Twin Flames: The Eastern Chronicles

In the aftermath of the fall, with the city smoldering in ruins behind him, Oleksandr knew his battle was not yet over. Before his brother’s life had been cruelly taken, they had shared one final moment, a promise whispered between them. Amalthea, his brother’s beloved, he had to find her. It was the last bond to his brother, the final piece of the life they had shared, and Oleksandr would not let it slip away into the darkness. Wounded but driven, he moved through the shattered remains of Constantinople, searching for any sign of her. The streets were filled with despair, the survivors lost and scattered, but Oleksandr was relentless. He had nothing left but this oath, and he would see it fulfilled, no matter the cost. In a city conquered and broken, he was a shadow among shadows, hunting for the one person who could tie him back to a world that no longer existed. Amalthea’s safety was now his only mission, the last thread of hope in a landscape of despair. Oleksandr pressed on through the ruined city, every step heavy with the weight of his vow. The streets, once filled with life, were now a graveyard, the echoes of battle still haunting the air. But he moved with purpose, guided by the memory of his brother’s dying wish.

Finding Amalthea in the chaos would be like finding a single thread in a tapestry torn apart, but Oleksandr had no intention of giving up. His brother had loved her, and that was enough. No matter how deep she had gone into hiding, no matter how far the city had fallen, he would find her. He owed his brother that much, and more. So much more. The oath was all that kept him going, a final duty to honor a bond that even death could not break. Weeks passed as Oleksandr navigated the shattered remnants of Constantinople, a wraith among the ruins. He clung to the shadows, moving silently through the maze of broken buildings and abandoned streets, avoiding the Ottoman soldiers who now patrolled the city. The once-bustling metropolis was now a ghost town, and the search for Amalthea felt like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Each night, he scoured the ruins, asking the few who dared speak—survivors hiding in cellars, fearful of their new overlords. He pieced together scraps of information, following whispers and rumors, but none led to the woman he sought. The city was a labyrinth of destruction, and hope seemed to slip through his fingers like sand. His determination never wavered, though. Each day he grew more gaunt, each night more desperate, but the thought of failing his brother's last wish drove him forward. The question of whether Amalthea was still alive, or even still in the city, haunted him. Yet, amid the despair, he clung to the sliver of hope that she might still be somewhere, waiting to be found.

One night, while perched atop a crumbling rooftop, Oleksandr caught sight of something that might offer a glimmer of hope—a figure moving cautiously through the shadows, a woman who seemed to be hiding from view. He watched intently, the possibility of finding Amalthea rekindling the hope that had kept him alive through the darkest days of the siege.

Oleksandr's heart pounded as he watched the figure below. He had seen countless faces in the city’s ruins, but this one, a tall woman moving with a careful, deliberate pace, was different. The torchlight catches a whisp of her dark blonde hair, peaking out from her hood. Every instinct screamed that this could be Amalthea.

He waited for the right moment, then descended from the rooftop with practiced silence. His approach was cautious, every step calculated to avoid detection. As he drew closer, he observed her more clearly. Her posture was tense, her movements furtive. It was clear she was trying to avoid the Ottoman patrols, just as he had been. Summoning all his remaining strength and resolve, Oleksandr stepped into her path, emerging from the shadows.

"Amalthea?" He called softly, trying to mask the desperation in his voice. The woman froze, her eyes wide with fear. As their gazes met, he saw the flicker of recognition and hope in her green eyes, and he knew that against all odds, he had found her.

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide with disbelief and hope. The fear that had been etched on her face moments before started to slowly melt away, but a trace of caution remained. She studied him, looking at his haggard appearance, his weary eyes, the scars and grime that marked his weary frame.

Her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Thekkur…"

Oleksandr tenses, his weary eyes flickering over her face. She thinks he's... him. The resemblance between them has been a lifelong blessing and curse. And now, at this moment, it feels like both. He looks at her, struggling to find words. He knows what he has to say, yet he fears it. She looks so hopeful, so expectant. He has to be the one to break her heart.

"I’m…" he begins, his voice harsh and rough, "I’m Oleksandr.”

"Oleksandr...? Where's Thekkur?" He's unable to speak. This whole time, he's been in a mindless daze, unable to process the truth of what happened. Oh, Thekkur... He stares at her, his eyes hollow. Her expression shifts and contorts into horror and grief. Her eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth in horrified disbelief. The realization hits her like a physical blow, the color draining from her face.

"No…" She whispers, her voice hoarse in her throat. Her body starts to tremble, shock setting in. "No...Tell me it isn't true." She takes a step closer to Oleksandr, her hand reaching out as if to touch him, to make sure he's real, but she jerks her hand back, as if his very presence hurts her. Oleksandr hangs his head. She shakes her head, her eyes wild, her hands clutching at her stomach as if she might be ill. Her voice comes out in a choked sob, a strangled sound full of anguish.

"Tell me it’s not true!" She demands, her eyes glittering with tears. The pain in her voice is raw and primal, and it cuts deep into Oleksandr's heart. He sways slightly, the exhaustion from the relentless fighting without rest for days upon days followed by his search for her catching up, along with the mental turmoil and physiological damage of losing his other half, he blacks out.

He blinks awake, laying in a bed. He sits up frantically, searching his surroundings, but flinches from the soreness of his body, but he doesn't pay it any mind. "Thekkur? THEKKUR?!” His voice echoes through the room, hoarse and fearful. His mind is a chaotic mess, the last few days are a blur of pain and desperation. His body protests the sudden movement, a thousand different aches and pains springing up in response. But he doesn't care about that. He searches the room, his eyes wild and panicked. Searching for the familiar face. Searching for his little brother. The memories flood back to him, his living nightmare. Thekkur. Thekkur is dead. He's gone. Oleksandr is alone, truly, alone.

The realization crashes over him like a tidal wave. The knowledge that he is truly, utterly alone in the world. The loss of his twin is a physical ache, an emptiness in his chest that feels like it will never be filled, a tearing of his very soul. The reality of his solitude is suffocating, like a noose around his neck, slowly tightening. The door of the room opens, and Amalthea steps in, her eyes puffy and her face worried.

"Shh, Olek, quiet."

As the door opens and Amalthea steps in, Oleksandr’s head snaps in her direction. He is torn between a mixture of relief and pain. His eyes search her face, taking in the details in a frenzy. The puffy eyes, the worry lines on her forehead. Her concern for him is apparent.

Oleksandr slowly lays back on the bed, his mind fading back to the dissociative blankness. Amalthea sits on the edge of the bed with a wet cloth, and dabs off his face in silence. He is almost unresponsive, his body limp and his mind in a fog. He just stares up at the ceiling, his gaze empty and expressionless. As Amalthea gently dabs his face with the wet cloth, the coolness of the fabric offers a brief moment of respite. The motion is soothing, and he closes his eyes, letting her tend to him silently.

"I killed him..." He whispers, his voice thick with pain and regret. His words seem to cut through the air like a knife. The raw, painful admission escapes his lips in a choked whisper, the weight of his grief and guilt apparent. Amalthea freezes, her hand pausing momentarily. She stares at him, her eyes wide and her face going pale.

"What... what did you say...?"

"I... I spared the one who killed him, years ago... a boy... I spared him... He took my spear. He ran off. I spared him, and he killed my brother... On Athos… with my spear. My spear... My brother." As he speaks, his voice is low and raw, full of a bitter mixture of grief and anger. The memories of what happened on Athos years ago come flooding back, sharp and vivid. The face of the boy he spared, the look in his eyes. Amalthea listens in horrified silence, her body rigid and her eyes wide. She stares at him, her own grief mixing with confusion and disbelief.

"He… He hit Thekkur with my spear. He meant to hit me. I dodged. It hit... It hit Theko. It meant to hit me. I didn't know. I would've taken it. I would've let him kill me. I didn't know, I didn’t know, Amalthea, I’m sorry." His words stumble over each other, as if the flow of his thoughts is too fast and incoherent for his mouth to form the words coherently. His eyes are wild, haunted, as he relives the moment on the mountain, the image of Thekkur and the spear burned into his memory. He lets go of the last vestiges of his stoicism, the last remnants of the warrior's facade he has maintained for so long. The dam breaks, he closes his eyes, and the tears come, raw and unrestrained. Tears of grief and guilt, of sorrow and regret. As he weeps, his body shudders and trembles like a leaf in the wind. The years of holding everything in, the years of maintaining a strong facade, all of it crumbles away, leaving him vulnerable and utterly broken. "I loved him more than anything." Oleksandr sobs.

Amalthea looks away, her own tears fall silently, her grief and pain mixing with his. She reaches out, putting her hand on his shoulder, offering a silent moment of understanding and support. The weight of their shared pain is palpable, like a thick, oppressive fog in the room.

Days pass, and Oleksandr eventually recovers from his extreme fatigue and exertion. He steps into the living room, his eyes weary and his body still sore from the abuse he has put it through. But he is less haggard now, less of a ragged husk of despair. He approaches Amalthea, who is sitting by the window, her gaze fixed on the world outside. He looks around the room, at the furniture and personal touches. The collection of dried flowers in a vase, all of various colors and states of preservation, the stack of letters on a table written in a familiar handwriting. He stands behind her in silence for a moment, before finally speaking.

"How long have I been out?" He asks, his voice hoarse and gravelly. Amalthea starts at the sound of his voice, surprised out of her reverie. She turns to look at him, her eyes taking in his appearance. He looks a little better, but still far from well. She gives him a weary smile.

"About four days," she replies. "You've been in and out of consciousness the whole time. Sleeping and waking up intermittently, mumbling and groaning. You must have been exhausted." As he looks out the window, he is assaulted by the sight of the city, ravaged and conquered. Memories of war and slaughter flash through his mind, and a savage, bloodthirsty rage bubbles up inside him. He clenches his fists, his knuckles going white with the effort to restrain himself. He turns away from the window, taking a deep, steadying breath, trying to quell the storm of anger and brutality that rages inside him.

“Amalthea... Pack your things.” Her eyes widen in surprise at his brusque command.

"Why?" She asks, her voice hesitant. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see. I'm getting you out of here. For Thekkur. Pack light." Her eyes soften at the mention of Thekkur's name. She nods slowly, her expression serious.

"Alright," she says quietly. "I'll pack essentials. What are we taking? What do I need?"

“Clothes and precious items.” She nods again, her eyes focused, her mind already mapping out what precious items and necessary belongings to take

"I'll be back in an hour." He sheaths his sword and glances in the mirror by the door, his eyes widening at his own reflection, seeing the shared face of his late-twin. It is a painful reminder of their connection, the bond they shared. He stands frozen, his eyes locked on the image in the mirror. The grief and pain bubble up inside him, threatening to overwhelm him. He shakes his head and forces himself to look away, closing his eyes. He collects himself and leaves the insulae. He sneaks through the city streets, until he comes across a tethered horse, which he stealthily steals, bringing it back to where she resides. Quickly, he ushers her out, putting her on the horse and getting on as well, and he rides through the city.

The city is still in a state of chaos, as the aftermath of the siege and the upheaval of the city continues. Oleksandr and Amalthea ride through the city's back alleys and shadowy paths, avoiding the main streets and the prying eyes of anyone who might recognize them. As they ride through the city, they can see the evidence of the conflict everywhere they look. Broken buildings, abandoned streets, and the bodies of soldiers lying in the dirt. They approach a checkpoint on the north end of the city. Oleksandr's eyes narrow as he sees the men.

"Hold on." He mutters to her. As they approach the checkpoint, she grips Oleksandr's waist tightly, holding on for dear life. She can sense the tension in his body, the coiled muscle and taut focus. It is as if something primal and dangerous is about to be unleashed. He kicks the horse, sending it into a charge as he pulls out his sword, causing the soldiers at the checkpoint to shout and draw their weapons, but he tramples them with a fierce, feral intensity. The horse is fast and powerful, and they break past the checkpoint with ease. As they ride away from the city, they leave the sounds of chaos and violence behind. The soldiers shout after them, but there is no pursuit. They are free.

They ride for hours and hours, the landscape around them a blur of color and motion. Oleksandr's eyes are sharp and focused, his body taut with determination. He rides the horse like a part of himself, the animal responding to his slightest command, its hooves pounding the dirt and its breath rasping in its lungs. He doesn't take a single instant of rest, his mind set on their destination. They eventually arrive in an inconspicuous valley, seemingly empty except for a single boulder. He dismounts his horse and looks up at her on it.

"Do you know how to ride a horse on your own?" She looks down at him from the horse, her expression a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

"Not really," she admits. "But I can try. I need to learn how to be more independent. I can't keep relying on you for everything."

"Alright." He walks over to the boulder and looks around for a moment before kneeling, his hands digging into the dirt, shoveling it away from the rock with feverish intensity. He throws the dirt aside, his muscles straining with the effort, his face sweating and his eyes narrowed. He eventually hits wood, and he pushes the dirt aside more, pulling out a large wooden case. Amalthea watches with confusion and curiosity.

"What's that?" He pushes back the last of the dirt, revealing a large, heavily reinforced wooden case beneath. The wood is worn and weathered from years of exposure to the elements, but it is still solidly built. He looks up at Amalthea as she watches with confusion and curiosity.

"This," he says, his voice hoarse, "is Thekkur and I's first paycheck." He brushes off the dirt and grime, and opens up the case, revealing it to be stuffed to the brim with silver and gold coins. It is a small fortune, a life-changing amount of money in their current state. He looks up at her, his eyes meeting hers. "This should be more than enough to get you a property and a home, and you'll have a bit left over." He repeats, his voice quieter now. He closes the case and hands it over to her while she sits on the horse. “Ride north west, along the coast. You'll find villages there with land for sale, away from prying eyes.” She takes the case, feeling the weight of the coins in her hand. She looks at him, her eyes serious and contemplative.

"Northwest, along the coast," she repeats, her breath quickening, mentally preparing herself. "Villages with land for sale..." He nods, his gaze steady and certain.

"He was going to marry you, you know. When we got back..." Oleksandr trails off. She looks up at him, surprise and emotion flitting across her face.

"Really...?" She whispers, her voice soft and awed. "He... he was going to marry me?" Oleksandr nods. She stares at him, her eyes wide and her mind spinning. "I had no idea," she says quietly, her voice trembling. "He never said anything to me."

"He was... about to."

She thinks of all the what-ifs and possibilities. "But... he never got the chance..."

"He asked me to take care of you."

"He... He did?" He nods, taking off his bandana.

"Yes. And I will. I'll come back and find you, check in on you, whenever I'm nearby. If you ever need help, or money, or anything... I'll help. You can count on that." She nods slowly, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.

"Thank you," she says quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "It means a lot to me, to know that you'll be there for me. I'll be alright, I promise. I just... need time." He nods and looks away, staring at the horizon for a long moment before speaking again.

"I have work to do. So long, Amalthea." As Oleksandr looks away, a sense of finality hangs in the air. She can feel a profound sense of loss, knowing that this is likely the last time they will speak for a long time.

"So long," she says, her voice quiet. "Be safe."

He bows his head softly before turning and walking back down south towards the city. He has one last thing left to do.