Twin Flames: The Eastern Chronicles

Oleksandr is seated in a dark shed, huddled in the corner. His thin linen clothes do little to keep out the chill that blows through the cracks of the stacked log walls, and it's dark. He wraps his arms around his knees, trying to conserve the little heat his body produces, but the bitter cold still chills him to the bone. He can barely see the cloud of breath before his face, slightly illuminated by the bit of moonlight spilling through the ramshackle walls. The shadows of the night make the space feel more cramped and closed. He grits his chattering teeth as he hears the faint crunch of snow outside, and the sound of a panting dog. The door is swung open, and the silhouette of a man stands there.

“Get up, boy.”

Oleksandr shivers and quickly stumbles to his feet, his legs stiff and achy, but he knows better than to disobey. The man’s voice is curt and authoritative, leaving no room for hesitation or argument. The sight of the man's towering silhouette makes him feel small and vulnerable, which he is. He’s just a child. Despite his large size for his age, he is helpless before the cruel men who rule over him in his everyday life. He follows the man out of the shed, his small frame trembling from cold and anxiety, his little bare feet wet and numb from the snow. The wind bites his pink skin, cutting through his tunic like a knife. He can hear the hound panting excitedly at the man’s side, its breath billowing out a steady white cloud. The man's footsteps are firm and wide, and Oleksandr had no choice but to keep up despite his sore state, or risk the consequences of lagging behind.

They arrive at a new building, a barn made of logs, and he's led inside. The man unties the binds on his wrists and he looks around at the commotion in the room, full of rowdy men who are gathered around the sidelines. In the center, laying on the straw covered ground, lies a boy. He's about fourteen, and motionless, his face brutally beaten and bloodied. He catches sight of Thekkur, his white hair cut short, his head hung low, and his fists covered in blood. His face is grim and bruised as he lightly dabs away at his split lip with his sleeve, looking numb. The men around them are boisterous, celebrating their winnings or grumbling at their losses, their laughter and cheers filling the dank air.

The man pushes him forward into the middle of the straw-lined makeshift arena as the motionless boy is hauled away. He then pulls out a dagger, and grabs Oleksandr's long blonde braid as he starts to cut it off, at the nape of the neck. He flinches as the cold steel of the knife touches his hair. He feels the man's rough hand pulling and cutting away at his long, hip-length hair, the flaxen strands falling to the ground like severed fingers. Oleksandr watches, powerless, as the lock of hair that took years to grow is mercilessly cut off, leaving his hair rough and uneven at the nape of his neck.

“Bring him out!” Oleksandr's heart sinks as he hears the man call out, and he looks around the room and sees a boy he recognizes, Sami, who is a few years older than him. It's been several years since Oleksandr last saw him, as he was sold to another tribe, but he recalls being made to weave with him as a little boy. Seeing his fellow slave here now is a bleak reminder of the cruelty and violence they are forced to endure. As Oleksandr is pushed into the ring and faces off against his old friend, he sees the recognition and dread flicker in his fellow slave's eyes. The men around them start to chant, the sound of their cheers and jeers echoing in his ears. The man leans in close and hisses a warning in Oleksandr's ear.

“You fight not just for your life, but for our wagers. Understand, boy?” He nods numbly, his eyes flickering to Thekkur, who is sitting nearby with his head hung low. He can feel the weight of his brother's silent support, his presence a small comfort in the face of the violence about to unfold.

Oleksandr braces himself, his cold, blue eyes locking onto Sami's. He doesn't want to do this. He never wanted to fight. Sami had been a friend of his, once upon a time, back when they were both small. Now, locked in a battle to the death, Oleksandr's heart clenches at the thought of having to fight his former friend. He's never fought anyone before, he's only eight, a fact that makes him feel all the more unprepared and frightened. He doesn't want to be around these wicked men, these terrible and cruel adults. He wants comfort, he yearns for a loving touch and a warm embrace that he's never felt.

The man blows the whistle, its shrill sound piercing the air and signaling the beginning of the fight. Oleksandr tightens his fists, his heart hammering in his chest as he stares down his former friend, the weight of the situation crashing down around him. Sami steps forward and raises his fists, preparing for the fight. Oleksandr tenses, his muscles coiled tight like a spring. When Sami swings with his first fist, Oleksandr deftly dodges the attack, but it's a feint. Sami quickly follows up with his other fist, striking him. Oleksandr feels the impact of the older boy's fist against his face, the force of the blow taking him off balance and sending him staggering backwards, his head ringing from the strike. He raises a hand to his face, feeling the warm trickle of blood streaming down his cheek. He imagines for a moment, if that warmth is what a kiss from his mother would've felt like. Oleksandr's vision swims as he struggles to shake off the dizzying effect of the blow. He can hear the men cheering and shouting around him, their voices a cruel, mocking chorus as he stumbles to regain his bearings. Sami leaps after him, landing a powerful kick to Oleksandr's leg that sends him tumbling to the ground. Before he can properly recover, he is on top of him, pinning him down and driving his knee into his side with brutal force.

As Oleksandr lies there, pinned down and hurt, he hears a voice in his head. It's Thekkur, warning him of something. He glances at his brother, and their eyes meet for a moment, the connection between them stronger than ever. Summoning all his strength and determination, Oleksandr uses his legs to throw Sami off of him, managing to scramble back to his feet, albeit unsteadily. Oleksandr stands, his leg aching from Sami's kick, and his side throbbing from the impact of the knee. His head is still spinning, the world lurching around him in a dizzying blur. He hears the men's laughter, their cruel words fueling a deep burn of resentment and anger within him. Oleksandr bolts forward, seizing Sami's leg with a sudden and powerful movement. With a brutal twist, he snaps the other boy's ankle with a sickening crack, eliciting a howl of pain. Oleksandr's heart seethes with grief and a sense of power as he hears Sami's anguished howl. He glances up, meeting Thekkur's eyes across the ring. His brother gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod, silently encouraging him to keep fighting. Oleksandr hears Thekkur's voice again, this time more urgently.

“There's a rock. Under the hay. To your left.” The words cut through his pain-hazed mind as he processes the message. With a newfound determination, Oleksandr turns his focus to the hay-covered ground of the ring. He scans the floor, searching for any sign of the hidden rock. His eyes dart across the expanse of the ring, looking for anything that appears out of place or unusual. And then, he sees it - a small bump protruding slightly from beneath the layers of hay. His pale eyes widen as he spots it, its shape and size concealed slightly beneath the straw of the ring. Without wasting a moment, he takes a step forward, moving closer to where the rock is buried. Oleksandr snatches it up, its cool, rough surface feeling heavy in his small palm. He turns his gaze back to Sami, who is still struggling to stand on his injured ankle. Without a moment's hesitation, Oleksandr charges forward, tackling him and driving him to the ground. Oleksandr pins Sami down under him, the rock clutched tightly in his fist. He can feel the cold rage and determination coursing through him as he holds his former friend down, his body trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and emotion.

“Forgive me, Sami.” Oleksandr's heart hammers in his chest as he speaks the words aloud, the sound drowned out by the clamor and cheers of the men around him. He raises the rock high, bracing himself for the impact. With a stifled cry, he drives the rock down with all his might, connecting it with Sami's brow. He drives it in, again and again, yelling out in a primitive cry, as he watches his skull cave in with the continuous blows. Hot blood splatters his sweaty face, leaving behind a sickening metallic taste in his mouth. Oleksandr moves away from Sami, dropping the reddened stone and collapses back onto the ground, his body feeling numb and surreal as he stares up at the ceiling above him. The cheers and jeers of the men around him taunt him, a cruel and mocking refrain that rings hollow and empty in the aftermath of the fight. He eventually crawls over to Thekkur, sitting beside him. Thekkur nods at him with a grim expression as their eyes lock, a shared experience of heaviness weighing upon their souls. They are now both killers, just at eight years old, and it is clear this day will never leave their consciousness.

Oleksandr blinks, and he stands in a permafrost field, the bitter cold nipping at his exposed skin. He and Thekkur are only wearing loose breeches, their chests bare and their long hair blowing in the chilly breeze. They’re considerably taller now, and in front of them, two men stand, each holding a long club and appraising them both with cold, anticipating eyes. The twins exchange a calculated glance as they take in the situation with a calm intensity, their cold eyes scanning the surroundings and assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the men standing before them. Two more men stand behind them, also wielding long clubs. Despite the odds being against them, he and Thekkur both share a silent, blank expression. This is nothing they can't handle.

The two men charge forward with clubs in hand, intent on taking down the brothers. But Oleksandr and Thekkur are prepared, their bodies moving with a fluid grace and precision that speaks of long hours of practice and discipline. They deftly deflect the blows, using their meaty forearms like shields to parry the attacks and duck away from the swinging clubs. They return the men's onslaught with quick strikes of their own, targeting vulnerable areas of the body and using every opportunity to exploit any openings. They work together seamlessly, their fighting skills honed to near-perfect coordination through years of training and fighting together. Their movements are like a deadly dance, the blows landing with a sickening crunch as they incapacitate the men one by one. The crowd around them watches in awe, their cheers falling silent as they witness the raw power and skill on display before them.

With barely any bruising on their own, they yank away the clubs from the groaning men on the ground, and Oleksandr straddles one of them, slamming his tough skull into the man's face in a series of brutal headbutts as Thekkur winds one up to execute his opponent, before the game master hollers at them to stop, that these men are not for killing. He drops the club, his face blank and stoic, unphased by the brutal fight they just put up. Oleksandr also stands, his forehead dripping with his foe's blood. The crowd around them falls into a moment of stunned silence, their eyes wide with awe and a hint of fear as they witness the ruthless prowess of the towering twins. Thekkur stands silently beside Oleksandr, his face equally as stoic and expressionless as he scans the faces in the crowd.

The four groaning and defeated men are dragged away, and a new fighter is led forward into the arena. This one is different, armed with a deadly blade, gleaming in the sunlight. Thekkur and Oleksandr exchange a quick, silent glance, their eyes locking for a brief moment. They size up their new opponent, noting the gleam of the sword in the sunlight and the focused determination in his eyes. Oleksandr sees Thekkur raise his hand in a taunting gesture, beckoning the swordsman forward, a clear challenge. The brothers stand motionless before the swordsman, their towering frames and muscular physiques a daunting sight for the man before them. They hold their ground, silently awaiting the moment in which the man will make his move, their bodies coiled like tigers ready to pounce.

The swordsman begins to swing his blade, lunging forward and taking wild, reckless swings at the brothers. However, Oleksandr and Thekkur are too quick and nimble, sidestepping and dodging each attack with ease. They move like a well-oiled machine, their bodies in sync as they effortlessly evade each jab and slash the swordsman tries to land on them. Oleksandr moves in with lightning-fast speed, his calloused hand darting out to seize the sword by the blade. With a jerk, he tears it from the swordsman's grip, the metal scraping against his skin but leaving it unscathed. The crowd around them gasps in stunned disbelief as they witness the display of strength and precision. Thekkur seizes the man and drives him down to the ground, immobilizing him in a submission hold as Oleksandr picks up the sword and holds it to his throat. The crowd around them lets out a gasp of held breath, anticipating the final blow. But then Oleksandr stops, a low, eerie statement escaping his lips.

“No….Too easy.”

Oleksandr grips the sword firmly between his hands, his face twisting into a determined expression as he begins to exert force. The metal emits a creaking and groaning sound as it starts to bend and contort under the immense pressure. The crowd around them watches in stunned silence as the once-glorious sword is twisted and rendered into a useless, disfigured shape by the barbarian's brute strength. Oleksandr tosses the ruined sword at the feet of the game master, his expression one of cold satisfaction. Thekkur lifts the defeated opponent and launches him into the crowd with effortless ease, eliciting gasps and curses from those in the vicinity. Oleksandr's deep voice echoes out, the words loud and clear:

“TOO EASY!”

The crowd around them stirs, both impressed and a little fearful at the display of raw power and strength the brothers have just shown. The game master, standing amongst the crowd, nods in approval, his face betraying a small hint of a smile at the impressive performance put on by the brothers. He speaks up, his voice cutting through the murmurs and muttered whispers of the crowd around them. He looks directly at Oleksandr and Thekkur, his gaze shrewd and challenging.

“Too easy, you say?” He repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. This is almost an insult.” He says, motioning to the groaning opponent who's rising to his feet after being tossed into the crowd. Thekkur nods in agreement, his expression stoic and unruffled. The game master smirks slightly, apparently finding something amusing in the brothers' response.

“You deem it too easy to win against those we offer you?” He asks, his voice carrying a hint of mockery. The brothers await in stoic silence as the game master smiles faintly, his gaze sweeping over the two brothers, taking in their tall frames and unruffled expressions. He can tell from their cold, calm demeanor that they are far from intimidated or cowed.

“Well then, if you find it so 'too easy' to beat the opponents we throw at you, I suppose we will have to provide a more... challenging one. How about… each other?”

The game master's request hangs in the air, a silent challenge that is met with a silent moment of tension. The crowd around them begins to murmur, the spectators curious and excited by the prospect of watching the two brothers turn on each other.

“No.”

The man raises an eyebrow at the brothers' quick, flat refusal.

“No? You refuse my command?” He whistles, and the other master comes out with a long whip.

“You, slaves, dare to refuse?” The second master walks forward with a long whip in hand, the leather coiled and crackling in the air like a snake. The crowd around them jeers and cheers at the sight of the whip, clearly excited by the prospect of the brothers being punished for their refusal. Oleksandr's face remains stoic and expressionless, but Thekkur's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching at the sight of the whip in the man's hand. The man holding the whip steps forward, his face contorted in a cruel smile as he looks at the brothers. Thekkur tenses, his eyes on the whip, ready to defend himself and his brother if he has to.

“You dare refuse me?” The game master repeats, his voice filled with mockery.

“Refuse the command of your masters?” The man's words and demeanor clearly show his contempt and disdain for the brothers. He holds the whip up, ready to use it if necessary, clearly not afraid to get his hands dirty to enforce his commands.

“By Allah, you will fight, or you will fall. Your choice, lowborn!" He repeats the words, his voice firm, his eyes flickering with cold cruelty. The brothers step apart from each other, their bodies tensed and alert as they size up the man holding the whip. Oleksandr's face remains stoic, his eyes dark and calculating, while Thekkur's expression is laced with cold fury, his eyes flickering with a hint of defiance. The man cracks the whip, the lash striking Oleksandr's chest with a swift, loud snap. Oleksandr grunts and winces, his jaw clenched tight, as a thin stripe of weeping red appears across his chest, a testament to the power of the whip.

Thekkur immediately charges at the man, tackling him to the ground with a savage ferocity. In a flurry of merciless punches, he rains down blows upon the man's face and torso, blood staining his knuckles as they connect with the man's flesh. The crowd of men and other masters rushes forward to help their downed comrade, but Oleksandr is there instantly, fending them off with a brutal, defensive onslaught, protecting his brother as he continues to beat the man. With a ruthless intensity and ferocity, Thekkur and Oleksandr continue to pummel the men who dared to approach, their bodies moving with a deadly precision and efficiency. The brothers work together like a machine, their movements coordinated and fluid, as they swiftly and brutally dispatch any man who dares to confront them. Oleksandr picks up the discarded whip, the leather coiling and twisting in his hand as he faces those who dare to flee. With a flick of his wrist, he snaps the whip out, the lash cracking through the air as it connects with the retreating back of a man attempting to flee. The twins continue on their rampage, their faces like thunder, filled with a savage fury and vengeance.

Men scramble and flee in all directions, trying to avoid the deadly onslaught of the twins, but few escape. The brothers smash and crush those who held them captive, their every move filled with raw power and primitive wrath. The two brothers move like a deadly storm, their limbs striking out in a dance of violence and precision. Thekkur moves with a wild, animalistic fluidity, howling like a rabid dog, his punches and kicks landing with deadly force, while Oleksandr uses the whip to inflict brutal punishment upon those who try to flee, stopping to maul a slave trader with his teeth. He then kicks down the door to the main hut in the center of the village, the thick wood splintering and cracking under the force of his boot. Thekkur follows closely behind, his fists connecting with the flesh of any who try to stop them, beating them into submission before they can even put up a fight. While Thekkur deals with the opposing villagers, Oleksandr swiftly moves through the hut, gathering warm clothing and supplies for the brothers to use on their journey.

Oleksandr sits up in bed with a sharp gasp, his breath coming heavy and ragged, his face slick with a cold sweat. He looks around the cramped inn room, the dim light filtering through the crack in the curtains, and sees Thekkur sleeping peacefully beside him as if undisturbed by the nightmare that just shook his brother. Oleksandr takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself, his heart still pounding in his chest. He shakes his head, looking around their bedroom in the inn, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream of their past, and looks over at Thekkur once more, watching in silence for a moment as his twin slumbers on, his features peaceful and relaxed. Oleksandr stands and moves to the window, pushing back the curtains to look out at the black sea and the port in the distance. It's still early in the morning, just before the sun has risen on the opposite horizon, but the port is already bustling as a large, grandiose ship arrives, its sails billowing in the early morning breeze. Oleksandr watches the approaching ship, a sense of wonder and curiosity in his gaze.

Oleksandr lights his pipe, taking a deep pull of smoke into his lungs and letting it out slowly, watching the thick white tendrils rise and disperse in the early morning air. He continues to watch the bustling port, taking in the merchants and sailors going about their business, tethering the boats and unloading their cargo. It's been two weeks since they spoke to the recruiter, who had mentioned that the Roman ships should be arriving around this time, and Oleksandr can't help but feel a flicker of anticipation and excitement. Thekkur slowly wakes up, his eyelids fluttering open as he stretches his arms above his head and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He sits up groggily, looking around the inn room for a moment before his gaze lands on his brother, who still sits near the window, watching the port outside. Oleksandr focuses, his eyes fixed on the boats arriving and unloading their supplies.

Thekkur yawns and rolls out of bed, stretching his limbs and groaning softly. He walks over to the window beside his brother, rubbing his eyes and looking out at the port.

“The boats are here,” Oleksandr says, not turning to look at his twin, his eyes still fixed outside. Thekkur looks out the window with a sense of awe and wonder, taking in the sight of the grand Roman ship in the port below.

“Woah… I've never seen such a vessel.” Thekkur says with a sense of wonder, taking in the sight of the grand Eastern Roman ship out at the port. Oleksandr nods in agreement, puffing on his pipe and passing it to him.

"It's time."