Meet Me in Montenegro

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a blood-red hue over the battlefield as the Voivode led his men into the open, his banner fluttering defiantly in the wind. The Ottoman force, nearly twice their number, advanced with grim determination, confident in their strength. Dust rose from the earth, kicked up by thousands of marching feet and galloping horses, the air thick with the tension of the impending clash. Vlad's troops held their ground, forming a tight line, shields raised and spears bristling, the rows of cavalry behind them, ready to make a move. The Turks, eager to crush them, quickened their pace, the ground trembling beneath the weight of their charge. Arrows whistled through the air, darkening the sky as they rained down on the Wallachian ranks. But Vlad's men stood firm, the arrows clattering harmlessly off their shields. The Ottomans closed in, their front ranks roaring with the thrill of anticipated victory, unaware of the trap that awaited them. Then, with a thunderous crash, the two armies met. A clash of steel rang out as swords hacked and spears thrust. Vlad was at the forefront, his sword a blur of lethal precision as he cut down the enemy with cold fury, his presence driving his men to fight with ferocious resolve. The Ottomans pressed forward, sensing weakness, but Vlad's troops held their line, drawing the enemy further into the trap.

Suddenly, from the rear, a new sound rose above the din of battle: the pounding of hooves.

Oleksandr and his cavalry burst from the tree line, their charge swift as death. Behind them, the archers released a volley of arrows that struck the Ottomans from behind, sowing chaos in their ranks. Panic rippled through the Turkish forces as they realized they were surrounded. Confusion spread like wildfire, their disciplined lines breaking as they turned to face the unexpected threat. Oleksandr led the cavalry with brutal efficiency, his blade cutting through the enemy like a scythe through wheat. The Ottoman rear, caught completely off guard, crumbled under the onslaught. Horses trampled fleeing soldiers, and the archers picked off those who tried to regroup. The once-confident Turkish force was now in disarray, trapped between Vlad's unyielding front line and Oleksandr's merciless rear attack. Vlad saw the moment of weakness and seized it. With a roar, he ordered his men to advance, pushing forward with renewed vigor. The Ottoman center buckled under the combined assault, their ranks collapsing as fear took hold. What had begun as a confident march to victory had turned into a desperate fight for survival.

In the chaos, the Turkish commander was struck down, and with his death, the Ottoman resistance shattered. Those who could, fled, their retreat a panicked rout as they were pursued by Vlad's relentless warriors. The battlefield, once alive with the noise of combat, fell eerily silent, save for the cries of the wounded and the cawing of circling crows. Vlad and Oleksandr met in the aftermath, their forces victorious. The Turks had underestimated their enemy, and it had cost them dearly. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the field was littered with the bodies of the fallen, a grim testament to the power of cunning strategy and unyielding resolve. Vlad rode amidst the carnage, his armor stained with blood and sweat. The battlefield was now silent, save for the moans of the wounded and the occasional cries of the dying. Vladimir dismounts his horse, and calls out to his spear bearers to finish off the remaining soldiers ‘their way.’ As his soldiers set about the gruesome task, Vlad approached Oleksandr, an admiring gleam in his eyes.

"You fight like the horseman of war himself, my friend. I have never seen anything quite like it. The way you cut through those Turkish rabble..." He shook his head in awe. "I see why they call you a reaper." Oleksandr shrugged, wiping his blade clean.

"I am a simple man with a skill for war. But I cannot take all the credit. Your army fought as fiercely as any I have seen. And your strategy was admirable. You predicted the Turks' every move and caught them off guard. I can see your hate for them, as I share it."

"My hatred for the Turks runs deep," Vlad said, his voice hard as iron. "They have wronged me and my people for far too long. They have stolen our lands, killed our families, and sought to crush our very spirit. But we will not let them win. Not now, not ever. I will fight them with every breath and every drop of blood in my body, if that is what it takes to drive them from our lands.”

Vladimir watches as Oleksandr wipes his blade down absent-mindedly, staring almost lost in thought, watching one of the Romanian soldiers drive a spear through the stomach of a fallen Turk.

"You carry an Albanian sword." Vladimir observes, interrupting Oleksandr's thoughts.

"Ah, that." Oleksandr tears his gaze from the spear and glances down at the weapon in his hand, its curved blade gleaming in the dim light. "Yes. It was a gift from an Albanian warrior I fought alongside in the past." He holds the sword up, studying its craftsmanship. "I have never found another weapon quite like it. It is light, but strong. Sharp, but nimble. It has saved my life more times than I can count.” Vlad nods, admiring the weapon.

"A fine blade, no doubt. A man's weapon. You have chosen well." He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. "Tell me, Oleksandr. Why did the Albanians give you such a powerful weapon? It seems a great gift to bestow upon a foreigner.” Oleksandr sheathes the sword, his gaze fixed on Vlad.

"I once saved the life of an Albanian warlord from a group of Turkish assassins. As a token of his thanks and friendship, he gave me this weapon. He said that it had been passed down through his family for generations, from his ancestors who fought against the Ottomans long ago. Perhaps you've heard of him. His name is Iskander, but he's commonly known as Skanderbeg." Vlad's eyes widen as he recognizes the name, a look of recognition flickering across his face.

"Skanderbeg… The Lion of Albania. Yes, I've heard his name before, he is an ally of mine, though we have never formally met. A legendary fighter. You fought alongside him?”

"Aye, that I have." Vlad is speechless for a moment, visibly impressed by Oleksandr's exploits.

“That is no small feat. I have no doubt the knowledge and experience you gained in battle has served you well." He clasps his hand on Oleksandr's shoulder, his grip firm but friendly. "It seems I have underestimated you, Flaxen Reaper. You are more than just a mercenary." He then mounts his horse, and looks at Oleksandr questioningly. "What now? Will you join us back in my castle, or will you carry on?” Oleksandr stands there for a moment, considering his options. Then, with a shrug, he mounts his own horse.

"If you'll have me, I'll join you back at your castle. I must say, your hospitality far exceeds that of the other lords I've served.”

"Excellent. I will hold a great feast for you and my soldiers. They are all heros in their own right." Oleksandr nods in approval.

"A feast is well deserved after a victory like this. Your men fought bravely. They deserve to celebrate their hard-won triumph." He glances out at the chaotic aftermath of the battlefield, the sight of soldiers gathering the dead and tending to the injured. "Your soldiers are loyal and disciplined. You have done well in training them, Vlad.”

The two men ride with the army down the long path back to the castle during the first light of day.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," Vladimir says. "My niece, she just came of age." Oleksandr lifts an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Oh? You have a niece? And just come of age, you say?" He glances sidelong at Vlad, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And pray tell, what is the little princess like?” Vlad chuckles softly, amused by Oleksandr's interest.

"My niece… Well, she is a strong-willed young woman. Intelligent, beautiful, and fierce like her uncle and mother. She has a sharp tongue and an even sharper wit." He looks over at Oleksandr, a hint of pride in his eyes. "You will find her to be quite the spirited young lady, I assure you.” Oleksandr glances at him quizzically, his curiosity piqued, a smirk on his lips.

"What have you planned, Voivode? Do you wish me to court her?” Vlad grins wider, clearly enjoying the playful banter.

"Oh, court her? That's a tall order, Flaxen Reaper. My niece is no easy conquest." He chuckles softly, "but yes, I suppose that is my intention. I would like to see her wed, and I believe you might make a suitable match.” Oleksandr smirks and returns his gaze to the path.

"I'm humbled by the offer, I really am, but I'm in no position to be tied down at the moment." Vlad's smile falters for a moment, his expression turning more serious.

"Ah, I see." He rides in silence for a moment, mulling over Oleksandr's words. "I understand. You are a mercenary, free to go where you please. A man like you cannot be tied down by a wife and family. Is that it?”

"That's right. I am a wanderer, a warrior without a cause beyond my enemy's destruction. When I finish a battle, I move on to the next one, wherever God leads me, wherever the fight may be. I have no time to form ties to any land or person. All I have is my sword and my wits, and that is enough for me." Vlad nods, a contemplative expression on his face.

"I see. You are a man who craves the thrill of battle above all else. A man who cannot be tied down by attachments or responsibility." He gazes out at the path ahead, the landscape growing more familiar as they draw closer to the castle. "It is a lonely existence, do you not think?” Oleksandr shrugs, unperturbed by the Voivode's words.

"Perhaps, but it is the only existence I know. I have lived this way since I was but a boy. I have no desire for a normal life, nor do I think I would adapt well to it." He spurs his horse on, keeping pace with Vlad. "Besides, a man in my line of work cannot afford attachments. They are a liability, a weakness to be exploited by my enemies. I am better off alone. All love has brought me is pain in this life.” Vlad's expression softens, a hint of understanding in his eyes.

"I see." He gazes out at the horizon, his thoughts turning somber. "Love can indeed bring great pain. It has brought me much grief as well. But it has also brought me great joy. And I cannot deny the comfort of having someone to share your life with, to lean on in times of hardship." He glances over at Oleksandr, his voice low. "Have you never cared for anyone in your entire life, Oleksandr? Even once?” Oleksandr focuses on the horizon, his gaze distant.

"Aye, I have."

"Ah. Then you do know the pain of loving someone, and losing them." He lets out a deep sigh, his own memories stirring. "Loss is inevitable in this world. We will all experience it sooner or later. But the scars remain, do they not?”

"Aye, scars that seem to not fade with time. The heart can only bear so many wounds before it becomes calloused." Vlad nods in somber agreement.

"I know that feeling well. One can only bear so much pain before it becomes too much. And yet, life goes on. We must face each new day, even with our battered hearts and weary souls. We all have a cross the bear." He glances over at Oleksandr, his expression filled with a mixture of understanding and sadness. "But is it not better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all?” Oleksandr's eyes flicker with a hint of some deep, hidden agony. But his voice remains steady and cold, not revealing the pain that simmers just beneath the surface.

"You speak as if love is a gift. Perhaps it is for some. But for me, it has only brought torment." He swallows, his jaw clenching. "No, it is better to be alone. No ties, no obligations, no pain. Just the freedom to fight and wander as I please. I can handle many things, I know the strength I bear. I know my limits." Vlad regards Oleksandr shrewdly. He can sense the underlying pain in the mercenary's stoic demeanor, the deep-rooted anguish that lies hidden beneath the hardened surface. He decides to press further, his voice soft but firm.

"I wonder, Flaxen Reaper… What is it that makes you so afraid of love? Why do you push it away, as if it is a poison to be avoided at all cost?” The corner of Oleksandr's lip tenses up in mild annoyance.

"I am not afraid of love. I simply have no use for it. It is a weakness, a liability. A man in my line of work cannot afford to be shackled by such things." He glances sidelong at Vlad, his eyes narrowed. "Why do you press me so? What is it you hope to gain by this line of questioning?” Vlad meets Oleksandr's gaze, his expression calm and resolute.

"I want to understand you, Sasha. You are a man shrouded in mystery, a lone wolf roaming the path of battle. But beneath that tough exterior, there is more to you than meets the eye. I can see it in your eyes. There is pain there, deep and raw. And I do not believe it is solely because of your life as a mercenary." He glances forward, his voice low. "You have lost someone, haven’t you? Someone close to you.” Oleksandr is quiet for a moment before responding.

"Yes. Ages ago, it seems."

"I see. And this loss has colored your view on love, made you close your heart to the very idea of it. You fear that loving someone means opening yourself up to more heartache and loss." He pauses for a moment, his eyes filled with understanding. "But love, true love, can also bring great strength and solace. It can help to mend your broken soul and ease the burden of loneliness.” Oleksandr turns to look at him, his eyes hardening slightly.

"And what would you know of it, Voivode? You speak as if love is a panacea, a cure-all for all our ills. But the world is not so kind. Love is fleeting, ephemeral. Like a blade of grass caught in the wind, here today and gone tomorrow. I had a great love, and I lost it. It cannot be replaced, and I accept my fate.”

"You are right, love is not a cure-all. Love is indeed a complicated, messy thing. It brings with it as much pain as it does joy. But that does not mean it should be shunned. Love is a part of what makes us human. Without it, we are mere shadows, empty vessels, wandering through life in endless gloom. I have lost many things. But I have never shunned love. Even in my darkest moments, I have always believed in the purity of love.”

"Then that is what makes you and I different. I am not afraid to say that I am a shadow."

"You are indeed a shadow, a lone wolf prowling the shadows, always on the move, never resting, never settling." He pauses for a moment, then speaks in a softer voice. "But even shadows need the light to exist. And even lone wolves crave a pack to run with.” Oleksandr says nothing, pondering the Voivode's words.

A day of travel passes, and they arrive back at the castle. Oleksandr dismounts his horse, muscles sore from the battle and long ride that followed, and stretches his weary limbs. As he looks around, he sees soldiers everywhere, unloading supplies and preparing for the night ahead. Vlad dismounts beside Oleksandr, a tired sigh escaping his lips.

"Ah, we're back. It's been a long ride."A few soldiers glance at them as they pass, and a few nod respectfully to the Voivode, acknowledging his presence. Vlad turns to Oleksandr, clapping him on the back. "You must be tired. Head inside, you'll find a warm bed to rest in.” He whistles a servant over. The young servant approaches, a nervous smile on his face.

"Please sir, follow me," he says to Oleksandr. He leads Oleksandr through the castle's halls, up a grand staircase and down a long corridor until they reach a chamber. "Here you are, sir," the servant says, "please make yourself comfortable and rest before the feast.” Oleksandr nods in gratitude to the young servant, his eyes scanning the lavish room. He takes in the comfortable bed, the crackling fireplace, and the small table with a washbasin and some wine. Feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over him, he steps into the chamber and allows himself a moment's respite before the upcoming feast. He shuts the door and stands in the middle of the room, looking around at the opulent surroundings with a sense of disconnect. He's used to roughing it, living on the move and sleeping under the open sky. The soft bed and lush furniture almost seems foreign to him, and he feels like an outsider in this luxurious chamber. But exhaustion sets in quickly, and he's suddenly reminded of the long journey and the battles he recently fought. With a weary sigh, he approaches the bed and lets himself sink into its soft embrace, the comfort almost foreign but welcoming nonetheless.

As Oleksandr lies on the bed, he glances to his side, an old habit he's never been able to break. It's a natural reflex, a familiar action that comes as second nature to him. He's so used to having his brother there, his twin, his other half, his inseparable companion. But his brother is not there. The absence hits him like a punch to the gut, and a wave of grief washes over him. Oleksandr feels lost, alone, all these years but it never feels normal. The loneliness still seeps into his soul, a cold and empty ache that he can never quite shake. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander into hypotheticals. He imagines a different life, one where none of the tragedy had happened. He sees himself living near the coast of Constantinople with Thekkur, their houses close by. Thekkur married to Amalthea, with a baby or two at this point, and maybe Oleksandr himself, with a wife and children of his own, raising their families together, their kids living like siblings rather than cousins. He knows it's just wishful thinking, but for a moment, the vision fills him with a mix of longing and sadness. The reality is Thekkur can never have a family of his own, no, he's reduced to dust in his grave. Oleksandr rolls over on his side, trying to push away the painful thoughts. He knows that the ‘what if's’ won't change anything. He's stuck in this nightmare of a life, where he's destined to be alone, without family or Thekkur. For a moment, he finds himself wishing that the spear had hit him instead. He feels the weight of despair pressing down on him, a crushing sense of hopelessness that threatens to consume him. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself against the despair that always itches to enslave him. No, he tells himself firmly. I wouldn't wish this life of solitude and grief upon my little brother. The pain in his heart eases slightly, replaced by a sense of determination to continue on, to carry on the memory of his brother and honor his sacrifice.