The rolling hills of Hungary had long since fallen behind them, replaced by the vast, sweeping plains of Poland. Endless fields of golden grain danced in the wind beneath a sky of brooding gray, and the dirt roads stretched like veins through the open land, only to vanish into the dark edges of the forests ahead. As they pressed on, the forests thickened, and the air grew heavier with the scent of pine and damp earth. They were nearing the lands of the Rus, a place where the trees seemed to crowd together, their tangled branches casting long shadows across the winding roads.

The journey was grueling, each day marked by unrelenting caution. At night, they sought whatever shelter they could find: a collapsed barn, an ancient hollowed tree, even a cave if fortune allowed. When they crossed paths with travelers or small villages, they were met with wary stares and guarded whispers. Oleksandr’s towering form and Samorix’s weathered face, with its singular piercing eye, were enough to set the locals on edge. Outsiders were seldom trusted here, especially ones so visibly dangerous.

One evening, as their horses trudged through a village clinging to the edges of a trade route, Oleksandr broke the silence. His voice was a low murmur, almost lost beneath the steady clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

“Feels strange being back in these lands,” he said, his gaze lingering on the modest cottages, their windows glowing faintly with firelight. His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Samorix’s single eye flicked toward his companion, catching the faint crease of Oleksandr’s brow, the distant look in his stormy eyes. The Scot said nothing at first, his silence coaxing more from the younger man. Oleksandr exhaled deeply, his words slower now, as if dragging them from the depths of his soul.

“I’m not sure what village or province my mother hailed from before she was taken.” His voice dipped lower, carrying a mix of bitterness and quiet longing. “It’s strange, passing through these villages, wondering if they could’ve been my own.” He paused, his eyes scanning the horizon, as though the land itself might answer him. “Something tells me… northeast of Kiev. Somewhere near the endless birch woods.”

Samorix doesn't know too much about the Russian's past or his family, but he knows enough to understand the pain and longing that's etched in his comrade's stoic features. For a moment, he doesn't speak, allowing the quiet of the forest to envelope them. Then, his gaze softening, he offers a reassuring nod.

“Maybe the land remembers her, lad. Yer a son of these lands. Maybe, in its own way, it’s calling ye back. Yer blood runs through the trees and the rivers, and the fields ye see."

The birch trees grow thick around them, their trunks pale against the soft whiteness of the snow, as Oleksandr and Samorix ride deeper into the heart of the frozen land. The ground beneath their horses' hooves crunches with each step, the silence of the woods almost oppressive, broken only by the occasional gust of wind that stirs the branches. But as they crest a slight rise, they spot the sight of a checkpoint up ahead, a large stacked-log wall with a wide gate.

The checkpoint is clearly manned. A handful of figures move in and out of the shadows, some crouching low by the fire, others pacing the perimeter, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. The men here are unmistakably Cossacks— rugged, weather-worn warriors who move with the confidence of men who know the land as their own. Their fur-trimmed coats are worn and tattered, their boots heavy with snow, but their eyes gleam with the sharpness of men who live and die by their blades. Their faces are hard, with high cheekbones and fierce expressions, marked by the harsh winds of the east and the bitter cold of the north.

The Cossacks stand out not only by their hardened demeanor, but by their distinctive clothing: colorful, layered tunics cinched with wide belts, thick furs draped over their shoulders, and the infamous mustaches that curl down like wild brushstrokes beneath their noses, along with long tufts of hair that hang down from mostly-bald heads. Some wore fur hats, some wore bandanas. Their long sabers hang from their sides, but the most prominent feature is their unyielding, independent air. Their posture speaks of men who have little patience for authority, and less for strangers. It's where their title comes from- Cossacks, the free-men.

Oleksandr pauses, scanning the checkpoint with a narrowed gaze, his grip tightening on the reins. The Cossacks’ eyes have already locked onto him and Samorix, their movements slowing as they notice the two warriors. "Last time I dealt with these people," Oleksandr mutters under his breath, "my brother and I had just fled Siberia." Samorix grunts in understanding, his one eye narrowing as he watches the checkpoint.

"The Cossacks," he grunts, his tone wary and gruff. "They can be a fierce lot, and they don't take kindly to outsiders, especially with the threat of the Turks looming so close to their lands." Oleksandr nods, his lips tight with the same caution. His gaze remains fixed on the checkpoint, his mind calculating.

"I'm not exactly an outsider," he mutters, "but we'll have to be cautious." He draws in a deep breath, his thoughts briefly wandering to the land his late-mother once called home. The land he feels so strangely connected to.

As they near the checkpoint, the silence of the snow-covered woods was shattered by the sharp crackle of boots in the snow. A handful of Cossacks, grim-faced and solid as iron, stepped forward from the shadowed trees, their dark figures blocking the path. Their eyes, cold as the northern wind, turned upon the two travelers, taking measure of them with the quickness and accuracy of predators. Hands rested on the hilts of their sabers, their postures taut and ready for action. The leader of the group, a burly man with a wild, black mustache that seemed to hang from his face like a wolf pelt advanced, his gaze locking on Oleksandr with the steady intensity.

“Hail, strangers,” the Cossack called, his voice carrying the weight of authority, deep and gravelly. “State your business.” His eyes flickered over Oleksandr, studying the tall, powerful figure before him, lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to gauge the warrior's true nature.

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“We come from the former Roman lands,” Oleksandr replied. He spoke with authority, his accent thick but his command of the language precise. His eyes never left the Cossack’s, unwavering as he leaned forward slightly. “We mean to pass through to Estonia.” The Cossack leader’s brow furrowed at the mention of Estonia, and he paused, a flicker of surprise passing over his face. His mustache twitched as he stroked it thoughtfully, his weathered hand rubbing the dark bristles that seemed to have taken root in his face like the forests that surrounded them.

“The Estonian lands, eh?” He grunts, voice low. “What brings you so far?” He then shifted his gaze to Samorix, who sat awkwardly beside Oleksandr.

"I work on a trade mission from Montenegro, under orders of her king."

The Cossack leader nods slowly. “Montenegro?” He repeats, a hint of doubt lacing his tone. “That is your land?” Oleksandr’s lips curl slightly, his gaze steady.

“Aye, it is,” he says firmly. The Cossack’s eyes narrow, searching Oleksandr’s face for any hint of a lie. When none was found, he nodded, though a strange glint of curiosity lingers in his eyes.

“You speak our language well,” he remarks, his tone softer now, impressed but still cautious. Oleksandr’s mouth quirks in a slight grin, the barest flicker of a smile.

“It is my mother tongue.”

The Cossack leader’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his gaze sharpening as recognition flickered in his eyes. "You're from our homeland, then? It's not often we meet one of our own who strays so far from home." There was a slight shift in his posture, a new layer of respect forming. Oleksandr nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the leader’s.

"My mother hails from the land of the Rus. I spent my adulthood in Constantinople." The words felt strange on his tongue, distant, but true nonetheless. He had often thought of the lands of his mother, of the roots he never knew, and the life he had forged so far from those snow-laden plains. The leader absorbed the information quietly as his gaze flickered to his fellow guardsmen, and for a moment, the air was thick with unspoken words. Oleksandr, meanwhile, sat atop his horse with the calm of a man who had learned to trust his instincts. He had seen enough in the eyes of men to know when the tides were shifting, and he could feel the subtle change in the atmosphere.

The Cossack leader motioned sharply for Oleksandr to dismount, his gaze never leaving the Russian’s face. Oleksandr obeyed, his boots sinking into the snow-covered earth as he dropped down from his saddle.

Without warning, the leader reached up and seized Oleksandr’s chin, turning his head left and right, as if he were appraising a prized horse or weapon. Oleksandr’s eyes narrowed slightly at the touch, a flicker of irritation rising within him, but he held his temper in check. His gaze met the leader’s, cold and steady.

"Aye," the Cossack murmured after a moment, his voice gruff with a certain approval. "You are a brother, I see it in your skull." His fingers released Oleksandr’s chin, and he twisted his thick mustache with a grin. He slapped Oleksandr’s shoulder with a heavy hand. "Ivan," he barked to one of his men, "Take a look at this big bastard. See for yourself." The other Cossack, a wiry, broad-shouldered man with an angular face stepped forward, leaning a hand on his kinsman's shoulder. His eyes flicked over Oleksandr’s imposing frame, taking in the warrior’s battle-hardened appearance. Oleksandr stood firm, his eyes hard as stone. Despite the roughness of their greeting, he could feel the shift, the unspoken bond of blood that was slowly forming between him and these men.

"You fought? For the Romans before the fall?" Ivan asks as he looks Oleksandr over, his gaze sharpening. Oleksandr’s expression darkens for a moment, as if the past were a shadow too heavy to shake. Slowly, he nods, his words thick with the weight of lost years.

"Aye," he says, his voice roughened by the burden of memories. "I was a Varangian. Fought for the Empire, until the end." The Cossacks exchange glances, quick, sharp, and laden with meaning. This man isn’t just some wanderer, not some random foreigner passing through their lands. No, he is a warrior, a relic of a legendary force, a man who stood in the heart of history. And that stirs something in the blood of the Cossacks. They are men of war, born of wild lands, but the name of the Varangians still holds power, a mark of fierceness and honor among their kin.

Ivan leans in. "What languages do you speak? Do you write?"

"I speak many. What language are you asking for?"

"Do you know Turkish?"

Oleksandr nods, his brow furrowing. "Aye, I know it well. I'm literate."

The Cossack's face lights up, and they exchange glances again. "Say... How's about we do a bit of a trade?" Oleksandr raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. He glances back at Samorix, muttering a quick translation to catch him up, before turning back.

"What is it you want?"

Ivan grunts, irritation evident in his brow. "Our leader received a letter from the Ottoman Sultan," he explains, his voice laced with annoyance. "But the bastard didn't deign to have it translated into a language we understand. We need someone to speak Turkish to decipher it. We'll feed and house you in exchange. Give you warm clothes for your travels." Oleksandr glances at Samorix, then nods.

"Very well," he agrees. "We accept your offer. Lead the way." Samorix, understanding the gist of the situation now, nods in agreement as well, his face lighting up at the mention of warm clothes and food. The Cossack’s gazes linger on Oleksandr for a moment, their eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and something deeper that suggests a shared kinship.

"I am Ivan," the man says, formerly introducing himself. "I will escort you through our lands." Oleksandr greets him with a curt nod.

"Ivan," he acknowledges, then gestures towards Samorix. "This is Samorix. He's my companion. And I am Oleksandr." As the introductions are made, and they prepare to follow Ivan, Oleksandr casts one last glance back at the Cossack leader. There's a silent moment of shared camaraderie and acknowledgement before they step away, ready for the new turn their journey has taken.

“Safe travels, brothers of the Rus.” The men say as they depart.

Ivan nods towards the road, mounting his own horse, a pipe hanging from his mouth. "This way." Oleksandr and Samorix fall in step with Ivan, following his lead. Samorix, now understanding the situation, whistles a lively tune as they ride, his good spirits lifted by the promise of warm clothes and food. Oleksandr, on the other hand, remains quiet, his mind already working on how he might approach the task of translating the Ottoman letter.

(My illustration: Cossack Checkpoint.image [https://i.imgur.com/fPWheez.jpeg])