Oleksandr rolls off of her and onto the red bedsheets, his breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps. The afterglow of their union washes over him, a wave of pleasure and satisfaction that settles like a warm, languid haze. The softness of the velvet envelops him, its luxurious fabric caressing his sweaty skin, providing a soothing contrast to the intensity of their passion.
He encircles her in his arms, tugging her closer to him. She quivers softly, her body still recovering from the passion, her first time at that. He gently pushes her hair back from her face, and she lays her head against his bicep, snuggling up close to him. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes half-lidded; she looks beautiful, like a dream come to life. He has dreamt about this moment, yearned for her with every fiber of his being. His princess, his Savushka.
In this moment, he feels like he has stumbled into a heavenly realm, enveloped by her presence, surrounded by her feminine aura and the smoke of the incense. He's never felt so content, like all of his sorrows have slipped away, and all he has to worry about is the beautiful creature in his arms. He tightens his hold on her, the feeling of her body pressed against his like a healing balm to his soul. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling deeply to take in her scent. She smells of saffron and jasmine, the scent a mix of sweet and elegant, just like her. He can feel her pulse fluttering like a hummingbird against his chest, the heat of her body seeping into his. He never wants to leave this spot, never wants to let her go.
He tightens his hold on her, his arm encircling her waist. He can feel the softness of her body, the press of her supple curves against him, and it makes his heart ache in the best way.
"You're a dream, darling," he murmurs. She lets out a soft, contented sigh, relishing the feel of his strong arms around her. She can feel his breath warm on her head, the beat of his heart beneath her ear.
"Says the man who could rival Apollo himself," she giggles, trailing her fingers along his chest hair. He gently kisses the top of her head.
"You make me feel... a sense of safety I've never known. I've never been so comfortable. You're just... so soft."
"And you make me feel protected," she murmurs, her fingers tracing along his collarbone. "Like nothing can harm me when I'm in your arms." His eyes soften at her words, the protective part of himself preening at her trust in him.
"I'll always keep you safe, kotik," he whispers. "As long as there is breath in my body, no harm will come to you."
"I know you will… You're my guardian angel, my hero." Oleksandr's gaze drifts to the canopy above the bed, his thoughts turning deep and contemplative. The soft, sheer fabric drapes over them, creating a bubble of intimacy and comfort.
"I didn't think it was possible to feel like this. I really didn't,” he says, his fingers gently stroking her back. The confession seems to come from a place of deep, sincere surprise, as if discovering something new and profound. "I never felt... the loving touch of a mother, or a father, being an orphan, living as a slave... I only ever had my brother. In a way, we were each other's parents, along with being brothers... Aside from him, I never felt safe with anyone. I never found comfort... I didn't think it was possible." He continues to run his fingers gently along her back, his voice taking on a note of aching vulnerability. It breaks her heart, thinking of the lonely, abandoned child he must have been, and how much he's endured. She wraps an arm around his waist, holding onto him tighter as she rests her head against his chest.
"But you have comfort now," she whispers. "You're safe now. With me. You always will be."
"You don't understand how much that means to me." She guides him, shifting their positions so that his head is resting on her chest, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. He feels the warmth and softness of her skin against his cheek, smelling the sweet, floral scent of her hair. She gently combs her fingers through his hair, unraveling his braid, the feeling of each silken strands filling her with a sense of tenderness and love. She listens to his deep sigh as he closes his eyes, nuzzling against her chest. He relishes the feeling of her fingers in his hair, the soothing, repetitive motion making him feel strangely vulnerable and loved. He wraps his arms tighter around her waist, as if to pull her even closer, and he drifts off to sleep.
Oleksandr stands in a thick, suffocating fog. The world around him is eerily silent, save for the faint echoes of battle cries that seem to come from every direction yet from nowhere at all. The ground beneath him is neither solid nor stable, it shifts and sways like the deck of a ship in a storm. The fog begins to lift, revealing a battlefield littered with the fallen, but their faces are all familiar. The sight is sickening, overwhelming to the senses. Everywhere he turns, he sees familiar faces, men he fought with and perhaps even laughed and drank with, now fallen and lifeless, staring at him. The dead grass around him is like an endless sea, full of corpses at various states of decay. He walks and walks, looking at the thousands of bodies, the sounds of crows overhead almost mocking.
Thekkur stands at a distance, his back to Oleksandr, illuminated by an unnatural, blood-red light. Oleksandr tries to call out to him, but his voice is swallowed by the void. As he struggles to move forward, the ground becomes thick, like quicksand, sucking at his feet, slowing his progress. He can feel the weight of his armor dragging him down, the smell of blood and decay heavy in the air. But the sight of his brother, standing so far away, is a beacon in the darkness, a hope that drives him to keep moving, despite the heaviness in his heart and the dread in his soul. Suddenly, the fog morphs into shadowy figures, grotesque, twisted forms of soldiers, their eyes hollow and glowing with a sickly green light, bearing faces of men he's killed in the past. They rush toward Oleksandr, their mouths opening wide in silent screams, weapons raised. He raises his sword to defend himself, but it feels impossibly heavy, like he’s swinging through water.
As he fights through the phantom soldiers, his surroundings shift and twist. The battlefield melts into a distorted version of a makeshift gladiatorial arena in Siberia where he and Thekkur once fought side by side. The phantoms make up the crowd, their silence turning into haunting, distorted laughter, echoing and growing louder until it’s deafening. Oleksandr sees Thekkur in the center of the arena, and he’s still just standing there, motionless. That's when a voice calls out, and a group of men step forward, nearly twenty of them, all bearing the faces of opponents he killed as a gladiator in his youth. Him and Thekkur spring into action, fighting them off while they are unarmed, the cold Siberian winds nipping at their exposed chests. They fight like they always used to, coordinated with each other. They move as one, each strike and parry a dance perfected from years of fighting and training together. They move in perfect harmony, their bodies working in tandem, their movements precise and lightning fast. Every attack their opponents launch is met with a counterattack, every opening is exploited with cold, brutal efficiency. It's a dance of death, and the gladiator duo is the leading pair. They fight with the savagery they became known for. Mauling like wild dogs, headbutting with lethal force, using their bodies as deadly weapons, ripping and tearing through their enemies.
The fight nearly comes to an end, when he looks over at Thekkur, and his body freezes as he watches the last man plunge a spear through his brother's stomach, impaling him. The sight is like a dagger to the heart. Oleksandr’s blood runs cold, and his own stomach clenching. Thekkur’s body spasms, and his face contorts in pain, a sharp, guttural sound escaping his bleeding lips, and he’s reaching out to Oleksandr, his eyes wide with terror and pain. He tries to run to him, but the distance between them stretches infinitely. The harder he runs, the farther away Thekkur seems, until finally, he’s running in place, unable to move forward, his breath ragged and shallow.
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His heart feels like it's going to burst from his chest, and his lungs are on fire. He's desperate to reach his little brother, to pull him off the spear and tend to his wound, to do anything to save him. But no matter how much he struggles, he can't seem to make any progress, like the very universe is conspiring against him to keep him at arm's length.
Thekkur’s voice suddenly breaks through the cacophony, but it’s not a cry for help—it’s a haunting whisper, accusing.
"You failed me... You were supposed to protect me!" The words slice through Oleksandr, their cold tone like acid in his veins. He feels his heart splinter with the weight of guilt and regret, the truth of his failure reverberating through him like a death knell. His brother's pained, accusing voice haunts him, echoing through his mind like a cruel refrain.
A transformation happens in the blink of an eye, his brother's flesh turning to ash and his skin shriveling and cracking. The skeleton collapses, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. Oleksandr feels like he's been punched in the gut, the pain and grief overwhelming him. He's left standing in the wreckage of the arena, surrounded by the echoes of their past together. He runs to the pile of bones, which are now different. There's dozens of grotesque talismans, carved out of bones, attached to chains and necklaces. He frantically tries to collect them with his shaking hands, picking them all up.
"I'll put you back together, little brother... I'm here… Don't worry," he mutters frantically. He struggles to hold onto them all, his arms shaking as the bones and talismans slip and slide through his fingers. "No, no, no..." He mutters, panic rising in his chest. "Stay... damnit, stay together..."
The arena begins collapsing into itself, the ground beneath them crumbling away. Oleksandr falls into a void, with the bone pendants falling around him like stars. He desperately grasps for them, but it's no use. The darkness swallows them both, and he’s drowning in a sea of red, the blood becoming thicker, choking him, filling his lungs, closing in around him like an inescapable tomb. The weight of guilt and grief presses down on him like a crushing force, and he’s helpless, trapped in hell with no escape.
He jolts up in bed, his mind completely scrambled and in fight or flight, completely panicked. The surroundings are unfamiliar, he's afraid, he jumps out of bed and reaches for his sword on his hip, but he's naked without a sword. He grabs his imaginary sword and starts swinging it. His heart is beating like a war drum, panic and confusion clouding his mind, still caught between the battlefield and reality. The princess, startled awake by his sudden movements, looks around, her eyes wide with confusion and concern. She sits up in bed, the blankets falling away from chest, but she’s more focused on the man in front of her, swinging at an invisible enemy. She watches him, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and worry. She can see the panic in his eyes, the way his body is coiled tight, ready to strike at any moment. She tries to call out to him, but her voice doesn’t seem to reach him, lost in his own world of fear and adrenaline. His body is in constant motion, his muscles straining as he continues to fight a battle that only exists in his mind. He keeps swinging his imaginary sword, dodging, slashing, hyperventilating. He doesn't hear her, he just keeps muttering, his voice low and broken, almost pleading. His face is scrunched up, his eyes wild and unfocused.
She watches helplessly, her heart clenching for him, his trauma and despair evident, before slipping out of bed and wrapping herself in a robe. She knows it’s dangerous to approach him now, when he’s so lost in his own nightmares and delusions. So, she watches him from a distance, her heart heavy with concern.
"Thekkur... Thekkur help me, brother..." It's a heart-wrenching plea, a desperate murmur for help that goes unanswered. He's lost in his own horror, his eyes unfocused and filled with a thousand-yard stare. He ducks, a fluid motion, bending backwards, going into a spin and ‘stabbing’ an enemy. His foot catches on the rug and sends him sprawling to the ground. He crashes down hard, the impact jarring him for a moment. He lies there, dazed and disoriented, the nightmare's grip on him slowly slipping away as he returns to reality.
He looks around confused, when suddenly, the princess rushes to his side, her concern for him overcoming her earlier caution. He blinks at her, his eyes slowly refocusing on her face as reality comes flooding back to him. She grabs his shoulders and holds him in a tight embrace, petting his head.
"Thek... Oh... oh.” Her touch sends a wave of calm through his body, the nightmare fading even further as he feels her slender arms around him. He slumps against her, his head dropping to her shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath as he sinks into her embrace. His body is tense, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him like a dark shroud, but her touch grounds him to reality, her presence soothing against the raw fear and terror that had consumed him moments before. He clings to her, almost like a child seeking comfort and protection, his head resting against her shoulder as he tries to steady his breathing and regain his composure. She holds him firmly, her hands running gently through his hair.
“Oli… It’s okay…” She whispers. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, taking comfort in her tender touch.
He mutters softly against her skin, "Oh, Savka... I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... I thought it was real..." His voice is rough and filled with pain and shame. She tightens her embrace, her fingers tracing soothing circles on his back.
"Shhh... it's alright. You're safe now." She murmurs, her voice both soft and reassuring. "You don't have to apologize. I understand. I've... seen it before..." He lifts his head from her shoulder, his eyes still filled with anguish but gradually becoming clearer.
"You... you have?" She strokes his face, wiping off the sweat and tears, nodding.
"Years ago... One of my father's soldiers. They call it battle fatigue… melancholia... or ghost sickness."
"I... I didn't realize there was a name for such a thing... I just... thought I was going mad..."
"Mad?" She asks softly, a note of incredulity in her tone. "No, no, not at all. It's... well, it's a reaction to the horrors you've seen, to the trauma you've endured. You're not crazy, or weak, or anything like that. You're just... damaged." Her words strike a nerve in him.
"Damaged..." He repeats, his voice laced with a bitter self-deprecating tone. "Is that what I am? A broken soldier, damaged by the horrors of war and loss?"
"No," she firmly says, holding his face between her small hands. "You're not a broken tool. You're a person, a living, breathing person, who's been through things that no one should have to go through. You're strong, and capable, and kind, and... and so much more. Don't let this... this darkness define you." He lifts his gaze to meet hers, the anguish and shame still present, but mitigated by her words and touch.
"I... I try, Princess. I swear I do. But sometimes... sometimes it just feels like I'm drowning, like I'm being pulled under and there's no one there to pull me out… It’s always one step forward, then two steps back."
"You're not alone," she says, her voice firm and sincere. "I'm here. I'm right here. You don't have to fight alone anymore." She reaches up to cup his cheek, her touch gentle and tender. "You have me." Her words, so simple, so sincere, hit him hard, cutting through the darkness that had ensnared him. He feels a wave of raw emotion rise up in his chest, and he leans into her touch, his hand coming up to cover hers, his voice a ragged whisper.
"You... you don't know what that means to me, Savushka..." She leans her forehead against his, her eyes meeting his gaze.
"I think I do," she whispers, her breath warm against his skin. She stands, tugging him gently up with her. He rises, stumbling a bit as he regains his balance, his body still shaky from the episode and its aftermath. She leads him to the bed, guiding him gently onto the soft mattress. He lets himself be led, his body strangely compliant and pliable under her gentle touch. He collapses onto the bed, his muscles going slack as the adrenaline and tension drain from him, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. She lays down on him, resting her head next to his, stroking his hair. He wraps his arms around her, his grip almost desperate as he pulls her close. He savors her warmth and closeness, the feel of her soft, slender body against his. He buries his face in her hair, taking in her scent, his ragged breathing gradually calming down. The soothing gesture of her pets slowly lulling him into a state of deep, exhausted contentment.