably because a toddler ventured out alone. But somehow I couldn't get rid of the scent of meat – it only got stronger.

I discreetly took off the bracelets, and hid them in my small dress. The lady kept complaining in her peculiar language while occasionally giving me intense stares. Her short-sleeved garment of rough textiles with thick thread for cross stitching the hems and seams, didn't reek as much as it looked like it would.

I'm cradled in a bed of scars, as countless marks riddle her crossed arms where the sleeves can't cover. Her face also ran a distinct scar from her upper lip to her right ear, and her pupils are a shade of gray that gleams under the sun's rays. There's only one building, a two-story wooden farmhouse with a thatched roof ahead of us. That ought to be where the growing fragrance of food is coming from.

The sun had now sunk behind the mountains, faintly glowing over that side of the horizon – and stars flickered on the opposing end, through the darker hues of the purple-indigo gradience. The thin glowing beam brightened, perhaps spanning east to west.

Creaking open, the front door slowly swung to unveil a lean and elegant warm-eyed man with faint silky blonde hair swept over a pair of pointed ears, donning a faded green set of robes. His golden eyes sparkled, almost glowing. The woman spoke with him as she lowered me down to standing height, sounding a little exhausted from her own complaints. The man knelt and whispered something to me with a smile and patted my head to ruffle what little hair I have.

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He noticed the traces of blood still on my hands from the tool, and he gave her a grim look while changing his tone to a concerned inquisitiveness. He scrutinized all over my body to investigate the source of the blood, only for nothing to be identified. He let me go and began mumbling some sort of chant, then soon enough his palms began to glow. I felt no change, and by the look of his face, he didn't either. This fueled an argument between the two. This toddler has a ton in common with them both so I'm guessing this is my new family now. The aroma of some sort of stew filled the rustic lantern-lit wooden room.

The tall man knelt forward and raised my stained palms to the lady. She gestured her hands away and raised her eyebrows, clearly as baffled as him.

Their tone got louder. He stood up and pointed at her, accusatorily. Harsher, as she rolled her eyes away and pressed some fingertips to the side of her temple to ease the stressed gaze she had for us.

The intensified bickering slowed to a pause as the man grew silent and crossed his arms in a sassy yet stern manner. She turned towards him to clap her hands together in front of her lips once and in silence, before pointing the whole gesture towards him as she then explained something thoroughly, down to each syllable.

Within this entire ordeal, only one word was repeated enough for me to grasp – and it was Forlasita; likely my new name since they'd gesture to me with it.

Going further, the burly woman raised her hand back for a slap as she growled. But instead of hitting him she reached for his cheek and began to caress it before pinching it as hard as she could while pulling him closer to herself.

"Ahhh, ahh a-aah!" the towering, pointy-eared man grunted, playfully. A healthy relationship, it seems.

Remembering the days when my husband and I would argue over the most minor things. Then came the days when I'd be routinely suspicious of him when he'd be out with his buddies as our children were asleep. I'd give an arm and a leg to go back to those times, hell I'd give both my legs for that again. Their absence has been an ache I could never get used to. It didn't take long for these two to notice my laughter. They noticed before I did.

Too busy in my own mind to notice the expressions they gave each other, or the fact that they'd stopped arguing entirely. A moment passes before they kneel beside, offering hugs so snug that I'm mentally brought back; almost to tears. They squeeze my small frail physique tighter while whispering words I've never heard before. They ran their fingers through my hair with utmost care.

Their skin on mine comes with a kind of warmth and care I haven't experienced in ages. Though the shock of losing my beloved husband and children all at once had dulled my ability to cry, my tears refuse to stop, and I don't want them to – at least not quite yet. Let me savor this.

Their words sounded like how silk feels on skin, or how tea soothes the soul. I held them tenderly, and they embraced me tighter. Time didn't matter to me – only the warmth of these strangers did. Reasonably, they eventually let me go and continued to pat my head with kind smiles as they cleaned me up.

It soon passed. That happy moment. They offered each other a kiss or two, before lifting me onto a tall chair by the timber dining table. The quality of the furnishings are questionable at best, and I have to be a bit cautious of splinters. But finally, food. Two bowls of watery porridge filled with cut up vegetables and some kind of meat. There were sides of poached eggs on rough bread, with two mugs of some sort of rough and flat alcoholic beverage.

The man lifted a spoon from the stew but the woman stopped him. "Arsalan!" she called out while extending her hand. He smiled and put the spoon down, reaching forward with his other hand to hold hers. She began reciting a prayer in the strange language for a bit. Arsalan, I've heard it at least twice before in an addressing manner. It's probably his name. He chows dinner down as soon as they finish praying.

It's going to feel odd calling either of them mom or dad out here, but we'll see. I hope my parents back in the old country (or world for that matter) are doing fine. I doubt they'll ever find my body. Still, I don't know the striking woman's name. After a short while of watching her lover heartily eat up, she turns her silvery eyes to me. Shit, I should act like the toddler I am to draw less suspicion.

"Awww, 'Lasita!" she exclaims, scooting her seat closer across the aged plank flooring. She held up a spoonful of soup for me and gave it a gentle blow. I cooperated by adjusting myself accordingly to any rough usage of the spoon – but she's been delicate so far. One warm, savory spoonful after another, I could tell how much care and dexterity she's putting into this. This went on, and I got the idea of saying something.

"Mama!" I said, for my first utterance in this world.

Her eyebrows raised for a moment in some kind of confusion, with a slight tilt of the head. She continued to feed me as normally, while also taking bites out of her coarse bread. I repeated it. No attention. Maybe they just don't use that here? I'll try for the elf.

"Pa.. Papa."

They both paused, with a half smile, expectantly. Their eyes met for a moment before looking back to me. The woman joyously pointed at herself and said "Panjo! Pan-jo!"

"..Panjo?" I responded. Is that her name?

The man gave a soft laugh, and the woman stood up in the biggest cheer. They exchanged a few comments, and she called him 'Salan' twice, perhaps omitting the 'Ar' at the start of his name. She then pointed at him. "Patshjo.. Pat-shh-jo!"

Perhaps her name isn't Panjo, but it might be their equivalent of 'mama' here. I guess I'll slow down and stumble a couple of times before getting this new 'dad' word right. "Pat, pat-jo."

This went on for a bit longer. Even the elf seems intrigued now. I took a somber moment to remember when my children said their first words; if their voices filled an ocean I could drown in, I'd dive and die countless times over. I miss Anya and Anton so much. Still, ecstatic would be an understatement to describe the brawny woman. I'll surprise her again soon.

She tried to teach me other words, and I'd follow a little if she repeated the syllables enough times. After a while, I learned the words for mom, dad, eat, drink, say, you, me, yes, no, and a couple more – but I didn't make it clear I got them. That's how I tried to teach my kids, but if I learn suspiciously fast here I might cause trouble for myself. She paused in thought. The elf yawned, got up and waved himself away.

She slowly pointed towards me, going on to explain my name to me. "Forlasita, for-la-si-ta."

I mumbled fo-fa-fi-ta over and over as minutes pass.

She laughed, waving to herself, "Kaaan-tax."

"Kantax, huh?"

..!?

That was an accident. I spoke my mind out, as effortlessly as I'd thought it up. I also didn't notice that I'd reactively covered my mouth like anyone who'd said something wrong would – anyone but a baby at least. Kantax gave me a look of shock. Her face had been flush red since earlier, and when she reached for her empty tankard, I understood why.

Still in disbelief, she gave me a pat on the back and hoisted me over around the kitchen, and up the creaking wood staircase. Walls of lightweight wooden construction between sturdy masonry pillars. Their bedroom upstairs is a humble, dimly lit room. A window sat on the bedroom's "front" with rough linen curtains and hinged shutters. A large thinly-padded fur bed, with a bedside table on one side aligned under the window. A wooden bowl topped by a small knife sits on that table. The room gave the scent of sandalwood.

Arsalan is sound asleep on the side of the bed away from the table. Strapped over the corner of the bed is an ornately engraved horn bow, with a quiver of arrows at its side. Some shelves line the wall, sparsely occupied with various mementos and pouches around a hefty wooden lockbox. Hanging on the wall is a battered steel kettle helm, and some sort of quilted coat of padding – I think Viktor called these coats gambesons? A polished round metal shield rests on the dresser alongside a sheathed sword.

This is actually not that bad, even if you consider the fact I don't have diapers. Or any running water out here. Or electricity. Or a lot of things. Damn. At least I have warm bedding and caring people around. I've got lots of time to think things through. First, I'll need to learn the language. Thoroughly. And probably try to get that pocket tool back while I hide these bracelets away. My pillow is a bit rough, but it's soft enough.

Kantax pinched the wall candle and all that remained was the slight moonlight painting the curtains. She walked over and carefully kissed my forehead in the dark, softly caressing my cheeks like any caring mother would. I'd know. She whispered something soft before heading to bed herself.

"La vero estis – mi amas vin, mia kara."

I don't know those words yet, but I already got you.