Twin Flames: The Eastern Chronicles

On the endless expanse of the Steppe, the two men ride at a relentless pace. The cold winter wind whips across their faces, stinging their skin and stealing their breath. They do not falter, the cold being all they've ever known. They have been traveling for months near aimlessly, with only the stars and setting sun as their guide. Only God knows exactly where their destination is, all they have is their fierce determination to leave these hostile and unforgiving lands they were born into, and the wicked men that inhabit them.

As their horses crest a hill, they grip the reins and slow them down to a pause as they take in the vast moonlit surroundings, the reflection of the lunar rays on the snow lighting up the landscape with a ghostly haze. A chill winter wind blew across the plain, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke. In the distant valley they spot an encampment, large enough for nearly seventy men. They exchange a knowing glance, they're Huns, a group of foes they've had countless hostile encounters with. With its tents billowing in the wind, it appears like a dark stain on the landscape. With a shared glance, the brothers spurred their horses down the opposite side of the hill, holding their reins tight, as to keep the horses at a tense pace. They know better than to be conspicuous, they have come too far to risk being captured now.

They ride continuously into the night, with only the moon and stars to keep them company. The wind died sometime in the night, and without the constant bluster, the chill air has grown sharp. Putting a safe distance between themselves and the encampment, they search for a place to set up camp for the night. Few words are ever exchanged between them, as few are needed. The twins are efficient enough at communicating with each other with subtle glances and gestures carrying a thousand words. The men go about their usual routine of making camp. Once the horses are tended to and tied to a small stand of trees, the duo settle and make a small fire. They know better than to make a flame large enough to attract attention, so they eat their dried meat and berries.

The older brother stares into the fire as they eat, his pale blue eyes illuminated and stark as the flame casts strange shadows across his face.

"We're close now, I can feel it." The younger does not speak, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Even in the safety of their makeshift camp, they know better than to let their guard down. The older brother ponders his own words. He's not entirely sure what they're close to. They've spent the last two years leaving the frozen wastes of Siberia, fighting as mercenaries in the Steppe, picking up work joining battles as they pass towards the west.

"I know not what waits for us in the west, brother, but I feel in my gut that we are on the right path." The younger grunts in acknowledgement, not tearing his eyes from the horizon. He sits up a little straighter, exchanging a glance with his brother. They are not alone.

His hand grazes the hilt of the scimitar on his hip as they feel the air change, sensing the sudden shift of the atmosphere. The older brother also grips his hilt, his eyes scanning the dark. Just as they rise from their sitting positions, a dozen warriors break from the treeline, surrounding the camp. They are Huns, wearing heavy furs and leathers, wielding a varied assortment of melee weapons. The brothers exchange a stoic glance as they stand tall, their glistening scimitars drawn, their gazes icy and calculating.

The lead warrior steps forth, his eyes raking the identical men before him. He's an older man, with a leathery face, grizzled and battle-hardened. "What are two Rus doing on our lands?" Oleksandr, the older brother responds in Kazakh, his voice low and steady.

"We are weary travelers." The man snorts in response, his expression betraying distrust.

"Weary indeed, traveling at these times." He gives a signal to the other warriors, who spread out and begin to search their camp. They inspect the horses and rummage through the packs, finding nothing of interest. The lead warrior steps closer, circling the brothers slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looks the brothers up and down.

"You strike me as warriors, not common travelers."

"You flatter us." Thekkur, the younger brother responds dryly. The warrior chuckles gruffly, his eyes flickering between the two massive blondes before him.

"You look like mercenaries," he says, "perhaps even deserters."

The twins' steely gazes don't falter. They know he is partially correct, but they know not to reveal that they have been paid to spill Hunnic blood. Deserters, however, is inaccurate, though it would be a safer claim than the truth.

"We are no mercenaries or deserters." Oleksandr claims. "We hold no loyalties nor belong to any tribe. We are simply nomads." The man's gaze sharpens and he steps closer to the brothers, at the point of invading their personal space.

"Nomads, you say? Wandering without a cause, without a home? You expect me to believe you owe no loyalty to anyone?"

"We do not care what you believe." Thekkur rebuts. The warrior's lips twist into a sneer and he takes a step closer, jabbing a finger at the younger brother's chest.

"Careful, boy. You are on our land, under my men, and you dare speak to me like that?" Thekkur's gaze remains steely and cold, his pale blue eyes looking down at the man with unwavering conviction.

"I dare."

"You Rus have always been stubborn, and stupid," he snarls. "Let's see how that defiance fares when you're in chains."

Without exchanging word nor glance, the brothers raise their scimitars, standing backs together, their eyes calculating and fierce. At the sight of the steel blades, the surrounding warriors draw their own. The lead warrior lets out a bark of laughter, clearly amused by the confidence of the brothers. "Yes, stubborn and stupid Rus. You are outnumbered, you fools."

Without a response, their faces statuesque and focused, the brothers spring into action and deal out a swift and masterful attack. Their speed and precision takes the Huns by surprise, and the brothers quickly work to dispatch several of them with their curved blades. Despite being outnumbered seven to one, the duo holds the upper hand with practiced ease, fighting relentlessly, with unmatched agility and rigor. They fight together as if understanding the other's next move before it is dealt, like two halves of a whole.

The warriors are caught off guard by the fearsome duo's fighting style, with their seamless coordination and deadly precision. They try to separate them, to break their formation, but the two twins move together in perfect synchronization, weaving and dodging attacks with an almost supernatural grace. The warriors' faces slowly contort with anger and frustration and a hint of fear, watching their comrades drop one by one. They may vastly outnumber the brothers, but they are outmatched in skill. The fight settles, the remaining four Huns on guard against the brothers who are staring them down with cold and unwavering gazes, their mighty scimitars pointed challengingly. The lead warrior looks between the brothers, then at his own men, who stand wary and ready to attack. He clearly did not expect such a challenge from nomads.

"You Rus know how to handle a sword," he grudgingly admits through gritted teeth. The lead warrior shifts his weight, unnerved by their silence and predatory gazes. He looks between the brothers once again, contemplating his options. "I respect a good fight," he says finally, "and I respect skill. Tell me, why are you in our lands? What business do you have here?"

"Passing through." Oleksandr responds coldly. The warrior is skeptical, but he decides to entertain their answer for the moment. He lowers his weapon and motions for his men to stand down.

"Passing through, hm? To where?"

"West."

"West? And what on Earth could be so compelling that you would travel through these lands in the dead of winter?"

"Leaving these lands and the wicked men that inhabit them." The warrior's expression darkens further at the comment, and the men around him mutter curses. The lead warrior takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing.

"You Rus always have been a proud and foolish race," he sneers, "thinking you're better than us, just because you worship your White Christ."

The brothers say nothing, their stoic, steely faces turning in slight cunning grins.

"Finish them, brother." The lead warrior is caught off guard by the sudden change in the brothers' demeanor.

"What-" He doesn't get to finish as the two brothers attack once again, their scimitars moving with deadly precision. In a matter of seconds, the remaining warriors are disarmed and lying on the ground, defeated and at the mercy of the Rus nomads. The leader lays gasping, bleeding out, and the twins look down at him, the youngest lowering his blade to his throat.

"W-who are you?" The man gasps.

"Born slaves who broke their chains." The leader's face twists with pain and shock as the younger brother looms over him, blade at his throat.

"Damn," he gasps, "Rus nomads who can fight like the Hun..."

"No. Better." With a sharp flick of his wrist, the leader's body slumps to the ground, the life gone from his eyes. The surrounding warriors lie injured and defeated, some moaning in pain, others simply staring at the brothers with a mixture of fear and disbelief. The brothers execute the last of them swiftly before sitting back at their camp, ignoring the bloodshed around them left after their ambush. The warriors' blood stains the soft snow around them as the nomads sit quietly, tending to their weapons and each other. The silence is finally broken as the younger brother speaks up.

"We should move on," he says, "the camp will draw more curious dogs."

"Aye." The two brothers efficiently pack their belongings and mount their horses, casting a last cold glance towards the massacre that became of their camp. They spur their horses and ride off, leaving the carnage behind them.

As the brothers ride through the Steppe, the wind has picked up again, the night becoming bitterly cold. The moon shines down on the snowy plains, casting an eerie glow on the landscape. They ride in silence for a while, the only sound being the gentle thud of their horse's hooves on the snow. The younger brother breaks the silence with a question.

"Brother... Do you ever think about what lies in the west?" The older brother, Oleksandr, ponders for a moment before responding.

"Aye, often." The younger brother, Thekkur, nods slowly, his expression pensive.

"Aye. Sometimes, I dream of a land of fertile valleys and rolling hills, where the wheat grows tall and the wine flows freely. But other times..." He hesitates, his eyes scanning the snowy landscape around them. "Other times, I dream of dark forests filled with creatures of nightmares. I dream of vast oceans that have no end, and of people who worship twisted gods." The older brother turns his head slightly, listening intently to his younger brother's musings. Thekkur continues to speak, his voice quiet and thoughtful. "I cannot say for certain which dream is true. But I feel in my bones that something great waits for us in the west. Something that will either make us or break us." He turns his eyes to meet his brother's gaze. "What of you, brother? What do you dream of?"

"I dream of epic battles led by great kings. Tearing through my enemies, like my boots through the snow." Thekkur grunts, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Ah, so you dream of becoming a great warlord, do you? Crushing your enemies and bathing in their blood?"

"Aye. I must admit, I crave it." Thekkur snorts in amusement, shaking his head.

"You and your damn bloodlust. I swear, you'd fight an entire army just for the thrill of it." They both smirk in amusement. "And we have." Oleksandr chuckles darkly, his eyes glimmering with memories of past battles. He looks up at the dark sky, the stars twinkling above them.

Thekkur continues, "But even I must admit, it gets tiring. Always looking over your shoulder, never settling, never having a place to call home... However, I can withstand it, as long as we're together." Oleksandr lets out a low sigh, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"Aye, brother. As long as we're together..." He reaches out and squeezes the younger brother's shoulder, a silent promise as they continue to ride into the night.