Twin Flames: The Eastern Chronicles

The twins ride on into the night, the sound of hoofbeats echoing in the silent darkness. They ride on through the wilderness, relying on their skills to survive. They hunt for food, set up camp when they need to rest, and move on when the time comes. As they ride, they notice a cloud of smoke rising in the distance. They slow their horses and exchange a look, wary of what may be waiting for them, but also curious. They nudge their horses onward, riding forward to investigate the source of the smoke. As they approach closer, they see a settlement, a small village.

The buildings are charred, and there are a handful of weary peasants trying to pick up the meager scraps of their livelihood. They also see some freshly dug holes in a nearby field by a scorched, still smoking church, and Oleksandr has a grim feeling that he knows what they are for.

“Looks like they were attacked,” he mutters to Thekkur, his eyes narrowing. “Recently.”

The brothers ride slowly into the settlement, their horses' hooves crunching against the earth. The few remaining villagers are wary of their approach, watching them closely, clearly expecting some sort of trouble. Thekkur and Oleksandr keep their bodies relaxed and their faces neutral, trying not to look threatening as they scan the destroyed buildings and the survivors. They pass by an old man, his face bruised and expression distant, hauling some broken lumber.

“You, halt.”

The old man looks up as Oleksandr calls out to him, his expression dazed and distant. He slows his pace, setting down the lumber, and looks up at the brothers with an exhausted gaze. “Aye...?” He mutters, his voice raspy and weak.

“What happened here?” Oleksandr asks, his voice firm. The old man sighs, his shoulders slumping as he looks around at the ruined buildings. The pain and despair are clear in his weathered face.

“Attackers. Bandits,” he replies, his voice low. “Came outta nowhere in the night, burning and killing. Took everything we had. Families, farms, livestock... everything.”

“Who were they? Which direction did they ride?” The old man's face twists into a grim expression, his eyes somber as he remembers the attack.

“Tatars... Barbarians... Rode in from the south, pillaging and burning. They rode out that way,” he adds, pointing a bony finger towards the east.

“How many men?”

“Maybe thirty... or more. I don't know. It all happened so fast.” He looks up at the brothers, his expression haunted and weary. “They were vicious... like demons. We never stood a chance.” The brothers exchange a glance before looking back at the man.

“They had cavalry?”

“Aye. Barbaric warriors on brutal steeds. They rode like the wind, raining death down upon us. We had no chance against their speed and strength.”

“Do not despair. We'll collect their heads.” The old man looks up at the brothers, a flicker of hope sparking in his weary eyes. He looks from one brother to the other, taking in their imposing figures and serious expressions.

“You'll go after them? You'll seek justice for us?”

“You could say that.” The old man nods slowly, a hint of excitement in his expression now. He looks up at the brothers, his voice slightly stronger now.

“Be careful, lads. Those bastards are dangerous. But we'll pray for your victory.”

The brothers ride onward, their expressions grim and their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the Tatar raiders. They ride with purpose, their horses' hooves carrying them further and further into the east, following the path the old man had pointed out. The brothers ride on for two days, their bodies weary but their determination unwavering. As the evening falls on the second day, they hear a commotion in the distance. They rein in their horses and scan the horizon, straining their ears to hear better. They can clearly tell that something is happening, and they begin to ride towards the source of the noise. They keep their guard up, their attention fixed on the disturbance. As the brothers ride closer, they can see another settlement in the distance. But this time, there is noise... shouting men, the neighing of horses, the sound of metal clashing. The brothers exchange a glance, a grim determination in their eyes. They spur their horses onward, riding towards the commotion with purpose.

They crest a hill, looking at the village, currently under a violent raid. Nearly twenty men on horses are rushing about, brutalizing villagers trying to fight back against their merciless assault. The brothers draw their scimitars without hesitation and ride into the village at breakneck pace, their horses kicking up clouds of dust. Oleksandr dawns upon a horseman, quickly cutting him down with a brutal swing, then turning to clash swords with a footsoldier, quickly gaining the upper-hand and parrying his sword, impaling him. Thekkur follows close behind, his own scimitar flashing as he dives into battle. He leaps from his horse and engages two more footsoldiers, his movements quick and deadly. Both brothers move with ruthless efficiency. Oleksandr rides through the village with vigor, hanging off the side of his horse as he swings his scimitar into the enemies he comes across. He moves like a whirlwind of death and destruction, slashing through the raiders with swift and powerful strokes. His expression is grim, his eyes fixed on the destruction around him, and his body moving with fluid grace. His horse gets cut down with a pained whinny, and Oleksandr quickly leaps off, landing on his feet. He dispatches the raider who brought down his mount, then turns with a high, brutal kick to another man's head. The kick connects with a sickening crunch, knocking the raider off his feet. He then dispatches the man with a fatal stroke, then reaches for the spear strapped to his back. He spins around in a rapid motion, hurling the spear with deadly precision.

The weapon flies through the air, sailing towards a man riding closer on a horse. It pierces his side, causing him to let out a pained cry before falling from his mount. Oleksandr swiftly swings himself onto the horse, stealing it in mid-motion. He rides deeper into the village, the animal's powerful strides carrying him further and further into the mayhem. Meanwhile, Thekkur approaches from behind, quickly retrieving the spear from the fallen raider. He scans the surroundings, making sure no other threats approach before following Oleksandr. The brothers spot the remaining raider, a man riding towards them. Oleksandr quickly moves to intercept, leaping from his horse and tackling the man to the ground. He holds him down, his sword drawn and pressed against the man's throat.

“Are these all of your men? Or are there more elsewhere? Speak, before I cut out your eye.” The raider's eyes widen in terror and rage, his body shaking beneath Oleksandr's weight. He looks up at the blonde giant towering over him, the cold edge of the sword pressed against his throat. The man scowls before spitting in Oleksandr's face. He growls, and with a fatal flick of his wrist, he gouges out the man's eye with his blade. The man screams and hollers in pain, writhing on the ground. Oleksandr knees his ribs.

“Speak! Before I take your other eye!” Oleksandr barks. The man wails, forcing himself to speak with a strained voice.

“N-no… No more…” Oleksandr searches his face, seeing that he's telling the truth. He stands up, roughly lifting him by his collar, and shoving him, holding his sword out.

“Find your leaders corpse.” The man nods weakly, scrambling to his feet, clutching his bleeding empty eye socket. As the raider searches through the bodies, the brothers follow closely behind, watching him like hawks. The villagers look on, their expressions wary and fearful. Some of them glare at the raider with hatred in their eyes, while others watch on in shock and horror, taking in the carnage around them. The raider then stops and points to a spot, where a large body lies slumped against a cart.

“There.. That's him.” He groans, his voice weak. Oleksandr approaches the body of the dead raider leader, giving him a sharp shove to ensure he's truly dead. The man's body falls back against the cart, his eyes wide and unseeing. Meanwhile, Thekkur takes the last remaining raider and swiftly executes him with a cut to his throat. As he does so, Oleksandr collects the leader's head, sawing it off with his scimitar with practiced ease. Oleksandr holds up the head of the slain leader by the hair for the surrounding villagers to see, his expression grim and resolute. He looks around at the gathered group, his voice firm as he addresses them.

“Remember our face. Remember the face of the Siberians who slew this foe.” The villagers look on, their eyes wide and shocked at the gory display. Some of them nod mutely, still in shock from the battle and the carnage. Others look on with a mixture of awe and fear, taking in the grim faces and imposing figures of the brothers before them. The brothers mount their horses, Oleksandr securing the raider leader's head to the horse's saddle, allowing it to dangle grotesquely from the side like a macabre trophy. Without a word or a backward glance, they turn their steeds and ride away from the ransacked village, leaving the scene of carnage behind them as they disappear into the distance.

For several months, the brothers ride across Anatolia, their path marked by a trail of carnage and bloodshed. Scuffles and raids are put down wherever the brothers find them, and the heads of each slain leader are collected to the side of their steeds, bouncing macabrely along the trail. News spreads of the duo, a pair of warriors who bring death to any raid they encounter. As the brothers ride onward, they spot a Roman encampment up ahead, filled with around two-hundred soldiers. The guards stationed at the perimeter spot the brothers as they approach, and they emerge from the camp to greet them cautiously. Swords are gripped and spears raised, a sense of tension hanging in the air as the soldiers eye the warriors on horseback. As the twins ride closer to the encampment, a guard steps forward, his longsword clutched in his hands, and calls out to them. His tone is sharp and wary.

“Halt! You come no further! State your business!”

“Bring out he whom you answer to.” The guard scowls at the demanding command, his expression hardening at the brothers' words. Nevertheless, he turns and moves into the camp, returning moments later with a bearded captain who approaches the two riding brothers. The captain looks over the two barbarian horsemen, his gaze furrowed and cautious.

“Who is it that I'm speaking with?”

“I am Thekkur Sibir, and my brother, Oleksandr.” The captain eyes them closely as Thekkur introduces himself and his brother. He hears a whisper from one of the men behind him, and nods before speaking again.

“You are deserters, no? That's why you're out riding around the countryside like this?”

“Deserters, not entirely. We served your emperor well…” The captain looks on with a mix of shock, horror, and curiosity as the brothers untie the grisly collection of heads, decaying and bloody, from their horses and drop them to the ground before their steeds. The other soldiers behind him break into mutterings, their eyes fixed on the macabre display. The captain looks at the two brothers, a new sense of caution in his eyes as he speaks.

“You... Who are these?”

“Leaders of various Tartar clans, terrorizing villages in the area. You must have heard word of us. If not, go to the nearest village. They will confirm our actions.” The captain looks at the collection of heads on the ground, his mind reeling at this information. The soldiers behind him murmur to one another, their eyes flicking up from the heads to the brothers.

“Tartar clans? You were the two that dealt with them? I've heard wind of this.”

“We put down twelve skirmishes and raids. A couple of these we dealt with before they even reached their victims. Take these heads. They're gifts for the Emperor.” The captain considers the brothers' words for a moment, his eyes flickering between them and the gruesome trophies spread on the ground before them. After a moment, he nods, his expression still somewhat guarded.

“Very well. We will take the heads. The emperor would likely be interested to hear of your actions. You seek an audience with him?”

“Nay. We seek a spot in the next gladiatorial arena.”

“The next games... They will be held in three days' time. The two of you, in the arena together? That is what you propose?”

“We'll be there. Take the heads to him and tell him they are gifts.” The captain considers the words for a moment before nodding, a sense of acceptance and respect in his eyes. He orders several men to step forward and pick up the heads, watching as they carefully collect the grisly trophies as the brothers turn and ride off.

The brothers arrive back in Constantinople, signing up and demanding spots for Gladiatorial positions. At the sight of the two towering twins with such a striking appearance offering to work for free, the organizer gladly accepts.

The two brothers, now outfitted in leather loincloths and heavy iron chest plates, armed with swords and shields, stand side-by-side in the dimly lit tunnels leading out to the Colosseum floor. They look formidable, their muscular builds and imposing presence made even more menacing by the huge helms they've been fitted with, their downturned horns adding to their intimidating aura. The air is thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the sound of the crowd above them a distant roar. With the creaking of heavy iron hinges, the gate swings open, and the brothers step out into the arena.

The sunlight is sharp and stinging, and the roar of the crowd in the Colosseum is deafening. The sands of the arena floor stretch before them, their surface littered with old stains of blood and grit. The barbarian brothers stride forward through the gates and into the arena, their faces stoic and expressionless. The crowd's cheers echo around them, an overwhelming roar of sound. They look up to where the emperor occupies his plush seat, his gaze fixed upon them, his expression a mixture of curiosity and interest. The brothers hold eye contact for a few moments, seeing him for the first time, their expressions unchanging.

Another gateway opens, and eight men emerge, armed and ready for battle. In the heart of the grand colosseum, amidst the thundering cheers of a frenzied crowd, Oleksandr and Thekkur stood back to back, their eyes scanning the ring of opponents surrounding them. The twins grip their swords tightly, their shields raised in unison. The eight armed men encircled them, their glinting weapons eager for the clash to begin. The crowd roars, hungry for the spectacle of combat between these twin giants, outnumbered and seemingly outmatched.

Oleksandr, his eyes fierce and focused, nodded imperceptibly to Thekkur, a silent cue they had perfected through years of training and unbreakable fraternal bond. With a primal roar that echoed across the arena, they lunged into action. The first opponent charged at Oleksandr, swinging a heavy broadsword. With lightning reflexes, Oleksandr parried the blow with his shield and retaliated with a swift, precise slash that sent his foe stumbling backwards, clutching a bleeding shoulder. Meanwhile, Thekkur engaged two adversaries simultaneously. His movements were economical, deflecting attacks with his shield and countering with lethal accuracy. A sweeping arc of his blade severed the weapon arm of one opponent, while a lightning-fast thrust dispatched the other, spilling his blood across the sand. Back to back, they moved as one, seamlessly covering each other's blind spots. The twins fought not as individuals but as a single formidable force, anticipating each other's moves instinctively. Their swordplay was a dance of death, a symphony of steel and sinew that mesmerized the crowd. As the battle raged on, the brothers' stamina and determination began to tell. They moved with grace and power, their muscles rippling beneath sweat-slicked skin.

One by one, the opponents fell before them, their initial confidence crumbling under the relentless bloody assault of the twins. With only two adversaries left standing, Oleksandr and Thekkur closed in, their movements synchronized to perfection. They circled their final opponents with a predator's precision, eyes locked, waiting for the slightest opening. In a sudden burst of coordinated action, they struck simultaneously. Swords flashed, shields slammed, and within heartbeats, the last adversaries dropped to the ground, defeated. The crowd erupted into deafening applause, chanting the names of Oleksandr and Thekkur in reverent awe. The twins, chests heaving with exertion, clasped forearms in a gesture of mutual respect and triumph.

As the brothers stand victorious after their intense battle, the applause of the crowd fills the air with a deafening roar. Their chests heave with exertion from the fierce clash as they grip each other's arms. Their victory is undeniable, the display of their skill and synchronized moves leaving the crowd in awe. The emperor, watching from his elevated seat, observes the brothers' display of coordination and determination, a hint of intrigue in his gaze. The two brothers remove their horn-adorned helmets, letting their long, light-blonde hair fall down their backs. They make their way to the side of the colosseum where the emperor's party is seated, Thekkur's voice ringing out, addressing the emperor directly.

“Did you receive our gifts?” The emperor regards them with a measured gaze, a smile playing across his lips at the question.

“What gift do you speak of?”

“Twelve heads. Tartar chiefs.” Oleksandr calls up. The emperor's smile widens, a look of genuine interest in his eyes as he regards the brothers. He leans forwards in his seat slightly, his voice carrying easily in the vast space of the theater.

“Ah, the twelve heads of Tartar chiefs. I did, in fact, receive them. The captain who brought them to me spoke of your deeds and your skill. I admit, I'm quite intrigued by you both.” The emperor's eyes travel over the two giant siblings, taking in their impressive size and imposing presence.

“You're quite a sight, the two of you. Like Gauls of old. I imagine you've sent many men to an early grave in those fierce battles of yours. What might your names be?”

“I am Oleksandr of Siberia.”

“And I, Thekkur of Siberia.” The emperor listens to their introduction, his gaze calculating but also intrigued. He then leans over to one of his servants and whispers some instructions while the brothers are ushered out of the arena. They make their way to the inner rooms of the Colosseum to rest after their intense battle, where they are presented with a large bottle of high-quality wine upon their arrival, which they eagerly open and begin to indulge in. The taste is rich and smooth, its potency an effective way to soothe the aftermath of the brutal battle they just endured. As the brothers rest, enjoying the taste of the wine, a soldier makes his way to them. He interrupts a moment of calm with his announcement, his voice firm in the echoing corridor.

“The Emperor requests your presence,” he says. “When the games have concluded, you'll be escorted.”

Oleksandr and Thekkur exchange a glance, a silent moment of understanding and anticipation passing between them. The brothers regard the soldier for a moment, their gazes still slightly foggy from the wine. Despite the slight buzz in their heads, they nod and acknowledge the request, their expressions betraying a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

“We'll be there,” Oleksandr replies, his voice steady. The soldier gives them a nod and leaves them to continue resting and enjoying their wine. As the final game of the Colosseum comes to an end, Oleksandr and Thekkur wash up and prepare themselves for their impending meeting with the emperor. The sense of anticipation and curiosity weighs on them, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. They follow the guard through the winding corridors until they are led to a carriage waiting outside. The twins climb into the carriage and take a seat, the interior plush and comfortable. The driver urges the horses forward, and the carriage begins to move, the wheels bumping over the cobblestone streets as they head towards the imperial palace. The journey is not overly long, but the tension in the carriage is palpable. Time seems to slow as the brothers sit in silence, their minds racing with thoughts of what could transpire when they meet the emperor.

They arrive at the palace, and the brothers gaze out in awe. From the outside, the Imperial Palace rose like a citadel of opulence against the skyline of Constantinople, its gilded domes and towers catching the first light of dawn. The sprawling walls, adorned with intricate carvings and shimmering mosaics, hinted at the wealth and power held within. Majestic gates opened into lush, meticulously tended gardens, where fountains murmured softly amid the fragrance of rare flowers. As one approached, the grandeur of its architecture became evident, with elegant arches and grand facades standing as silent guardians of the empire's legacy. This awe-inspiring exterior promised untold wonders and whispered of the secrets held within its labyrinthine halls.

The brothers step out of the carriage, looking around in awe at the grandeur of their surroundings. Following closely behind the soldier who has been leading them, they make their way up the long walkway, their footsteps thumping among the stones. As they near the grand doors of the palace, they are met by two towering figures, their identities hidden behind tall, imposing masked helms. The presence of these guards serves as a potent reminder of the power held within the palace walls. The brothers follow the soldier through the imposing doors, their footsteps echoing on the grand hall beyond. They find themselves staring across a vast chamber of unparalleled splendor, where power and divinity intertwined. Bathed in the golden glow of mosaic-clad walls, the room shimmered with scenes of saints and emperors, their eyes seemingly alive with the light of a thousand candles. The vast, vaulted ceiling arched above like the heavens themselves, while the floor beneath was a sea of polished marble, echoing with the soft whispers of silk-clad courtiers. At its heart sits a regal figure. The emperor, on an ornate masterpiece of ivory and gold, commanding reverence and awe. Here, amidst the opulence and sacred aura, the fate of an empire was woven, decree by decree, within the hallowed confines of this regal sanctum. The soldier leads the two brothers slowly down the room to the foot of the steps that lead up to the throne, where the emperor waits. The twins make their way through the grand hall, their steps echoing on the stone floor. As they reach the foot of the steps that lead up to the throne, the sheer presence of the emperor's seat fills them with both awe and trepidation. They come to a halt, their gazes fixed on the regal figure sitting upon it, their hearts beginning to thump in their chests as they wait for him to speak. The emperor regards them for a moment, his gaze penetrating and intense. He leans forward in his throne, his hands resting upon the arms of the chair, the opulent fabrics of his clothing whispering with the movement. He speaks, his voice firm and commanding, yet tinged with an air of authority and wisdom.

“You have been brought before me for a reason. You two have proven your worth in the arena and have garnered my interest.” The emperor's gaze is like a hawk observing its prey, his eyes darting over the brothers as he regards them with a mix of curiosity and calculation. The brothers remain quiet, listening intently as the emperor speaks. He notes their silence but also their attention. He continues, his voice steady and measured.

“You have both shown exceptional skill, strength, and determination in the arena. Word of your prowess has reached my ears, and I find myself intrigued, wondering if your talents might be of use to me.” The emperor leans back in his throne, his eyes never leaving the brothers, as if he is searching for something more within their stoic expressions.

“I have a proposition for you. You see, I am in need of skilled warriors, men who can serve me not only as bodyguards, but as my trusted companions and advisors, loyal only to me.” The emperor pauses, his gaze flickering between the brothers, assessing their reactions to his words. He leans forward once more, his eyes narrowing slightly as he speaks again. “If you serve me, you will be rewarded with riches, power, and a place at the heart of the empire. But know this, your loyalty must be absolute. To question my word is to question my authority.” The brothers listen attentively to the emperor's words, their stoic expressions betraying nothing of their innermost thoughts and feelings. The offer, while enticing, also carries a heavy responsibility, the weight of which they can sense weighing on them. Thekkur looks at Oleksandr, who returns his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. Oleksandr then turns his gaze back to the emperor, speaking for the both of them.

“We will serve you, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice steady and resolute.

The emperor studies the brothers, his gaze locking with Oleksandr's as he processes his response. He can sense the strength and determination behind Oleksandr's words, and a sly smile plays at the corners of his lips.

“Good,” the emperor replies, his voice still firm yet tinged with satisfaction, “now, tell me. Why do you fight?” The brothers exchange glances once more, the question catching them slightly off guard. Oleksandr speaks up again, his voice still steady and confident.

“We fight because we must. Because we are good at it and because it is what we were made to do.”

“Made to do?” The emperor echoes, raising an eyebrow, “and who made you to fight? God?” There is a hint of skepticism in his voice, but also curiosity about the true reasons behind their fighting.

“It is all we have done our whole lives, since we were old enough to hold our own. It is all we know.” Thekkur responds. The emperor nods, mulling over their words. He can sense the truth in what the brothers are saying, and he leans forward in his throne, his gaze still fixed on the brothers.

“And what of your loyalty?” He asks. “What makes you so willing to serve me and me alone?” Oleksandr takes a moment before responding.

“We have always desired to belong somewhere. We have never had a home, nor kin, nor anyone to be loyal to rather than each other. We see the beauty of your city, and share a hatred for your foes. We wish to defend something that matters.” The emperor considers their words, weighing them carefully in his mind. He speaks again, his voice slightly gentler than before.

“You seek a place to belong, a purpose to serve. It is a noble desire. But know that my demands for loyalty will be strict and absolute. To serve me is to become a part of something greater. Are you willing to accept such a burden?”

“Yes. We can handle it.”

“Very well. From henceforth, you shall serve me as members of the Imperial Guard, my Varangian bodyguards and my most trusted companions. You will be given everything you need to fulfill your duties, but your loyalty shall be unwavering. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” the brothers say in unison.

“Good. You will be made to fulfill an oath. Your native tongue is Rus, is it not?”

“Yes.” They respond together again.

“Then, you will swear this oath in your native tongue.”

The emperor rises from his throne and slowly descends the steps, coming to stand before the brothers. He motions to a priest and a scribe, who come forward with a ceremonial dagger.

“Hold out your right arms,” the emperor instructs, his gaze locked on the brothers. The scribe steps up to Oleksandr first and makes a small cut across his forearm, letting a few drops of blood fall to the floor. Oleksandr remains stoic, his face betraying no reaction to the pain. The scribe then repeats the process with Thekkur, who also remains cool and unperturbed. With the ritual cut complete, the emperor takes the dagger and speaks, his tone now solemn and deliberate.

“Now kneel and repeat after me.” The emperor begins to recite a traditional Varangian warrior's oath in Rus, the language of their forefathers. “By the blood of my forefathers, I take this oath… I shall guard the emperor with my life, my loyalty absolute, my service unwavering. I shall protect him from all harm and never leave his side, until death claims me. By the blood of my forefathers, and with God as my witness, I take this oath.” The brothers repeat them after him, their voices firm and steady, their eyes locked onto his as they swear their fealty to him. They mean every word they say, feeling the weight of the oath as it settles upon them. The emperor listens intently, observing the brothers closely as they speak the words of the oath. When they finish, he nods with satisfaction, his gaze still locked onto theirs. The priest says a blessing over each brother while using an aspergillum to sprinkle them with holy water.

“Good, now stand,” he says, his voice still calm and authoritative. “You are now members of the Varangian Guard. You shall be given housing within the palace, your own quarters where you can rest and prepare for your duties. You will also be appointed a personal physician, who will tend to your needs and ensure your health and fitness for your duties. In time, your skills will be tested and honed to perfection, and you will become a valued part of the Imperial Guard. You will also be educated. I assume you are illiterates, like many of my guards were when they first arrived here. You will be taught languages such as Greek, Latin, Arabic, and a fourth of your choosing. You will also be trained in theology, and are expected to convert to Christianity and receive baptism, renouncing your current faith.”

The brothers listen to the emperor's requirements, their expressions remaining stoic and serious.

“I understand your terms,” Oleksandr says first.

“As do I.” Thekkur adds. The emperor nods approvingly, satisfied with the brothers' obedience and willingness to conform to his rules.

“Excellent. I will assign a tutor to each of you, they will teach you the necessary languages and provide theological guidance. You will also be taught the history and customs of this empire, so that you may better serve it.” He leans back slightly, observing the brothers with a calculating gaze. “Any further questions?” Oleksandr and Thekkur look at eachother, taking a moment to collect their thoughts, before Thekkur speaks up.

“What are our duties as members of the Varangian Guard? What sort of tasks and responsibilities will be expected of us?”

“As members of the Varangian Guard, your primary duty will be to protect me and my court. That means that you will be by my side at all times, ready to defend me from any threats to my life and well-being. You may also be assigned various tasks, such as escorting me on public occasions, guarding certain areas of the palace, and assisting with the security of the city as a whole, and you may even be drafted into battle missions.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze flickering between the brothers. “In addition, you will also be expected to carry out any other tasks that I may assign to you. Your skills are highly valued, and I will make use of your strength, resilience, and fighting abilities in any way that I require.” The brothers both nod in understanding. The emperor nods in acknowledgment, satisfied with their response. He studies the brothers for a moment, his eyes flickering over their muscular physiques and rugged appearances. He can tell that they are not like other men he has met before. They are hard, unyielding, and unshakeable. He can sense the potential within them, the loyalty and dedication that could make them truly dangerous and valuable assets.

“You are dismissed,” he says, his voice firm and authoritative. “You will begin your new lives as members of the Varangian Guard tomorrow.” The brothers bow their heads and then raise their arms in a salute.

“We will not disappoint you.”

A courtier leads the brothers through the twisting corridors of the imperial palace, eventually coming to a room where they will be given a place to stay. The room is not ornate or luxurious, but it is clean and comfortable, with two beds, a few chairs, and a fireplace. The courtier then bows to the brothers.

“This will temporarily be your room for the night while we prepare some beds in the barracks. Make yourselves comfortable.” The courtier takes out a few measuring tapes and begins to measure the brothers from head to toe. He takes notes of their shoulder width, their waist size, and their inseam. He also checks their height and weight to ensure that their uniforms will be properly fitted.

“This will not take long,” the courtier says, as he diligently takes the various measurements. “We must ensure that your uniforms are suitable for your new roles as members of the Guard.” The brothers stand still and cooperatively as the courtier takes their measurements, letting him move their limbs and stretch them as he needs to. The courtier looks down at the measurements he has written down, noticing that the brothers' dimensions are eerily similar.

“Fascinating,” he mutters to himself as he leaves the room, closing the door behind him. The brothers look at each other with grins as soon as the courtier leaves, relief and excitement showing on their faces. They grasp each other's' forearms tightly, as if to reassure each other that this is all real and not just a dream.

“We did it, Olek!" Thekkur exclaims gleefully, the tension of the day slowly fading away as he stands before his brother.

“Indeed we have. We shall serve our emperor well.” They hug each other before Oleksandr grabs Thekkur's head in a playful vice, grinding his knuckles into his head.

“What did I tell you, huh? We'd make a life for ourselves. A damn good one.” Thekkur playfully struggles against Oleksandr's grip, his head held in place by his brother's strong arm. Despite the pain, he's laughing and enjoying their familiar roughhousing.

“Yes, yes, you were right,” he says, trying to wriggle free. “You're always right. Now let go before you tear my hair out.” Oleksandr lets go of him, resting his arm on his shoulder.

“From slaves to Imperial guards. No other men can make such a claim.” Thekkur rubs his head where Oleksandr had been holding it, still chuckling at his brother's cocky comment.

“That's true. We are truly unique in our journey. But I wonder…” He looks at Oleksandr with a slight frown.

“Do you think we'll be happy here, truly? Serving as guards to a man we hardly know, fighting his wars and protecting his throne?”

“Aye, I think we could be. We have a purpose now, a routine and a home, a place we belong to. But it's a demanding job, we won't bore too easily. Perhaps we could even find us some brides.” Thekkur nods, considering his brother's words. He has to admit that it feels good to have a purpose, to know that they are no longer living a life of constant uncertainty and instability.

“You may be right. We have never known a life of predictability, it may be a welcome change of pace. And as for brides…” He smirks slightly, a playful glint in his eye. “I'm sure we are handsome enough that we will have our pick of the women here.” Oleksandr chuckles as he lays back in one of the beds with his arms behind his head.

“Yeah, the girls here in Constantinople sure are pretty.” Thekkur grins as he sees his brother lay back in the bed, getting comfortable as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He flops down on the edge of the bed, sitting beside him.

“Aye, they are. Unlike anyone we've seen in our travels. Soft skin, smooth hair, delicate features…” He lets out a soft sigh, already imagining the women they may encounter. Oleksandr smiles at his brother's sigh, knowing that they have both thought these same thoughts.

“We may have to fight off the other men, though,” he says with a chuckle. “I'm sure we won't be the only guards who appreciate the women here.”