The thought of his final task presses heavily upon him as he walks silently down the dirt path towards the city. He knows what he must do, and he prepares himself for the inevitable pain of it. After a couple days of walking, the city walls come into view, his steps become heavier, his mind consumed with the task ahead.

Once again, he sticks to the shadows and rooftops. He breaks into the deserted Varangian barracks, and goes to their old room. The room is still as he left it, his brother's belongings still neatly arranged on the desk and bookshelf. He looks at the notebooks, running his fingers over the pages, tracing the lines of his brother's familiar handwriting. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing his brother's practiced handwriting get better throughout the years, and some of his doodles. He sees the progression from the awkward scrawl of his illiteracy to the more refined, practiced writing from their education. He sees the drawings, crude at first, but gradually improving to something more artistic and skilled. He drew horses, insects, weapons and armor, and Amalthea.

He digs through Thekkur's old pack, as his was abandoned on Athos and he's been without a tunic for over two weeks now. He slips on his brother's spare tunic, feeling the rough fabric and the familiar texture against his skin. He then finds an old cloak in Samorix's quarters, and puts it on, feeling the woolen cloth warm and comforting on his shoulders. He looks down at himself, wearing his brother's clothing, and a profound sense of grief washes over him. He searches the room, his eyes finally falling upon the small sachet that contains the engagement ring his brother bought. He picks it up carefully, his fingers tracing the delicate stitching. He clutches the ring in his fist, feeling the weight of his brother's final purchase in his hand.

He spends the rest of the day sneaking through the city, avoiding the Ottoman occupation like a ghost. He makes his way to the western ports, trying to hunch his back with his hood on to appear inconspicuous. He pays off a fisherman, a hefty sum of his own money, to take him back to Mount Athos. The fisherman looks at the money, then at Oleksandr, and nods in agreement.

He travels for days until they arrive at Mount Athos, and he hops off the boat, his heart beating in his chest. He goes around the mountain, back to the terraces and stairs where Thekkur was slain. He looks around, and finds the exact place he was impaled with the spear, but his brother's body is long gone. He stands there for a moment, staring at the place where his brother died, his grief and guilt washing over him like a wave. He races back up to the monasteries above. He stops the first monk he sees, his voice urgent but respectful.

"Two weeks ago, a man was slain here, defending the mountain from invaders." The monk looks at him, his expression solemn and grave.

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"Yes, we remember," he says, his voice soft and respectful. "A brave son of Rome, who laid down his life to defend our monastery." The monk pauses, looking him over. "You look just like him." Oleksandr tenses.

"Where is he...?" The monk looks at him with a soft, mournful expression.

"His body was buried in the north cemetery, up behind the monastery. But his spirit... His spirit is surely with God now." The monk speaks quietly and respectfully, his voice filled with a sense of spirituality and reverence. Oleksandr looks down and touches his forehead in respect.

"Take me to him."

The monk leads Oleksandr up a winding path that leads past the monastery, towards the north cemetery, the air heavy with the weight of their steps. The wind whistles softly, and the tall trees around them creak and sway. As they reach the cemetery, the monk pauses, his voice soft and respectful.

"This is where he was laid to rest," he says, gesturing to a simple, marked grave. Oleksandr slowly approaches the grave, his eyes never leaving it. He kneels down, and touches the wooden cross, marked simply with ‘Varangian.’

"His name was Thekkur."

The monk stands back, his expression solemn and respectful.

"A brave Varangian, who gave his life to defend our monastery." The monk says quietly, his voice heavy with meaning. Oleksandr pulls out his dagger, and carves his brother's name into the cross in their native tongue, his face stoic but his eyes heavy with grief. The letters are crisp and clean, the name standing out starkly on the otherwise plain surface.

“He was a hero. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." The monk professes, bowing his head respectfully before wandering off to give Oleksandr a moment alone.

Oleksandr kneels at the grave, his gaze never leaving the freshly carved name. He feels the rough grain of the wood under his fingers, and the cool touch of the freshly dug earth beneath it. Oleksandr kisses the cross and gently pats the fresh dirt down, tidying it up.

"Wait for me, little brother." He whispers, his voice soft and grief-stricken. He rises to his feet, taking his sword in hand. He looks to the heavens, his expression serious and his sword held high.

"Our father, who art in heaven," he says, his voice strong and steady. "Allow me to show you the strength of your creation."

He re-sheaths his sword, the sound echoing softly through the cemetery. He stands there for a moment, then casts one last glance at the grave, before turning and walking towards the north. He feels a sense of loss and despair, but also a sense of resolve. He knows the nomad life well, yet this time it will be different, this time he will travel without his brother by his side.

To be continued…