Soul And Body Shall We Lay Down

Author's Note:

I was inspired to write this story while watching this year's Olympics. The fact that Ukraine managed to send 140 athletes was nothing short of extraordinary, particularly considering that more than 500 athletes and coaches have died in the war and countless others have gone off to defend their country. A few things to note: First, any grammatical errors when Illya is speaking are intentional. The Ukrainian and Russian languages don't really have definite or indefinite articles, so many native speakers drop "a" and "the" when they speak English. Second, I am neither a journalist nor an Olympic swimmer, so I apologize if I've mischaracterized anything about either profession. Please grant me a little grace on that. Third, I've taken some liberties with the order of events in the Paris Olympics; I'm well aware that all the swimming events were crammed into the first week, but I took some creative license and spread them out for the sake of the story. No actual Olympians are referenced here, either. Fourth, as always, all characters engaging in sexual activity are over eighteen.

One final thought before our tale begins: The title of this story is taken from the official English translation of Ukraine's national anthem. The full line is "soul and body shall we lay down for our freedom," and it really resonated with me. This story is dedicated to the brave people of Ukraine; your resilience and courage inspire me. Slava Ukrayini.

***

Soul and Body Shall We Lay Down

I never believed in love at first sight until the day I met Illya Tarasenko.

It was an odd twist of fate that our paths even crossed in the first place. In July 2024, I was sitting at my desk in

The Washington Post's

newsroom, fanning myself with a notebook as I stared at my computer. The office's air conditioning was on the fritz and summers in Washington, DC were nothing if not sweltering. Facilities management claimed they had "people" working to fix the issue, but I was skeptical.

"Ava," a gravelly voice called from behind me. "I have an assignment for you."

I turned around to face Jim Horner, my editor.

"Please tell me it'll get me out of this sweltering hellhole."

He chuckled. "That it will. We want you in Paris for the Olympics next week."

My eyebrows shot up. I certainly wasn't opposed to the assignment - who would be mad at a free trip to Paris? - but found it odd that the

Post

wanted a young foreign affairs reporter like me to cover the biggest sporting event of the year.

"Any particular reason?" I asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'd be absolutely thrilled to go and am going to start packing the literal second I get home today, but I'm a bit confused."

Jim nodded. "Understandable. There's a particular story we want to cover and we thought you were the perfect person for it given your language skills."

I cocked my head to the side, intrigued. In addition to my native English, I spoke Russian quite well after studying it in college. Given that Russia had been banned from the 2024 Olympics for invading Ukraine and a string of massive state-sponsored doping scandals, I was curious how my abilities would possibly be useful there.

"There's this Ukrainian swimmer," Jim continued. "He's really good, won a few medals in Tokyo and at the world championships last year. A few weeks ago, he announced that he's retiring after this year's Olympics to enlist in the Ukrainian Army and go to the front lines against Russia. It's a huge deal over there, and we think it would make for a great story - heroics, perseverance, sacrifice, and all that. We don't know if he speaks English, so we were hoping you could go interview him and track his story throughout the Games. I know you don't speak Ukrainian, but most Ukrainians speak or can at least understand Russian and the languages are similar."

I was immediately fascinated. An athlete at the top of his field giving it all up to fight for his country's freedom? Now that was a story with some serious emotional weight.

"I'm on it," I eagerly agreed. "What's this guy's name?"

He screwed up his face in thought. "Illya... Illya Tara... something."

I chuckled. "You never were very good with names, huh Jim?"

He shrugged, giving me an easy grin. "There are worse failings to have."

A week later, I was on my way to Paris to interview "Illya Tara-something." The city was abuzz with excitement; you could even feel it amid the Kafkaesque nightmare that was border control and baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle Airport. After I dropped my belongings off in my hotel room and took a quick shower to freshen up, I made my way to the facility where the Opening Ceremonies were to take place. I took my spot among the press pool and settled in for the festivities.

Throughout my twenty-eight years of life, the part of the ceremony I'd always looked forward to the most was the Parade of Nations. It didn't matter how much pageantry the host country put into the various performances and musical spectacles surrounding it; seeing athletes from around the world proudly representing their homelands to the cheers of the crowd meant the most to me.

This year was no different, at least in terms of how I felt. Before coming into the stadium, the athletes had all sailed down the Seine on boats, which I thought was a nice variation on the usual pattern. I paid particular attention when the athletes from Ukraine passed by in their yellow and blue uniforms, wondering which of them was the man I was set to interview. The mere presence of the Ukrainian team in Paris amid the tribulations and heartbreak their country had faced was meaningful in and of itself, and I found myself cheering louder for them than any country other than my own.

By the time I finally returned to my hotel that night, completely exhausted and also quite jet-lagged, I had an email confirming that Illya Tarasenko (Jim had apparently checked his name) had agreed to sit for an interview with me. I was to meet him at a café in the Olympic Village at two the next afternoon.

Saying I felt a bit out of place walking amongst the throngs of tall, muscular Olympians would have been the understatement of the century. They towered over my five-foot-three frame, making me feel as though I were navigating a forest of torsos as I looked for a table at the café. Most of the people I passed looked as though they could bench-press me, no easy feat as I was no waif. I had meat on my bones and curves I was proud of, but being surrounded by prime specimens of human fitness made me feel almost compelled to go run five miles immediately.

I finally found a free table and pulled my notebook, pen, and voice recorder out of my bag. My editors told me they had sent Illya my professional headshot, so he'd presumably be able to identify me. I looked around, studying each person I saw, and my breath caught when my gaze landed on a man walking toward me.

He was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.

I wasn't generally prone to hyperbole, but that was the only way I could describe him. He stood about six-foot-five with tousled light brown hair that looked as though he constantly ran his hand through it unconsciously. His piercing blue eyes sparkled and somehow exuded warmth despite their icy color. As he approached me, a lopsided smile that I was sure had melted a thousand hearts graced his features.

"Ava Colby?" he asked, his voice a rich baritone that sent shivers up my spine.

Trying desperately to refrain from drooling, I nodded.

He extended a positively enormous hand. "Illya Tarasenko."

I shook it, my own hand looking like a child's as his closed around it. "It's so nice to meet you," I greeted him before recalling the possible language barrier. "

Po Angliyskiy ili po Russkiy

?" I asked.

He chuckled as he sat down across from me and the sound warmed my soul. "I speak English."

"Oh thank goodness," I sighed. "I was worried you'd be offended if I had to interview you in Russian since I don't speak Ukrainian."

"Perhaps you should learn," he teased me, a twinkle in his eyes. "It is beautiful language. But I would not be offended if you spoke Russian. I am from eastern Ukraine, and many people speak Russian there."

I made a mental note to circle back to that point, wondering if his hometown had been badly affected by the war. For the time being, I would stick with lighter topics of conversation as we got to know one another.

"Your English is excellent," I complimented him.

He beamed. "Thank you. I took classes in university."

"Where did you attend?"

"Kyiv University," he replied. "I studied economics and history."

Impressed, I jotted that down. Kyiv University was considered the best institute of higher learning in Ukraine. "Is Kyiv also where you live and train now?"

He nodded, a somewhat pained smile crossing his face. "Yes, but I had to change clubs last year."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"My old club was hit by Russian drone. It destroyed roof, but it was night so no one was hurt."

I winced but decided to use this as an opening for more sensitive questions. "Well, that's at least something. I take it the war has been disruptive for your training?"

"Very," he confirmed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as I had suspected he was prone to doing. "We hear explosions from air defense guns as we train. Sometimes we are interrupted by air raids and have to shelter in basement. But we keep working. You will see, Ms. Colby, that Ukrainians are a very determined people. We do not give up."

"I believe it. And please, call me Ava."

"Ava," he repeated, a warm smile lighting up his face as though he liked the way my name felt on his lips. I certainly liked the way it sounded.

I opted to get to the heart of the matter. "Can you tell me about your decision? Why you've decided to retire after the Games and join the army?"

He chewed on his lower lip as though deep in thought before he spoke. "I am thirty-two now. In my sport, is ancient. I can still perform and win races, but my speed will start to decline soon. This way, I finish with pride, not just fade away. Ukraine needs strong soldiers to fight for her freedom, and I want to serve my country."

"Some people would say you're already serving your country just by being here," I pointed out. "Your government has said your athletes are ambassadors for your people and that you're helping to boost morale back home."

"This is true," he agreed. "Is why I kept competing and did not enlist before now. My family also encouraged me to continue."

I smiled at him. "They must be very proud of you."

The sadness that suddenly shone in his blue eyes was jarring. "I hope they would have been. They are gone now."

"Oh Illya, I'm so sorry," I gasped.

He gave me a sad smile. "You have heard of Mariupol, yes?"

A sinking feeling filled my gut as I nodded. I had most definitely heard of Mariupol, the Ukrainian city on the Sea of Azov that had fallen to Russian troops after a nearly three-month siege. Almost the entire city had been destroyed and at least ten thousand people had died.

"I am from Mariupol," Illya told me, confirming my suspicions. "My parents and sister stayed when I moved to Kyiv for university. When Russian Army began shelling in March 2022, their building was hit and collapsed. All three were killed."

Unable to stop myself, I reached out and placed my hand over his. "I am so incredibly sorry for your loss."

To my surprise, he flipped his hand over and squeezed mine. "They live in my heart still. I race for them, and I will fight for them."

I tried my best to ignore the tingles his touch sent through my body. "Would you say you're seeking to avenge them, then?"

He shook his head with a sigh. "No. I do not believe in vengeance. Is not healthy, either for mind or soul. My mother raised me to forgive, and I will not dishonor her by forgetting."

His answer amazed me. I certainly tried my best not to hold grudges, but if someone had killed my entire family, I would have been out for blood. "What would you say is driving you, then?" I asked.

"Freedom," he answered, not even having to think about it. "Freedom for Ukraine. Freedom for my people trapped behind Russian lines."

I was at a loss for words. Illya Tarasenko was planning to give up the Olympic fame and glory he had worked for and throw himself into the meat-grinder that was the Ukrainian front lines for the sake of his countrymen. He had to be the bravest and most selfless person I had ever met.

"You are quiet, Ava," he observed.

I shook my head, trying to regain my professionalism. "Sorry, I was just absorbing what you said. I don't think I've ever met someone willing to make the kind of sacrifice you're making."

He shrugged bashfully. "I am doing my duty as Ukrainian."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You're not very comfortable being praised, are you?"

"Perhaps not," he chuckled. "Especially not by beautiful women."

My heart fluttered at that but I tried my best to keep my tone even. "That's kind of you to say, Illya."

"I never say things I do not mean," he stated matter-of-factly, his blue eyes boring into mine.

I could feel my body reacting to his gaze, goosebumps breaking out across my skin and the unmistakable warmth of desire pooling in my gut. I knew this man was going to test the limits of my journalistic professionalism.

Deciding I'd gotten enough material for one day and wanting to remove myself from the situation before I did something stupid, I moved to wrap things up. "You're a remarkable man, Illya Tarasenko. I'm looking forward to following your story throughout the Games. I'm hoping we can talk a couple more times, perhaps after some of your events?"

His smile would have made me weak in the knees had I been standing. "I would like that."

Returning his smile, I tore a small piece of paper from my notebook and jotted down my information. "Here's my phone number. Please feel free to reach out at any time, and we can set up some meetings. I'm planning to attend your events as well, and I'll be cheering for you."

He raised an eyebrow and gave me a cheeky grin. "Even when I compete against Americans?"

Chuckling, I leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Is our secret, Ava," he assured me with a wink that set off fireworks in my belly.

Oh, that man would be the death of me. I hadn't thought it was possible to be that attracted to a person after an hour-long conversation, but he was sure proving me wrong.

That evening, I felt my phone buzz with a text from an unfamiliar number.

Hello Ava. This is Illya

, it read.

Smiling, I sent him a reply:

Hi Illya! It was lovely meeting you today.

Likewise

, he responded.

Will you come to my first races tomorrow?

I sent him a thumbs-up emoji.

I'll be there cheering you on

.

A smiley appeared in the conversation and I pictured the expression mirrored on his handsome face.

There is American swimmer in my heat. If you cheer for me instead of him, they might take away your cowboy boots and apple pie.

I guffawed loudly, thankful no one was around to see it, and replied with a crying-while-laughing emoji.

You promised you wouldn't snitch on me!

There was a long pause before his next response.

Sorry, I had to look up 'snitch.'

Perhaps you should learn American slang,

I teased him, paraphrasing what he'd said to me earlier in the day.

It's a beautiful language.

The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared several times before his reply came through:

Maybe I will if you teach me.

My heart beat just a little bit faster. We were dancing dangerously close to the line between a friendly conversation and overt flirting. I would have been lying if I said I wasn't getting an enormous thrill and internal butterflies from the banter, but I knew it would be inappropriate for me to get involved with the subject of my piece.

I cast around for a way to steer things back into safe territory while not making it obvious.

We can always talk about that during our next interview,

I finally replied.

Meanwhile, you should get some sleep since you have a big day of competition tomorrow.

This is true,

he wrote.

Sleep well, lovely Ava.

Illya could wish me a good night's sleep all he wanted, but I knew it wasn't going to happen, not when he said things like that and the image of his charming smile remained burned in my brain.

***

The aquatics center was bright and filled with exuberant spectators when I arrived the next day. The smell of chlorine greeted me as I showed my press pass to the security guards and took my place in the stands. I knew I was far more excited than I had any right to be considering that the races taking place were just preliminary heats, but the prospect of seeing Illya again had my emotions all in a tizzy.

He had two heats scheduled that day for the 100 and 200 meter freestyle races. Several hours would separate the two, giving him a chance to recover before he had to perform again. The rest of his events would be spread out over the course of the two-week Games, assuming he advanced to the finals in each of them. His journey would culminate the night before the closing ceremonies with his signature event - the 200 meter butterfly, for which he had won silver during the previous Olympics in Tokyo.

I watched the heats for a series of other races with interest, cheering on Team USA whenever one of its members made an appearance. Finally, the heats for the men's 100 meter freestyle were announced and the large digital scoreboard displayed the groupings. Illya would be in the third heat.

A swimmer from Australia won the first heat, and one from France won the second, generating deafening cheers from the home-town crowd. I sat on the edge of my seat as the third heat was announced and the swimmers entered the arena in their skin-tight suits, bathing caps, and positively enormous coats. I still didn't understand the point of the coats, but what did I know?

When I spied Illya among the group, I felt my heart skip a beat and chided myself for getting so worked up over a guy I'd only just met. There was just something about him that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

He gazed around as he prepared for his race, scanning the crowd. When his eyes met mine, he flashed me a wide grin before returning his attention to the task before him. He slipped out of his coat, and for the first time, I got a good look at his body.

God, he was gorgeous.

Lean muscles and a broad chest tapered down to his narrower hips and powerful legs, giving him a perfect swimmer's physique. His skin was tanned and smooth, and he had a Ukrainian trident tattooed on his left pectoral muscle along with smaller text beneath it that I couldn't make out. A set of Olympic rings adorned the inside of his left bicep, and another piece of text encircled his right. I was usually indifferent to tattoos on men, but his were almost unbearably sexy. I wondered if perhaps that was solely because they were on him.

I watched as he got himself ready in the starting blocks, pressing his goggles down over his blue eyes and shaking out his muscles. He stared straight ahead, fully in the zone.

"Set," a voice announced over the loudspeaker.

Illya's body tensed as he waited, each limb coiled and ready to spring forward. When the starting buzzer sounded, he leapt from his position with lightning-fast reflexes and dove into the pool. His body sliced through the water like a torpedo as he swam, keeping pace with the rest of the field and occasionally turning his head to the side to breathe. Each stroke was immaculate, the pinnacle of form.