The first light of dawn paints the horizon in soft hues of pink and gold as Oleksandr stands on the shore of the Estonian port. The air is crisp, carrying the briny tang of the sea mixed with the pungent stench of the nearby fish market. The port bustles with life, merchants haggling over prices, fishermen hauling in their early morning catch, and sailors shouting orders as they prepare their ships for the day’s voyage.
Amidst the chaos, Oddvarr commands attention. He stands surrounded by his men—broad-shouldered, bearded Vikings clad in leather, wool and fur—overseeing the loading of barrels and crates onto the longboats. Their movements are efficient, the creak of wood and clank of metal punctuating the symphony of port sounds.
The longboats rest on the sand, their prows like carved beasts waiting to spring into the waves. With heaving effort, the men drag the vessels into the water, the surf splashing around their legs as the boats glide forward. They wade out before climbing aboard, taking their places at the oars. Oleksandr watches for a moment before stepping into one of the boats alongside Oddvarr and his men.
Behind him, Ivan and Samorix board, their presence as unassuming as they can manage, though their eyes are ever-watchful. They assist in loading the last of the cargo—barrels, sacks of grain, and a handful of slaves who hadn’t sold at the market, their chains clinking as they shuffle aboard.
The longboats launch into the waves one by one, the oars dipping into the water in a synchronized rhythm that propels them forward. The sea stretches around them in every direction, a vast expanse of indigo that glimmers under the rising sun. A cool breeze ripples across the surface, carrying with it the cries of seagulls and the faint echoes of the bustling port left behind.
The longboats glide through the waves with relative ease, the steady rhythm of the oars splashing against the water creating a hypnotic cadence. Each stroke propels them further into the open sea, where the horizon blurs into a seamless blend of water and sky.
Oleksandr sits stiffly, his sharp gaze drifting over the men surrounding him. They’re a mixed lot: grizzled warriors with scars etched deep into their skin and younger men, barely past boyhood, their eyes wide with determination—or fear—hungry to prove themselves worthy of Oddvarr’s approval. Oddvarr’s commanding presence dominates the boat, his deep voice booming over the sound of the wind and the lapping waves.
"Pull together, you lazy louts!" He bellows, his words carrying across the open water like the bark of a wolf. "We’re not at grandma’s picnic! Row like you mean it! Fight the tide!"
The men respond immediately, their bodies straining as they hasten their efforts. The oars dip and rise in unison, the muscles in their arms and shoulders taut as they work to match the rhythm. The boats surge forward, slicing through the sea with newfound speed, leaving frothy wakes in their path.
Oleksandr feels the tension building in his chest, the weight of what lies ahead pressing against him. He glances back at the two longboats trailing behind, their crews working just as feverishly under Oddvarr’s shouted orders. The vast expanse of water stretches endlessly around them, isolating them in the middle of a vast, uncaring ocean.
"You look like you belong on a longboat." Oleksandr blinks, the sound of Oddvarr’s voice cutting through his thoughts. He straightens up, glancing over at the man, who is grinning in a way that seems more predatory than friendly. The words are casual, but they have an edge, as if Oddvarr is making a subtle observation. His tone is playful, but there’s a hint of something deeper beneath it. The kind of observation that feels less like a compliment and more like a probe, testing the waters.
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Oleksandr doesn’t respond right away, his lips pressed into a thin line. It’s not the first time Oddvarr has made a remark like that. Comments that seem too knowing, too precise, like he’s trying to place Oleksandr in some way that doesn’t quite sit right. He simply nods, a noncommittal grunt escaping his throat, his eyes quickly scanning the horizon as he looks to shift the conversation away from himself.
"Maybe it’s the sea that’s calling to me," Oleksandr replies, keeping his voice low, impassive. He doesn’t give Oddvarr the satisfaction of seeing any unease cross his face. If Oddvarr suspects anything, Oleksandr won’t give him the pleasure of knowing it.
The air is crisp, the saltwater mist spraying across Oleksandr's face as he grips the oar, his muscles flexing with each stroke. Oddvarr's orders cut through the morning wind, his voice booming with command.
"We push oars until we break the Baltic Sea. Then, the sails do the work. Alright, dogs, HEAVE!" The men grunt and strain, the rhythm of the oars pulsing in unison, but Oleksandr’s strokes are effortless, powerful, and steady. His endurance is unmatched. As he drives the oar into the water again and again, his body moves with a fluidity that comes from years of training, his raw strength evident in every pull. His broad shoulders ripple with muscle as the boat glides through the water, carving through the waves as though it’s nothing more than a simple task.
Oddvarr watches him closely, an eyebrow raised. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, curiosity, perhaps something else. It’s not just about the strength. It’s about the way he moves. The way he stands. How effortless it looks, as if he’s done this a thousand times. His gaze flicks to the other men, who are struggling to keep pace with Oleksandr's relentless strength, their faces flushed with effort. But Oleksandr shows no sign of tiring. His breath is steady, his grip firm, and each stroke seems to add to his momentum rather than slow him down.
It doesn’t go unnoticed. One of the younger Vikings, struggling to keep up, glances over at Oleksandr with wide eyes. "Damn," he mutters under his breath, a mixture of awe and resentment in his tone.
"Hold your pace, men!" Oddvarr barks, his eyes narrowing. "If a Rusman can row like a god, so can you!"
After hours of relentless rowing, the tension in the air begins to lift. The wind picks up, and Oddvarr’s voice breaks through the rhythm of the oars. “Seems like you’re made for it,” he comments slyly. Oleksandr merely nods, keeping his focus on the task as the boat begins to pick up speed.
The crew settles into a more comfortable rhythm as the longboats catch the wind, the sails billowing with a satisfying snap. The once laborious motion of the oars is replaced by the gentler, but still persistent, pull of the currents, as they glide farther into the Baltic. The chill in the air becomes more pronounced, and the sea water grows colder with every passing day, its icy touch creeping along the edges of the boats. But with the sailing now in full effect, the men can relax, for the most part, easing into the comfort of the journey.
Oleksandr leans back against the side of the boat, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the cold air stinging his face. He watches the horizon, the endless stretch of water ahead, knowing that they are heading into even more dangerous waters, both literal and metaphorical. There’s something unsettling about this journey, an underlying sense of tension that continues to pull at the edges of his mind.
Days pass like this—quiet, with the occasional commands from Oddvarr to adjust the sails or steer the boat through rougher waters. The crew settles into an unspoken routine. Oleksandr doesn’t speak much, keeping his distance, though his presence is impossible to ignore. He continues to observe Oddvarr and his men, wary of any potential moves they might make, while also noting the subtle way Oddvarr keeps looking at him.
With each passing hour, the chill of the water seems to deepen, but at least the grueling task of rowing has stopped. "We're in the Bothnia now, lads." Oddvarr announces to the three newcomers. "We'll sale along the shoreline for a couple more nights. Then, we go by river. It only gets colder and darker from here."