Oleksandr wakes early the next morning, looking around the inn, and the bed he's in. He slips away from the sleeping wench, gets dressed, and leaves. As he emerges from the inn and makes his way towards the castle stables, he notices the early-morning sky just beginning to lighten. A gentle chill hangs in the air, and the streets are mostly empty. As he reaches the stables, he finds his horse munching happily on some hay, nickering softly as it sees him. He approaches the horse, giving him a gentle pat on the neck.
"Hey, Deago," he says quietly. "Sorry about leaving you here overnight." The horse whuffles and tosses his head slightly, as if forgiving him, then continues to eat his breakfast hay. Deago was a towering war stallion, his jet-black coat gleaming like polished obsidian, covered in scars and muscles that echoed with the weight of a thousand battles. His mane, a wild cascade of ebony, framed a head that was noble yet fierce, with eyes that burned with an untamed spirit, ready to charge into the fray at a moment's notice, yet his eyes were soft for his trusted companion.
As he waits for his horse to get ready, he packs his pipe with his usual blend and then puffs on it, his thoughts drifting back to the dream he had the night before. The dream with Thekkur felt so real, it was almost as if his twin was truly there with him again. He takes another deep draw from the pipe, savoring the tobacco flavor as he holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly.
As Oleksandr muses over the dream, he feels a mixture of emotions. On one hand, the dream was so vivid that it seemed impossible to dismiss it as mere fantasy. On the other hand, he wonders if perhaps he simply conjured the dream out of his own longing and loneliness. He thinks about the bond he shared with his brother, how different it was from anything else he’s ever heard of. They shared some sort of psychic link, the ability to communicate with each other through thoughts alone. Perhaps the link was never broken, and this was Thekkur’s way of proving it; at least that’s what he likes to think, and the thought brings him a sliver of comfort. He finishes his pipe and extinguishes it, still deep in thought.
Oleksandr sets off on his horse, heading west from Transylvania. The journey is long and arduous, but he's accustomed to traveling long distances. He rides day and night, stopping only to rest when absolutely necessary. He passes through valleys, crosses rivers, and makes his way through forests and towns, his focus unwavering as he keeps moving westward.
One late night, during a heavy storm, he stops in a village, and heads for the tavern. He pushes open the tavern door and steps inside, the warm, smoky atmosphere wrapping around him like a comforting blanket. He scans the room, taking in the various patrons and the dimly lit surroundings. The noise in the small tavern dies down slightly as people take note of his presence, hushed whispers and curious gazes following him as he makes his way towards the bar.
“I'll take a bottle of wine, and a room for the night.” The barkeep looks up from cleaning a dirty wine goblet, sizing Oleksandr up.
"Aye, a bottle of wine and a room," he echoes. "That'll be ten coppers." He pulls a bottle of wine from behind the bar and passes it to Oleksandr, who hands over the money. The barkeep jerks his head towards the stairs. "Room's upstairs. Second door on the left.” He nods in thanks before taking the bottle of wine and his pipe to find a seat in a quiet corner of the tavern, away from the rest of the patrons. He opens the bottle and takes a long pull, the familiar burn of the cheap wine washing over his tongue. He lights up his pipe and leans back in his chair, watching the people in the tavern with a quiet, observant eye.
He glances up as he hears the sound of booted feet entering the tavern, and sees a small group of soldiers striding through the door. The men seem to be a mix of mercenaries and local militia, clad in dirty, mismatched armor and carrying weapons at their hips. They make their way to the bar, ordering pitchers of ale and roaring with laughter as they chat amongst themselves. He watches them with a careful eye, noting their rough appearance and rowdy demeanor. They're clearly not all local soldiers, but rather mercenaries or soldiers of fortune.
He notices the two soldiers at the bar furtively glance over in his direction, their quiet conversation punctuated with the occasional nod in his direction. He can't quite make out their words over the noise of the tavern, but he can tell they're talking about him. Oleksandr lets out a low hum, taking another swing of his wine, the warm, heady feeling it gives him dulling the edge of his unease at the soldiers' attention. Straining his ears, he manages to catch: “That's that Varang merc, ain't it?”
His eyes flicker towards the soldiers at the bar again, and he holds his stare, letting them know he's aware of their scrutiny. He takes another swig of the wine from his bottle, setting it down on the table with a slightly heavier thump than intended. The soldiers at the bar notice his stare, but don't seem bothered by it. Instead, one of them, a tall, lean man with a mean gleam in his eye, nods his head in greeting.
"Aye there, Varangian," he calls out, his tone almost taunting. "You look like you could use some company.” He glances towards the soldier, noting the hint of mockery in his tone. He considers for a moment staying silent, but the wine and tobacco in his system are making him a bit more bold than usual. He lifts his pipe, taking a leisurely pull on it before responding.
"I'm fine on my own." A few more soldiers, emboldened by their companion's confidence, saunter over to his table. They approach with a confident swagger, but there's no obvious hostility in their demeanor. Instead, they seem more curious and arrogant, glancing at him with appraising gazes.
"Come on, Varangian," the lean soldier goads as his comrades gather around the table. "Don't be shy. We just want to get acquainted with the most famous brute of the North.” Oleksandr's expression stays static as he stirs the embers of his pipe.
"What, you want me to sign your sword or something?" He jokes dryly. The soldiers exchange amused glances at his response, and the wiry leader chuckles, leaning against the table.
"No, not quite," he says. "We just wanted to get a look at the legendary Varangian up close. See if you're really as fearsome as they say.” Oleksandr takes another pull on his pipe, the smoke swirling around him like a wispy veil.
"And what do you think?" He asks, his voice almost mocking, motioning over himself. "Am I fearsome enough for you?” The soldiers chuckle again, more out of bravado than anything else.
"Oh, you're certainly fearsome enough," the leader mutters. "I've never seen anyone as big as you. But they say you Varangians are more bark than bite.”
"I assure you, I'm all bite, no bark." A few of the soldiers let out another round of chuckles, amused by his dry humor. The wiry leader grins, crossing his arms over his chest.
"That may be true, Varangian," he says, "but we've got you outnumbered right now. You wouldn't be feeling quite as brave if it was just you against us, would you?”
"I'd prefer not to slap around a bunch of ladies." Oleksandr responds, taking a swig from his bottle of wine. The soldiers let out a hearty laugh, a few of them slapping the table in amusement. The wiry leader grins widely, clearly enjoying the banter.
"You've got some sharp wit, Varang," he says. "But I don't think your jokes will save you if we decide we want a fight.” Oleksandr looks up at him, his blue eyes locking on his, his face blank.
"And? Do you want a fight?" The soldiers' laughter and grins falter as they see the cold, unblinking gaze of the former Varangian. Oleksandr's face remains expressionless, but there is a certain steely determination in his eyes, a test. The wiry leader swallows, the arrogance in his expression faltering for a moment before he regains his composure.
"Now now, no need to get testy," he mutters. "We're just here to have a drink and chat a bit, that's all.”
"That's what I thought," he says, breaking his gaze, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "What's the news out there, hm? Where do the Ottomans have their sights set?" The soldiers exchange glances, the bravado in their demeanor slightly dissipated. They clearly weren't expecting Oleksandr to be so direct and unflinching. The wiry leader clears his throat, scratching his chin.
"Well, the Ottomans have been making moves in the east, towards Moldavia and Wallachia," he replies. "They seem to be gathering forces there. I also heard rumors about a planned attack on Hungary.” Oleksandr listens intensely before a younger soldier from the back of the group speaks up, pushing his way into view.
"You're the flaxen one, right?" Oleksandr sizes him up, taking in his youthful, zealous expression. He leans back in his chair, nodding at the question. "Is it true what they say about you?" Oleksandr cocks an eyebrow at the question, regarding the young man with a mildly amused expression.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"What do they say about me?" He asks, his voice low and gravelly. The younger soldier swallows, looking slightly nervous but still determined.
"They say you're a savage warrior, unmatched in battle. They say you take on whole battalions by yourself. They say... they say you're invincible.” Oleksandr's expression remains stoic as he listens to the soldier's description, the only hint of amusement the slight twitch of his lip. He takes a slow pull from his pipe, letting the thick smoke billow around him. He looks like some kind of war god, sitting there in the dim light, his blue eyes so pale they nearly glow.
"Is that so?" He hums, his lip twisting in a cunning grin. The young soldier nods vigorously, his eyes wide with awe.
"They say you fight like a demon. That you take on all comers. They say you never lose a fight, and that no man can best you in a duel.”
"And what do you think, boy? Are the tales true?" The young soldier pauses, thinking for a moment.
"I don't know," he mutters hesitantly, "but... I've seen you in battle, once. I've seen you fight. The tales are true. You're fearless. Like a machine that just... keeps going. No one beats you.”
"Hm. Interesting."
The soldiers exchange glances, watching as Oleksandr leans back in his chair, his expression inscrutable. The young soldier seems slightly emboldened, his courage growing. "But they also say strange things about you," he says, his voice slightly quieter now, as if he's saying something taboo. Oleksandr raises his brow.
"Oh? And what sorts of strange things have I been up to?" The young soldier hesitates, his eyes darting about as if he's nervous about what he's about to say.
"They say... They say you're not human," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "They say you have supernatural strength. That you move faster than a speeding arrow. They say you can see in the dark, and that your eyes glow when you're angry. You're like a beast, some kind of... unholy creature." Oleksandr can't help but burst out in a hearty laugh at the kid's words, his gap-tooth grin a stark contrast to his otherwise statuesque demeanor.
"An unholy creature? That's new. I hope the Turks hear about this one." The soldiers all chuckle at Oleksandr's hearty laugh as he grins, his gap-toothed smile infectious, breaking through his stoicism. The young soldier looks slightly cowed, but also a bit perplexed. The wiry leader claps the young soldier on the shoulder, shaking his head with a smirk. "Don't worry about it, kid. It's just stories and rumors that men tell around the fire to scare themselves," he mutters.
"I also heard that you were going on a crusade since they dug up your-" The soldier next to the young mercenary elbows him, a silent gesture to get him to shut up. The rest of the soldiers' expressions become suddenly grave, and the young soldier looks like he's just realized he's said too much. The wiry leader clears his throat, shooting a glare at the young soldier. "That's... enough, kid," he mutters, his tone sharp and slightly wary. Oleksandr leans in, his curiosity peaking.
"Dug up what?" The soldiers exchange nervous glances with each other, seeming reluctant to continue the topic. The wiry leader looks slightly wary and glances at the young soldier, who looks sheepish. Finally, the leader clears his throat, his voice lowered, his eyes betraying a hint of sympathy, realizing this rumor preceded the legendary fighter.
"They... they say they dug up your brother's grave," he murmurs. Oleksandr freezes, staring at the soldier, his mind struggling to process his words. The table falls silent, the tension so thick, they could almost taste it. The soldiers all watch as Oleksandr's expression remains blank, his face betraying no emotion, but the way his eyes harden is enough to reveal the turbulence beneath this cold exterior. The young soldier looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up, realizing he's revealed something better left unsaid.
"...What?"
The leader's expression looks slightly pained as he's realizing that this is a conversation he probably shouldn't have gotten involved in. "Rumor has it that the Turks dug up your brother's grave," he repeats hoarsely, "they say it was to dig the bones up, to make talismans of bravery or something of the like." Oleksandr's fist clenches and unclenches slowly on the table, his eyes hard and unblinking.
"Where… did they take him?" He asks, his voice deadly calm. The room hangs thick with tension, the soldiers watching Oleksandr with a mixture of trepidation and respect. The wiry leader looks slightly wary as he responds.
"They say they took the body to Istanbul, as a trophy," he mutters, his voice gruff but respectful. Oleksandr makes a slow blink, looking away from the soldiers, staring into the flame of the candle on his table, oddly calm. After a long, painfully awkward silence, the soldiers disperse, murmuring a condolence before leaving Oleksandr alone. But he doesn't hear it. He doesn't hear a thing. He stares at the flame of the candle, unblinking, his hand clenching and unclenching.
For a long while, Oleksandr just sat there, staring into the flame, his mind locked in a state of quiet fury. He barely breathes, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip on the edge of the table. Everything around him fades away, leaving only silence, the flame dancing in the reflection of his eyes, its flickering tongues casting shadows on his face. To anyone watching, he was a statue-still, silent, expressionless. But inside… inside there was nothing but chaos.
Thekkur. His bones. His grave… desecrated. The words echoed like the tolling of a death bell, each strike driving deeper into the molten core of his being. Talismans. They were making talismans from his brother's remains.
He could almost see them now, those filthy, leering faces, hands grasping, plundering the earth, disturbing what should have been sacred ground. Oleksandr's mind spun, a vortex of memories, love, and rage, all blurring together. His brother's laughter echoed in the corners of his mind, a sound once pure, now twisted and malformed by the knowledge of what they had done. How dare they? How dare they? Thekkur, his other half, the one he shared a womb with, the one he was born with, the one who had fought beside him, who had bled with him, who had been more than a brother…
He was everything. Everything.
And now, even in death, they could not let him rest.
Talismans.
The word seared itself into his thoughts. They were using Thekkur's bones for talismans. The savages. The animals. No- no, animals had more honor. These were monsters in human skin, fiends that deserved nothing but oblivion. His fists clenched, knuckles cracking under the pressure, but he did not feel it. The pain was distant, insignificant compared to the inferno within him. Inside, it was madness. His thoughts crashed against each other, wild, uncontrolled. Thekkur. His brother.
His brother.
Torn from the earth like nothing. Torn apart to be worn, used, mocked. They were making talismans, charms from his bones. His bones. THEKKUR'S BONES. Thekkur's bones. The thought alone was enough to split him in two. One half wanted to scream, to rage, to tear the world apart with his bare hands until nothing remained but ash and blood. The other half was ice, cold, unyielding, ready to stalk his prey with the precision of a killer, until the last of those responsible lay dead, until they paid a price so steep it would echo through the ages.
Oleksandr's mind flashed to the night Thekkur died. He remembered the feel of his brother's warm blood on his hands, slick like oil, the sound of his breath faltering, his eyes dimming.
That loss had gutted him, left a wound so deep no time could heal it. But this... this was something else. This was a wound torn open again, but now it was salted, burned, and gouged until there was nothing left but raw, pulsing agony. The fire crackled. In its heart, he saw faces. Their faces. The ones who dared, the ones who dared to dig up Thekkur's grave, to steal his bones. To defile what little remained of his brother. He could see them, their sneers, their triumph. He saw them clutching their talismans, those wretched charms made from the bones of a warrior who deserved better. Much better. Their hands were covered in blood. His brother's blood. They were dead. They were already dead. They just didn't know it yet. Oleksandr would make sure of it. The rage was too much. It was too vast, too consuming. He felt it build, like a storm behind his eyes, thundering. crashing, screaming to be let loose. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not here. He had to keep it in. For now. For just a little longer.
The fire burned on, but to him, it was nothing but a faint glow, a weak imitation of what roared inside him. His breath came slower, his chest heaving under the weight of the emotions that threatened to tear him apart. But he would not break. He would never break. This pain, this fury-- it would fuel him, sharpen him, make him more lethal than ever before. Those fools. They did this to taunt him, to break his spirit further. Those fools. They dug their own grave when they defiled Thekkur’s. Those wretched fools. He would avenge Thekkur. He would honor his brother in the only way left to him: by making those who defiled his memory regret they were ever born. They would burn. First in his hands, then in the world over. They would burn.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Silence hung heavy around him, but inside, the hellfire raged on, hotter and more violent with each passing moment. And through it all, one truth remained, burned into his soul, into his very essence: They will burn.
Oleksandr rises from his seat, his calm demeanor numb as ever, his body tense, his muscles coiled like a snake ready to strike as he leaves the tavern. He looks like a man possessed, single-minded and utterly focused. His step is determined, a steady, almost mechanical gait.
Thekkur's bones.
He moves through the streets silently, finding his horse. He mounts the horse, his expression hard and cold, his mind racing. He gives his stallion a firm nudge with his spurs, and he breaks into a gallop. Oleksandr vanishes into the night at a punishing pace, driven by the madness inside. The storm has now cleared, but there is another one, burning inside of him. Rage and hatred burn within him, a storm of wrath and anguish.
Burn. Burn. Burn.
Deago responds to his silent command, galloping through the night, his hooves beating an angry rhythm in time with the pounding of Oleksandr's heart.