Oleksandr rides ahead, humming a melody, murmuring words in one of his many tongues. Samorix rides up alongside Oleksandr, eyeing him curiously. He tilts his head, trying to discern what his companion is muttering under his breath.
"You sing of a woman."
Oleksandr chuckles, casting a sidelong grin at Samorix. "Your ears are sharper than ever, old man," he teases. "Is it that easy to tell?"
"Yer singing of yer young lass," Samorix states, an entertained grin on his face. "Yer besotted." Oleksandr lets out a wry chuckle, shaking his head in amusement.
"Aye, there's no fooling you, Sam. I suppose I am a bit lost in my own dreams these days." He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his lips. "But who could blame me? She's a fine one, my Savka is."
"Looks like ol' Serb's lands are coming to an end," Samorix comments, observing their surroundings. Oleksandr glances around at the surrounding landscape, nodding in agreement.
"But they were, once..." He motions to a church in the distance, the minarets a new addition, symbolizing its conversion into a mosque.
"Turkish lands now, it looks like," Samorix grunts, his expression turning serious. "We must be careful from here on out."
Oleksandr nods gravely, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We're deep in enemy territory now, Samorix. There's bound to be Ottoman patrols around here. They know my face."
"Yer kind of a celebrity 'round these parts," Samorix notes, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "The Ottoman lads probably tell stories about ye to scare their kids into behaving." Oleksandr chuckles, his eyes flickering over his map.
"If we travel east through the forest, we can avoid the townships. There's a bounty on my head there."
Samorix nods in agreement, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Aye, let's stick to the woods. The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. Especially ye, Sasha."
"I know, I know. The last thing we need is a bunch of Turks recognizing my glorious mug. We'll stay low and move quickly." He urges his horse forward, leading the way deeper into the forest. Samorix follows close behind, staying vigilant and alert. The men travel through the forest for a few days, the air growing colder as they make their move on. They set up camp where they can, water their horses, and even catch some fish in a nearby river.
The two men crouch by a campfire, the embers glowing brightly in the darkness of the forest. The sounds of the forest are quiet, the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves the only distraction. They feast on smoked fish, their spirits high and their bellies full. Samorix takes a long swig of ale from his flask, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.
"Ye know, Sasha," Samorix says, his voice slightly slurred from his flask. "You've come a helluva long way from the angry young savage I found ye as, when we reunited after Constantinople went to ruin."
Oleksandr nods, taking a bite of his fish and swallowing. "Aye, Sam," he says, his voice low and contemplative. "I have. I was lost after Thekkur died. Lost and angry, burning with a fire I couldn't control." Samorix grins lightly.
"Ah, Thekkur. You two always caused me trouble in the Guard."
Oleksandr chuckles, a sad smile touching his face. "We were a pair, weren't we? Always getting into trouble, always looking for a fight."
Samorix nods, a nostalgic expression crossing his face. "You two were somethin’ else, aye. force to be reckoned with. You and yer brother, like two sides of the same bleedin’ coin. Balanced each other out, ye did, in yer own mad way. Could always count on ye both to keep me on my toes, no doubt about it. And the rest o’ the lads, they fair adored ye. Made the Guard a livelier place, that’s for certain." Oleksandr nods, his expression becoming wistful.
"I remember those days often, Sam. We were young and invincible, or at least that's how it felt. The brotherhood of the Varangian Guard was the closest thing to a family I ever had."
--
The tavern reeked of spilled ale, sweat, and smoke. The roaring hearth at its center cast flickering shadows across the low-beamed ceiling, and the din of drunken revelry filled the air like the clamor of a battlefield. Oleksandr, the once-proud Varangian, sat sprawled at a scarred wooden table, his presence a thunderhead among the riotous crowd. He lifted his mug with a grunt, the iron banded vessel sloshing over as he tipped it back, a stream of amber liquid escaping his lips to trail down his stubbled chin. Slamming the empty vessel onto the table with a resounding thud, he roared, "ANOTHER!" His voice cut through the din, a bellow that demanded attention and brooked no argument.
The wench hovering nearby, a buxom redhead with a sly grin, was quick to refill his mug, her movements practiced but cautious. Coins clinked as Oleksandr flung a pouch from his belt onto the table, spilling its contents in a cascade of silver. "Drink! Laugh! LIVE!" On his side, a raven-haired beauty leaned in with a sly smirk, her eyes glinting with the light of the hearth and the promise of gold. With an arm like a bear’s paw, Oleksandr hauled her onto his knee, the bench creaking beneath their collective weight.
The woman giggled, her fingers tracing the scars that criss-crossed his muscular arms and neck, her eyes filled with both curiosity and greed. Oleksandr laughed, a deep, bellowing sound that seemed to shake the very rafters. He was drunk—blind, senseless drunk—and not for the first time this week. The tavern roared around him, a sea of warriors, merchants, and brigands, all lost in their own revels. Fists pounded tables to the rhythm of a bawdy song, and the sharp crack of a tankard shattering against the stone floor punctuated the chaos.
For Oleksandr, it was a mockery of life—a hollow attempt to drown out the emptiness clawing at his soul. A year had passed since the walls of Constantinople fell, since the death of his beloved brother... and the memory of that slaughter haunted him like the ghosts of his fallen comrades. He had become a blade for hire, selling his skill to the highest bidder, living for the brief thrill of battle and the numbing haze of wine and sex.
“More!” He roared again, his laughter mingling with the delighted cries of the woman who clung to him. “A toast to the God who’s cursed me! To coin, to steel, and to hell with the rest!” The crowd cheered in drunken agreement, mugs raised high. But even as Oleksandr grinned, his gap-toothed smirk lighting his face, there was a hollowness in his eyes—a man drowning, reveling in the storm while the undertow dragged him ever deeper.
His cheeks were flushed crimson from the drink, his glassy eyes unfocused but alive with reckless abandon. He slammed back another mug of ale, the frothy liquid spilling over his lips and onto his tunic, but he cared not. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he pulled the woman on his lap closer, pressing rough kisses to her neck and bosom, his beard tickling her skin. The woman squealed and giggled, her voices joining the drunken revelry around them, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and calculation. Oleksandr’s hands roamed freely, his fingers trailing over her curves with a possessive confidence that came from a man who’d seen too many wars and cared for nothing beyond the moment.
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"You," he slurred, pointing a thick finger at the red-haired wench lounging across the table. She smirked, leaning back to reveal more of her ample charms, but Oleksandr was not one to wait. "Get me another!" He barked, his grin widening, his voice carrying the command of a man used to being obeyed. The woman stood with a sway of her hips, her skirts swishing as she sauntered toward the bar. Oleksandr’s bleary eyes followed her movements, lingering on her form with an unabashed hunger. “She’s worth the coin,” he muttered to himself, his grin turning wolfish as he looked back at the dark-haired beauty to his right.
Her hand had slipped under his waistband, her fingers tracing the ridges of his stomach, teasing closer to their prize. He caught her wrist, his grip firm but playful. “And you,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with drink. His lips curled into a grin sharp enough to cut. “Less coin if you neglect my balls.” The dark-haired woman’s laugh was a sultry melody, her grin wide and impish as she leaned closer.
“Wouldn’t be right for me to ignore something so… impressive,” she teased, her fingers curling with deliberate mischief. Oleksandr grunted, a sound deep and guttural, more beast than man, as her hand gave a bold squeeze. The red-haired wench returned, her hips swaying, carrying a fresh mug with exaggerated care. She plopped down unceremoniously in Oleksandr’s lap, earning a sharp laugh from the other woman still on his knee.
“Easy, lass,” he rumbled, his voice slurred but commanding. His arm circled her waist as he took the drink from her hand, raising it high in a mock toast before tipping it back. He drained the mug, the bitterness of the ale mixing with the bitterness in his heart. For now, the world was noise and chaos, and Oleksandr, drenched in drink and debauchery, was its king. Oleksandr let out a satisfied growl, tossing the empty vessel across the room where it clattered harmlessly against a wall.
He shifted in his seat, pulling both women closer, their laughter mingling with the rowdy shouts and bawdy songs echoing through the room. “You wenches know how to please a man,” he growled, his grin wide and crooked as he ran a hand over the redhead’s back.
Oleksandr’s bleary gaze swept the smoky haze of the tavern, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as they settled on a figure lurking in the shadows near the far wall. The man wasn’t joining in the revelry, wasn’t laughing, drinking, or fighting like the rest. Instead, he sat motionless, his gaze fixed unerringly on Oleksandr. Even through the blur of drunkenness, Oleksandr could make out the pale gleam of a jagged scar slicing across the man’s brow like a crack in stone. He squinted, trying to focus, but the ale clouded his vision, the room tilting slightly as he leaned forward.
“Oi, scarface!” Oleksandr bellowed, his voice carrying over the noise of the room. He jabbed a thick finger in the man’s direction, his expression darkening. “Quit your staring before you land yourself another cut!” The tavern went quiet for a heartbeat, the air crackling with sudden tension. All eyes flicked to the scarred man, who sat utterly still, his face carved from stone. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t even blink at Oleksandr’s taunt. His stare was steady, unnerving, as if he were gazing straight through the drunken brute who had called him out. Oleksandr’s grin twisted into a snarl, his temper flaring at the lack of reaction. His fingers drummed against the wooden table as his body tensed, the drunken stupor momentarily giving way to the simmering rage always lying just beneath his surface. “You deaf, or just stupid?” He growled, his voice low and dangerous.
One of the wenches on his lap, the redhead, trailed her fingers down his chest, stroking the golden hair sprouting from his broad frame.
“Don’t mind him, daddy,” she cooed, her voice a sultry hum. “Just a jealous bum, wishing he had what you’ve got.” The other woman, her hand still beneath his waistband, gave him another teasing squeeze, her lips curling into a sly grin. “Ignore him,” she whispered, leaning in close so her breath tickled his ear. “You’ve got more important things to focus on.”
For a moment, Oleksandr’s attention was drawn back to the women, their purring and touches pulling him into their warmth. But his gaze flickered again toward the scarred man. The stillness, the unshaken calm—it wasn’t right. It gnawed at him, the kind of itch a warrior couldn’t ignore, drunk or not. He shifted in his seat, his instincts warring with his intoxication. The room had returned to its chaotic rhythm, but Oleksandr’s blood was up, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second. “Who the hell are you?” He muttered under his breath. Oleksandr took another long swig of ale, the mug creaking under the pressure of his iron grip. His bleary eyes flicked back toward the scarred man in the corner, whose unmoving presence gnawed at his frayed nerves like a blade scraping bone. “Him just sitting there is making me twitchy.”
The raven-haired wench in his lap giggled, a throaty sound that brought his attention swinging back to her. “You’re twitchy, alright,” she teased. “But forget him, sugar. Let’s go to our room.” Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, her hand slipping lower, reigniting his drunken lust. Oleksandr’s scowl melted into a crooked smirk, a feral hunger gleaming in his glassy eyes.
“Lead the way, sweetmeat,” he growled, the words thick with intoxication and desire. He shoved himself up from the bench with a grunt, his towering frame swaying as the effects of the ale hit him in full force. He steadied himself with a wide stance, his gap-toothed grin flashing as he threw a heavy coin pouch onto the table. The clinking of silver drew approving murmurs from the nearest patrons.
“Next round’s on me!” He roared, his voice slurring but still carrying the weight of command. The tavern erupted in cheers and shouts of gratitude, mugs raised high in celebration. Oleksandr staggered toward the stairs, one arm slung around the woman while the other gestured toward the tavern keeper. “And make sure my friend in the back gets what he wants!” He added with a booming laugh, tossing another coin onto the counter.
As Oleksandr stumbled toward the stairs, the weight of the night’s indulgence finally caught up to him. A deep, queasy churn in his gut stole the swagger from his step, and he grimaced. With a grunt, he smacked the raven-haired wench on her backside, eliciting a playful squeal.
“I’ll meet you up there…” He slurred, waving them off with an unsteady hand. The two women giggled, their hips swaying in exaggerated rhythm as they ascended the stairs, their laughter floating back to him like an invitation. Oleksandr’s gaze lingered, his jaw slackening as his drunken mind fixated on the curve of their bodies. But the moment of lecherous distraction was cut short as his stomach gave a violent lurch, the sour bile rising in his throat like a threat. He groaned, staggering sideways and slumping heavily against the bar, one massive hand clutching his midsection. “Blasted ale…” He muttered, his voice thick and rasping. “Too… too much…” The barkeep glanced over, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he wiped down the counter.
“Takes a bear of a man to drink like you do, but even a bear’s got its limits.” Oleksandr waved him off weakly, his other hand gripping the edge of the bar as the room tilted and spun. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose in a futile attempt to steady himself. “Damn ale… I’ll gut the bastard who brewed it…”
“Oi! You there!” The voice was sharp, cutting through the din of the tavern like a blade, drawing Oleksandr’s bleary gaze toward the approaching figure. The man moved with deliberate purpose, his face obscured by the shadow of a hood pulled low, the dim flicker of lantern light catching only the faint outline of the scar slashing across his brow. Oleksandr straightened—or tried to—his massive frame swaying like a felled oak in a gale as he fixed the stranger with a wary, bloodshot glare.
“Yeah?” He grunted, his words slurring but still carrying the weight of someone not to be trifled with. “What do you want?”
"I know yer mug, ye drunken Slav," Oleksandr’s mind raced, his heart thudding louder in his chest as the words echoed in his foggy brain. He knew his face? A bounty hunter? A merchant he’d robbed on one of his many rampages across the land? His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and his stance shifted subtly, the drunken swagger now replaced by the cautious poise of a warrior on alert. He narrowed his eyes, staring the stranger down with a sharpness that belied the fog of ale clouding his thoughts.
"You know me?" He growled, his voice a low rumble, dangerous beneath the slur. "Who the hell are you?" The tavern noise seemed to blur around him, the air thick with tension as his hand hovered just over the weapon, ready to draw.
The man tugged his hood down, and Oleksandr’s bleary gaze finally focused on the face beneath it—an old, scarred visage, one green eye glaring back at him with a mixture of amusement and weariness. A sudden, confused recognition bloomed in his chest.
"Samorix..." He muttered, the name slipping from his lips like a forgotten prayer. The memories rushed in—his old captain, the one-eyed warrior who had once led him in battle, a man whose strength and wisdom had shaped the young fighter in ways Oleksandr couldn't quite grasp. But the wave of recognition quickly soured into something else, something far more urgent as the nausea in his gut surged. Before he could say anything more, his stomach rebelled, and with a deep, gut-wrenching heave, he vomited a torrent of ale all over Samorix's boots. The cold splatter echoed in the silence that followed. Oleksandr’s world tilted wildly, and with a groan, he crashed to the tavern floor, his body sprawling like a broken doll. His head hit the wood with a dull thud, and the last thing he saw was Samorix standing there, the one-eyed warrior's lips curling into an unreadable expression.
(My illustration: "Coping.")
image [https://i.imgur.com/S7pptX0.jpeg]