After hours of travel through the birch forests and vast plains, the silhouette of a large town begins to take shape on the horizon. Oleksandr squints into the distance, his sharp eyes measuring the size and life of the settlement ahead. He turns to Ivan, raising an eyebrow.
"Is that where we're heading?"
Ivan grins, his eyes twinkling with pride as he looks toward the town. "Yes, it is. This is our home. Beauty, ain't she?" Oleksandr’s gaze lingers on the town, taking in the sight of its stout walls and the steady movement of people around its gates.
"Aye," he grunts, nodding slowly. "Larger than I expected."
Samorix, still munching on a piece of fish jerky, lets out a muffled chuckle. "And warmer than these blasted plains, I hope."
As they draw closer to the settlement, the massive log gates, thick and weather-worn from years of use, creak open, revealing the village within. Oleksandr studies the gates as they swing wide, noting the craftsmanship in the solid wood, intricately carved with ethnic patterns, reinforced by thick iron bands. It’s a stronghold, built for defense against more than just the harsh elements of the land.
Oleksandr rides alongside Samorix and Ivan, the hooves of their horses thudding steadily across the dirt as they approach the entrance. His eyes flicker over the bustling activity in the village beyond the gates, his curiosity growing. As they ride deeper into the village, Oleksandr feels the eyes of the villagers on him, their gazes heavy and probing. He can hear their whispers—low and furtive—as they point and murmur amongst themselves. Words like “Northmen,” “Roos,” and “Varang” drift on the wind. He feels the weight of their stares, sharp and curious, a stark reminder of how out of place he and Samorix truly are here. The villagers’ eyes flick between the three men, assessing them with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue.
Oleksandr exchanges a quick glance with Samorix, and though neither man speaks, their silent understanding is immediate. Samorix’s lips curl in a thin, knowing smile, but the weight of the situation is not lost on either of them. They are strangers in a foreign land, and every eye upon them reminds them of that fact.
The town, Oleksandr observes, appears to be fairly prosperous. The streets are bustling with people going about their daily routines, with shops and buildings lining the cobblestoned pathways. He's keenly aware of the curious stares they attract, particularly the women's gazes lingering on his burly stature and bronzed complexion. The atmosphere, however, doesn't seem overtly hostile; it's simply unfamiliarity mixed with curiosity.
"You are far west for Cossacks." Oleksandr comments. Ivan grunts in agreement, a touch of irony in his voice.
"Aye," he admits, "We've roamed quite a distance since the Tatar invasions. Those Turks made it impossible for us to return home." Ivan's gaze lingers on Oleksandr's form, taking in the scars and tattoos that cover the younger man's arms and face. "The life of a warrior's left its mark on you," he murmurs, his tone carrying a note of understanding. "As it has on many, including myself." He taps his own chest, where a prominent scar mars his skin. "But it's the mark our homeland has left on our hearts that truly defines us. And yours, however mixed, still beats with the blood of the Rus."
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Oleksandr glances over at Ivan. “Mixed?” Ivan puffs on his pipe, letting out a ring of smoke. He nods, his eyes studying Oleksandr’s features.
“Aye,” he responds. “You’re a mix-breed, I can tell. Your manner, your bearing… You’ve spent considerable time away from our lands.” He pauses, narrowing his gaze. “Your speech bears hints of the Empire, of the far east as well. But there's something else I can't place, in your face.”
Oleksandr straightens up a bit, adjusting himself in his saddle. “Well… Truth be told, I don’t know where my mother reigns from. I never met her. She was- well, I know she was Rus. She was taken, kidnapped by Northmen from her village, and was made a hostage by them. That’s how we were conceived. We were born in Siberia, as slaves.” Ivan whistles between his teeth, the pipe clutched tightly in his jaws. However, to Oleksandr’s relief, there's no pity in the man’s gaze, only a grim recognition of destiny’s harsh hand. He nods slowly, grasping the enormity of the man’s statement.
“Aye,” he mutters. “That explains much. It’s a tale full of irony. You are the bastard son of a Rus and a Northman. God has played a dark jest with your fate.”
“Tell me about it. But I recognize these woods. I have dreamt of my mother, I have seen these forests when I sleep. I feel… connected to the land.”
Ivan looks thoughtfully at Oleksandr. “That bond, that connection you have… That’s something few can understand. It’s in your blood, in your dreams… In that part of you that keeps coming back here, to these lands. You may have the blood of a Northman flowing in your veins, but your soul, deep down, is Rus. Your mother’s spirit calls to you from the land. She’s a part of you. You cannot escape that, no matter how far you roam.”
Oleksandr nods silently, looking sidelong at Ivan, his heart thumping a little faster. His whole life, he's never fit in anywhere. He was born a Rus slave among a tribe, far from his ancestral lands, never knowing his roots or his family. He's traveled the world as a nomad, taking aspects of every culture that has influenced him, picking up languages and weapons and philosophies. He often feels like a jack-of-all-cultures, but a kinsman of none, and he appreciates the validation of his Rus blood.
Ivan continues. "Even Europe itself isn’t our original homeland, we came in and slaughtered those living there before us and made it ours. The same goes for any place in which we touch. Wherever our people travel, the blood we shed fertilizes the soil for our children and our God follows us. Blood is the life and essence that ties us to our ancestors and our people. So long as our blood prevails, the soil in which we reside becomes ours through struggle and sacrifice.” A silent understanding passes between them. In the midst of their different cultures, they're bound by the same warrior spirit and a conqueror’s blood that runs in their veins.
The three men ride in silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. The bustling sounds of the town fade into the background, and Oleksandr feels the weight of his own journey and the weight of his own past. The camaraderie with this Cossack is unexpected, a brief and comforting reprieve from the loneliness of his life as a vagabond.
Ivan notices the silent approval in Oleksandr's expression, a subtle hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You're a quiet one, Rusman. I like that. It's easier to respect a man who speaks with his sword before his mouth." He jerks his head towards a large longhouse, a hint of warmth in his gaze. "I'll take you and your Gael companion to our dwelling. You can rest up, tend to your wounds, and get a taste of our womenfolk's cooking."
"Aye," he replies gruffly, "That sounds far better than the cold ground and dried fish we've been living on for the past two months. And this one's stomach's the size of an ox." He nods towards Samorix, who flashes Ivan a cheeky grin in response.
(My Illustration: Cossack)
image [https://i.imgur.com/YBeujtJ.jpeg]