Meet Me in Montenegro

Oleksandr finds himself wandering through a desolate sea of pale, yellow, withered grass swaying in a lifeless breeze. The earth beneath his feet feels dry and cracked, as if long forsaken by the sun. A dense, gray fog hangs low in the air, its tendrils creeping along the ground and curling around his legs. It cloaks the landscape in an oppressive shroud, rendering everything beyond a few paces into a murky blur. The silence is heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of the dead grass, and even that seems muted, as if the fog is swallowing the sound. Oleksandr turns slowly, eyes narrowed, searching for any sign of life or movement. The horizon is indistinguishable, obscured by the fog, and every direction looks the same.

Endless, empty, and forbidding. The world feels suspended in time, a place where life has long since retreated, leaving behind only the ghosts of what once was. The air is thick and damp, clinging to his skin like cold sweat, and as he stands there, a sense of unease gnaws at him, a primal instinct flared by the uncanny surroundings.

As Oleksandr pushes forward through the field, the oppressive silence is pierced by a faint sound, barely audible at first. He freezes, his breath catching as he listens intently. There it is again. A soft, pitiful whimper, like the cry of a lost child. The sound is so fragile, almost swallowed by the thick fog, yet unmistakable. A surge of urgency grips him, and he quickens his pace, his heart pounding in his chest.

His eyes dart from side to side, straining to see through the haze. The fog seems to shift and swirl around him, playing tricks on his vision. The whimpering continues, growing slightly louder, but the source remains elusive. Every step he takes is cautious, his instincts sharpened, ready for anything. The once dead and barren field now feels charged with a different kind of tension. A mix of fear and hope, the fear of what he might find, and the hope that the child, if it is a child, can still be saved. He moves faster, his boots crunching over the brittle grass, following the direction of the sound. The cries waver, sometimes louder, sometimes almost lost entirely, as if the fog itself is toying with him. His pulse quickens as the feeling of being watched intensifies, but he presses on, driven by the desperate need to reach the child before it's too late. Oleksandr breaks into a run, spurred by the cries that pierce the fog.

The haze thickens as he rushes forward, but then, through the swirling mist, he spots a small, shadowy figure. His heart skips a beat, and he slows his pace, cautiously approaching the figure. As he draws nearer, the shape becomes clearer—a young child, no more than four years old, sits huddled on the ground, his tiny body trembling in the cold. The child's long, white hair is tangled and unkempt, obscuring his face as he buries it between his knees. The beige tunic he wears is torn and dirty, barely clinging to his small frame. The sight tugs at Oleksandr’s heart. He approaches slowly, his footsteps soft on the brittle grass, not wanting to startle the child. The surrounding fog curls around them both, making the child appear even more fragile and lost in this desolate landscape. Kneeling down, Oleksandr reaches out a hand, his voice low and gentle.

“Hey, it’s alright. You're safe.”

As he places his hand on the child's shoulder, the little boy looks up at him, causing his heart to sink, and he's immediately taken back to the past as he recognizes the face. It's Thekkur, but as a small, frail child. Thekkur's eyes are watery with tears, and he whimpers out, "Oli...", his small voice quivering with fear and sadness. Oleksandr immediately scoops him up in his arms, holding him close to his heart like a protective father. He tries to soothe him, kissing his head and hushing him gently.

"Shh, Thekko. It's okay, I'm here now," he whispers. Thekkur's small body trembles in his arms, and he clings tightly to Oleksandr.

"Oli, I'm scared... I'm alone, Oli," he whimpers, tears streaming down his rosy, chubby cheeks. Oleksandr continues to hold Thekkur securely in his arms as he walks, his protective instincts in overdrive. Thekkur's small body shivers against him, and he whispers in a trembling voice. "I'm alone…"

“No, you're not alone, little one. I'm right here," he murmurs, rubbing his back gently.

“It's dark..." The words cut through Oleksandr's heart like a dagger, and he tightens his grip on the child, determined to keep him safe and comforted.

“I'll be your light, little brother. Don't fret…”

Thekkur's small face is drawn in fear as he shivers against his chest, muttering softly, "it's dark down here... It's cold, I'm alone... in the grave…” Oleksandr can feel his heart sink as Thekkur's words hit him, and a wave of horror and despair washes over him.

With a pained expression on his face, he whispers urgently, "no, don't say that. Don't do this to me." He holds Thekkur tighter against his chest, as if trying to protect him from the reality of what he's saying. Oleksandr's voice cracks with emotion as he repeats, "don't say that. You're not alone. I'm here. I'll protect you, I always have.” As Thekkur buries his face in Oleksandr's chest, his tears slowly subside, but his small body still trembles. Oleksandr hugs him close, his grip protective and firm, holding him like a precious treasure that he must keep warm. He continues to walk, his feet moving almost involuntarily beneath him, but he has no destination in mind. For now, all that matters is holding and comforting his little brother in his arms.

Oleksandr continues his path through the hazy field, his senses heightened. As he comes upon a figure in the fog, he notices it looks like a table covered with a cloth, with a figure laying under it. With curiosity and wariness, he approaches, gently pulling away the cloth to reveal what lies beneath. A deep gasp tears from Oleksandr's throat as his eyes fall upon the lifeless form of his brother beneath the cloth.

Thekkur's body lies there, looking just as he did when he died, cold and still, his face drained of blood and his eyes half lidded and lifeless, at the age of twenty-three. It's a sight that cuts through Oleksandr like a searing blade, a cruel and malicious taunt that shakes him to his utter soul. His mind reels as he stumbles back, and he sets the child down gently, almost in a daze, before backing away. His breathing comes in ragged gasps, as if he can't get enough air in his lungs. His eyes are wild and unblinking, and he clutches his head with both hands, muttering aloud:

"No... Stop... Stop this... Don't do this to me…”

He sprints away from the horrific sight of his brother's corpse, bolting through the foggy field in a panicked frenzy. His feet pound against the ground, his breath coming in short and rapid pants, his mind racing even faster than his legs. He doesn't look back, doesn't slow down, desperate to put distance between himself and his past that has wounded him so deeply. Oleksandr runs faster and faster, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, the pain and desperation boiling over inside him. He yells out into the fog, his voice cracking with anguish.

"NO! NOT MY BROTHER! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!" The sound of his own voice echoing through the fog only fuels his panic, and he runs even faster, as if trying to escape his own tormented thoughts. Oleksandr's sprint comes to an abrupt halt, and he stumbles and falls to his knees, his body and mind collapsing under the weight of his grief.

"God, I cannot carry my cross anymore!” He pleads to the sky before he curls up on the ground, his arms covering his head as he sobs. His voice breaks as he begs into the ground. “Too heavy…” His shoulders shake with the force of his weeping, the torment and emptiness consuming him completely. “Lord Christ, grant me another one, a lighter one…”

As he feels the air change around him, he finally lifts his head from his hands, his sobs gradually subsiding. As he looks around, he notices something strange. The fog has cleared, and the dead grass is gone, replaced by a carpet of lush, green grass. He sits up, his chest heaving, as he brushes the tears away from his eyes, his mind racing to try and make sense of this sudden change in scenery.

Oleksandr's eyes widen in surprise as he feels two gentle hands wrap around his shoulders, and a woman's voice speaks softly in his ear. Her voice is deep and sultry, her words carrying a soothing, almost maternal quality. "He will not give you more than you can handle, my love..."

Oleksandr's body tenses, and he slowly turns to see who is speaking. His breath catches in his throat as he gazes at the woman in a dark shroud, her head completely covered, making it impossible to see her face. As the woman leans in and places a gentle kiss on Oleksandr's cheek through her veil, he feels a wave of comfort and bliss wash over him, as if all of his pain and sorrow have melted away miraculously. The woman's presence seems to fill him with a sense of safety and peace, and he can't help but relax into her embrace. The woman gently guides Oleksandr to lie his head across her lap, his upper body cradled in her comforting embrace. Her gloved hand begins to gently pet his head, stroking his hair with a softness and tenderness that brings a warm, pleasant sensation. Oleksandr's eyes flutter closed, the feel of the woman's soothing touch and the weight of his head resting on her lap creating a sensation of utter tranquility and contentment.

Oleksandr looks up at the woman in the shroud, his voice soft as he asks, "who… who are you? Are you my mother?"

The woman's light, melodic giggle fills the air, and she responds gently, "no, Oleksi... I'm afraid we haven't met yet." Oleksandr's brow furrows slightly, his gaze still fixed on the silk that conceals the woman's face. He continues to study the fabric, hoping to catch a glimpse of her features through the opaque, yet mysteriously alluring veil. As the woman slightly lifts the fabric to reveal her milky-white neck, chin, and lusciously red lips, Oleksandr's heart flutters, and he holds his breath as she leans forward and captures his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. The taste of her lips is sweet and intoxicating, like a potent drug that immediately sends him into a state of complete ecstasy. As the woman gently pulls away from their kiss, she leans close and whispers into Oleksandr's ear, her voice low and breathy.

"Meet me... In Montenegro..." Oleksandr's eyelids flutter shut, and for a brief moment, he hovers between dreaming and waking states. When he finally opens his eyes once more, he finds himself lying in the guest room of the Wallachian castle, the events of the previous day rushing back to him. He sits up in bed, his mind still reeling from the strange dream he had just experienced.