Oleksandr stood a few paces away, his fingers running through Deago’s mane as he pretended to busy himself with the horses. He couldn’t help but glance over at Samorix and Layla, giving them a moment of privacy while still keeping an eye on the tender exchange between husband and wife. Samorix, a towering figure with his wild red beard and scarred face, had softened in this intimate moment. He wrapped his arms around Layla, pulling her close as his rough cheek brushed against hers, whispering comforting words in her ear. Layla leaned into him, her face a swirl of emotions. Worry, frustration, and love mingled in her teary eyes as she clung to her husband, reluctant to let him go. Her lips trembled, though she tried to hold herself steady, her hands gripping the fabric of his tunic as if holding onto him could stop time. Samorix's voice was low, soothing, though Oleksandr couldn't make out the words. But the way Samorix held her, the gentle sway of his body as he comforted his wife, spoke volumes. He kissed her brow softly, murmuring assurances meant to ease her heart, even as his own duty called him away.

Oleksandr looked down, feeling a bit of guilt for witnessing such an intimate scene, but also a swell of admiration for the bond they shared. It reminded him of Savka—how he had left her behind with similar promises. The weight of his own journey settled heavily on him as he finished adjusting the saddle, readying himself for the road ahead. Still, he allowed Samorix and Layla their moment. He knew all too well the sacrifices made when one walks the warrior’s path, and how much these fleeting moments of tenderness could mean.

Samorix turns to his son, kneeling down to his level, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder. The older man looks into Ragnar's eyes, a mixture of pride and love in his expression.

"Alright, wee yin. I need ye to look after yer maw while I’m away, ye hear? Be a good lad, do what she tells ye, and don't give her any grief, aye?" Ragnar looks up at his father with a serious expression, his small face set in a determined look that mirrors his fathers. He's clearly trying to act mature, like a little man.

"Aye da, I'll look after maw. I’ll be good, I promise." He replies, gripping his fathers big hand in his tiny one, holding tightly. Samorix smiles at his son, his expression softening at the boy's words. He can tell that Ragnar's trying to act brave, to show that he's not scared about his father leaving, even though there's a hint of fear in his eyes. Samorix ruffles the young boy's hair affectionately, his hand gentle despite its calloused roughness.

"Good lad. That’s what I like to hear. I need to know you'll be a man and look after yer maw for me while I’m gone, alright? Can I count on ye?" Ragnar nods, his chin set in determination.

"Aye, you can count on me, da." He says, his voice firm, though his eyes are still a little sad and scared. "When will you come back, da? Will you be gone for a long time?"

"Aye, son. Just a little couple o' seasons." Ragnar’s face falls at his fathers words, his eyes widening a little.

"A couple of seasons? But da', that’s a real long time."

"Aye, but I'll be back before ye know it. By the time they reap the summer barley. Your pops always keeps his promises, y’know." Ragnar nods reluctantly, his expression still solemn.

"Aye, I know. You always keep your promises..." He says quietly, his small fingers twisting his tunic anxiously. Samorix tilts his chin up again, making him look him in the eye.

"Be strong, lad. Don't fret. Yer maw needs a man to take care of 'er. You'll do alright without yer da for a little while." Ragnar nods, looking up at his father with a determined expression.

"I can be strong… like you. I'll be the man while you're gone." He says, his voice growing a little more determined, as if he's trying to convince himself as much as his father.

"Thatta boy." Samorix pats his shoulder, before planting a kiss at the top of his copper head, and standing. "I'll see ye soon, laddie." Ragnar stands there, looking up at his father with big eyes, the emotions written all over his face.

"Aye, da. You better come back soon, or I'll be cross with ye." He replies with an attempt at a teasing tone, but it's clear that he's struggling. Samorix grins, and turns to his wife. He turns to Layla, his hand caressing her hip and her braid, a soft touch of love against her skin. He leans down and planted a kiss on her lips, their mouths meeting in a tender, lingering kiss. Layla clings to him, her hands gripping his arms as she returns the kiss, her eyes squeezing shut, trying to hold back the tears. As they break the kiss, her brown eyes flicker over his face.

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"You're foolish, Samorix." She says, tenderly. Samorix chuckles, his green eye crinkling as he grins.

"Aye, I know I am. I'm a damned fool, a fool for you, lassie." He replies, his hand caressing her cheek reverently, his voice low and tender.

"I'll pray for you, veliki medved." Samorix lets out a little huff of laughter at her words.

"Aye, ye better pray for me, wife. Christ better listen to ye if we want me to come back alive." He says, his tone laced with humor and a hint of fondness as he pats her shoulder, smoothing down her headscarf. She fusses over him, one last time, straightening out his clothes.

"Don't keep that boy waiting, milaya." Samorix rolls his eye affectionately at Layla as she fusses over him, straightening out his clothes for him one final time.

"Aye aye, woman. I'll get out yer hair. I'll be back before ye even know it, wife. I'll return by the harvest, ye mark me."

As the sun slowly rises from the horizon, they set out. Samorix is already a master of the reins, handling his stallion with an ease and confidence that only comes from a lifetime in the saddle. The countryside passes by in a blur of trees and hills, as the horses carry the two men onwards on the dusty dirt road. After a few hours, Samorix breaks the silence, his deep voice cutting through the still air.

"So, Sasha,” he begins, his eyes fixed forwards on the road, never straying away. "You've been quiet as a grave. What are ye thinking over there in that blonde head of yers, hm?”

"Hm?" Oleksandr glances over, puffing his pipe. "Oh, you know. Just my lady back home."

Samorix chuckles, a smile pulling at his broad face. "Ah, thinking of the wife, huh?"

"Hah. Yeah, wife. Strange to say that I'll have a bride of my own soon."

Samorix grins at Oleksandr's words, his eye twinkling with mischief. "Aye, it's strange indeed. The Flaxen Reaper, settling down with a young bride. How old's the lass, anyway?" Oleksandr puffs his pipe thoughtfully before replying.

"She's young, fresh and untouched. Barely twenty." Samorix whistles, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Aye, that's a wee slip of a thing. Barely out her father’s shadow. And how old are ye, then?"

“Twenty-seven or twenty-eight. I don’t recall,” he responds, his tone nonchalant, as if it’s no big deal. Samorix gives him a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head.

“Ye don't recall yer own age?”

“No. I never kept up with my birthdate. Only ever knew we were born in the winter. I think the slavers started working us about eight winters in, but it was hard to keep track as a child. Then we spent seven more winters working, then three on the Steppe…” He pauses, doing the calculations in his head. “Yeah. About twenty-eight or nine.”

“Damn, slave life is harsh, huh? Twenty-eight? Damn. Still, it's a marvel ye came out that life as well as ye did.”

“Well. Hmpt. I’m far from a good man, Sam. I've done things that would make another barbarian sweat.”

Samorix grins crookedly. “Perhaps yer not a saint, but a helluva lot better than most. Especially in our line of work.”

“Eh. You humble me. I suppose I could’ve been fighting for the enemy for coin, or been a rapist or a bandit. I suppose it could always be worse.”

“Aye, it could be. Many other mercs and warriors don't care who they're fighting for, long as they make pay. There's always a market for men who see no problem doing a little rapin’ and pillagin’ on the side. Yer cut from a different cloth, lad. Despite the hell you’ve trekked through, ye retained yer honor, whether ye want to deny it or not. I've seen ye fight like a mad dog then turn and treat a prince and a beggar with the same decency. Not saying yer perfect, but you've got heart. It's hard to find in this business, and it's hard to keep.”

Oleksandr is quiet for a moment, pondering Samorix’s kind words. “There were times I was almost tempted to go down that road. To recruit some mean mercs, make them submit to my will and become a warlord. To burn the world around me, to take out my rage and pain.”

“What kept ye?”

“Honestly, my mother.”

“Yer mother?”

“Aye, my mother. Never met the woman, but a man who chose that path was what killed her. She didn’t die birthing us for us to end up like him.”

“Ah,” Samorix mutters grimmly. “I see.”