Twin Flames: The Eastern Chronicles

The camp sits on the outskirts of the city, its location surrounded by ruins of the past generations. The camp itself is a flurry of activity, soldiers drilling and training in the open fields, the sound of clattering weapons and shouting filling the air. The brothers look around at the makeshift encampment, their eyes taking in the tents and barracks that line the perimeter. They see the rows of men marching and running drills, the makeshift archery range where soldiers practice their aim, and the sparring area where men train hand-to-hand combat. Just beyond the camp, they see the imposing walls of the city, and the crumbling ruins of the past scattered across the landscape like shattered memories. The brothers feel a sense of unease as they look at the ruins, their presence like a haunting reminder to the impermanence of even the mightiest of empires. The brothers look over at the city walls, their minds wondering how long the Eastern Roman Empire will be able to maintain its power and presence. They can see the flickering lights of the city through the walls, and the sound of people talking and shouting reaches them faintly. The brothers are so distracted by the city that they almost miss the organizer calling out to them.

“Oy, you two oafs! Get over here.” The brothers are snapped out of their thoughts as the organizer barks out at them, the suddenness of his voice cutting through the noise of the camp. They exchange a brief glance and make their way over to him. “What weapons do you carry? We will inspect them now.” The brothers take out their scimitars, displaying them to the sergeant. He looks at them carefully. “These will do well.” Oleksandr also shows his spear, and Thekkur shows his sling, and they also both display their daggers. The sergeant looks at the brother's weapons, his eyes scanning over them with a critical eye. He nods approvingly at the scimitars, admiring their fine craftsmanship and sharp edges. He then looks at the spear and sling, his eyes narrowing slightly at the more unconventional choice of weapons. But he nods his approval, acknowledging the potential usefulness of these weapons in combat. They put their weapons away as the man looks them over.

“You are both clearly experienced. Go along this other line.” The brothers exchange a brief glance at the sergeant's words, their stoic expressions betraying nothing. They nod and make their way over to the other line. They silently register that they are grouped with the seasoned fighters and veterans, the men around them all bearing the scars and weary eyes of those who have seen combat before. “Come on, men. You will be assigned to your barracks where you will keep your belongings and rest.” They follow the other men as they are led to their barracks, their footsteps echoing in the silence as they move through the camp. They look around at the men, their minds taking in the new surroundings and assessing the other soldiers they are now bunking with.

The brothers take note of a broad-shouldered man, his long chestnut hair and red braided beard making him stand out among the other men. He's burly and hard-faced, displaying years of experience. They can see strange symbols etched into the backs of his hands, the markings stark against his fair skin. They watch the man, their eyes narrowing slightly as they size him up silently. The brothers notice the man's foreign looks, their eyes scanning his features with a stoic expression. The stranger nods silently at the brothers, a subtle gesture of acknowledgment. The brothers nod back, their eyes meeting the man's for a brief moment before they drop their bags under their own bunks and look around the barracks, taking in the new surroundings. The sergeant wanders around the barracks, addressing the many men in attendance, his voice clear and authoritative.

“Since you arrive in the evening, you are free to relax for the night. Meals will be served twice a day at the eastern ruins. Training begins soon after sunrise. Welcome to Constantinople.” The sergeant finishes his speech and turns to leave, the sound of his boots on the packed earth echoing as he walks off, leaving the men to themselves in the barracks. The brothers look around at the other men, their eyes scanning their faces as they try to get a read on the ones they will be bunking with.

“Hello.” A deep accented voice addresses them from behind. They turn to see the red-bearded man, standing there, resting his hands on his belt. They regard him with a cool stare, their expressions betraying neither friendliness nor hostility.

“Hello.” They say in unison, their voices low as the man looks them up and down.

“Where are you from?” He asks. Oleksandr speaks in a gruff voice.

“Siberia.”

"Siberia..? I am of Denmark. A land on the North Sea." The brothers take a moment to let the man's words sink in, their eyes scanning over his face slowly.

“Denmark…” Oleksandr says slowly, as if testing the word out on his tongue. “A land of cold and snow, like Siberia.”

“Aye.”

They're quiet for a moment, the silence between them heavy. Thekkur is the one to break it, his voice a low rumble in the air. “You have markings on your hands.” He says, his tone a statement rather than a question.

“So do you.”

“Aye, we do.”

The three men stand in a circle, their hands outstretched and displaying their tattoos. The markings are indeed similar yet different, each tattoo bearing a unique and distinctive design that marks them out as coming from different cultures and languages.

“What do yours read?” Thekkur asks. The man looks down at his hands, his fingers tracing the markings on the backs. He looks up at Thekkur, his eyes showing the barest hint of a smile.

“The symbols are called ‘Futhark.’ It is an ancient language from my homeland. It says 'protection' and 'strength'.”

“Ours are of brotherhood, and strength as well.” The man nods, his eyes taking in the brothers' tattoos with a thoughtful look.

“Brotherhood and strength. Fitting for men such as yourselves.”

“We are similar.”

“Indeed. We are kindred spirits, bound by our markings and our desire for strength.”

“What is your name?”

The man's broad face breaks into a small smile as he speaks, his voice low and steady. “I am Hæsten. And you?”

“I am Oleksandr. My brother is Thekkur.” He gestures to his brother next to him. Hæsten nods in acknowledgement, his eyes taking in the brothers with a subtle gleam of interest.

“Oleksandr and Thekkur…” He says quietly, his voice rolling over the names. He glances between the brothers, sizing them up quietly. “Thekkur, it is a name from my culture.” Thekkur's eyes narrow in curiosity as he looks at Hæsten, listening intently.

“So I have heard.” He says, wondering where this conversation is going.

“Aye. It is one of the many names of one of our gods.”

Thekkur's eyes widen a little at the mention of gods, his curiosity piqued. He takes a step closer, his face betraying his interest. “A god? Which god?”

“Odin, the Allfather.”

“Odin…” Thekkur says quietly, testing the word out on his tongue, “the all-father, you say?”

“Yes. It means 'welcome one.' How is it that you, a Siberian, bear this name?” He glances at Oleksandr before he responds.

“I don't know. Our mother was a Rus woman, she passed away when we were born. Our father is unknown to us.”

“You hail from a mixed bloodline, then.”

“It is possible.”

Hæsten takes a moment to look the brothers up and down, his eyes studying them intently. He can see the features in their faces and bodies, their appearance hinting at the possibility of their mixed heritage. “You certainly bear the marks of mixed lineage. I would not be surprised if you had Nordic blood in your veins.” The brothers look at eachother, studying their identical faces.

“We haven't considered it before.”

Hæsten nods slowly, his eyes watching the brothers closely. He can see the small flicker of surprise on their faces at the possibility. “It is not often that one comes across men built like the two of you. You have the physiques of warriors, the kind that only a certain bloodline can produce... It would not surprise me if you had Nordic blood in you.” Hæsten’s gaze falls back down to their tattoos. He studies the markings quietly for a moment, before looking back up at the two brothers.

“You two… Are you twins?”

“Aye, yes. Born minutes apart. I am the older one.” Oleksandr responds.

“I too had a brother. Thorvaldsen. I was older.” Hæsten says, with a flicker of sadness in his rather stoic face.

“What happened to him?” Thekkur asks. Hæsten's eyes darken as he looks at the two brothers, the memories of his brother's fate still fresh in his mind.

“He died honorably. In battle.” He says simply, the words heavy with an undertone of grief. Oleksandr and Thekkur nod slowly, their eyes never leaving Hæsten's face. They can feel the weight behind the words, the pain and anger that still linger in his heart.

“A death worthy of a warrior.” Thekkur says quietly, his voice respectful.

“Aye. Yet such honour does not absolve the pain of losing a brother.” Hæsten is silent for a moment, before catching his bearings and patting Thekkur on the shoulder. “Come on, northern brothers. Let us share a meal.” Oleksandr and Thekkur look at one another for a brief moment, their silent communication conveying a mutual agreement. They follow after Hæsten, the three men moving towards the eastern ruins of the training camp in silence.

They soon arrive at the eastern ruins, the area lit with fires and teeming with life. The sound of men's voices, the smell of cooking food, and the sight of other soldiers eating and relaxing fills the air. Hæsten leads them to a spot near a large fire, where they can sit down and eat together. As they settle down, the three men find themselves in a circle around the fire. Thekkur and Oleksandr quietly observe the other soldiers around them, their eyes scanning over the foreign faces and taking in the new surroundings. They exchange a brief glance, their usual stoic expressions betrayed by a small hint of interest that flashes in their eyes. Oleksandr and Thekkur sit quietly beside Hæsten, watching the other soldiers banter, eat, and drink around them. They take sips from their own cups of wine, their minds staying sharp and their eyes observant.

Despite the casual atmosphere, the two brothers remain on guard, their senses always attuned to their surroundings. Hæsten engages in conversation with some of the other soldiers, but his eyes occasionally flicker over to the brothers. He can sense their aloofness, the way they sit quietly and watch the others with wary gazes. He understands their instinct for caution, the need to stay alert even in moments of relaxation. Hæsten notes the brothers' careful observation, their eyes scanning over every detail of the other soldiers. He can see the way they size them up, the way they calculate and take inventory. He can sense the silent assessment they're making, the way they quietly judge each man based on their weapons, their armor, and their behavior. The men around them start to grow rowdy, their conversation growing more lively and energized. A few of them begin to challenge each other to friendly sparring matches, their voices growing louder as they call and taunt one another. Oleksandr and Thekkur watch as the soldiers begin to spar, their eyes tracking each move and strike as the men fight with a mix of playful and serious intent. It's clear that the soldiers here are well-trained and skilled, their bodies moving with grace and efficiency. Hæsten looks over at the two brothers and grins, a spark of challenge in his eyes.

“You two... How about a little spar?” The brothers look over at Hæsten with curious gazes

“Spar, with you?”

Hæsten nods, his grin growing wider. “Aye. That's right. The men are intrigued by you. I think it's time for you two to show us what you're truly made of.” The brothers exchange a glance before nodding, “alright.” The brothers follow Hæsten silently to the makeshift arena, their faces stoic, but their eyes sharp and focused. The other men in the camp take notice of the upcoming spar, and begin to gather around the arena, curious to see the two mysterious brothers in action.

“Oi! Three vikings, ahah!” One man drunkenly shouts. Thekkur leans over to Hæsten and asks, “Vikings? What is this?” Hæsten glances over at Thekkur, surprised by his question.

“You don't know what a Viking is? You've never heard?” The brothers shake their heads and Hæsten smirks. “They call us this because we are Northmen. You two look like Vikings, so the men here have started calling you that. It's a sign of respect - Vikings are legendary warriors, known for their strength and tenacity in battle. They are my people.” The brothers nod in understanding, and the three men take off their tunics and stand in the area, getting ready to spar. The other men around the arena watch in anticipation, their eyes flickering between Hæsten and the two brothers. A few men place bets on who they think will win, while others simply watch in silence, waiting for the spar to begin. Hæsten stretches his neck and his shoulders in anticipation, grinning at the brothers.

“I reckon I could whoop at least one of you. Come on, Ruskis." Oleksandr and Thekkur stand quietly, their torsos bare and their muscles taut as bowstrings. They both look back at Hæsten with calm gazes.

Hæsten and Oleksandr spar, their movements quick. Hæsten's punch comes fast and hard, but Oleksandr's strong arm blocks it with ease. Then, Oleksandr returns the favor with a swift punch to Hæsten's ribs. The men around them watch with intense gazes, impressed by the speed and strength of their spar. Thekkur stands back, his arms folded and his eyes watching the two men closely. Despite his casual stance, he remains vigilant, ready to step in at a moment's notice. The two men continue their sparing, the intensity increasing. Hæsten's attacks become more aggressive, but Oleksandr's defenses remain unbreakable, his body moving with a fluid grace and powerful control. The other men around them grow more excited, their eyes glued to the fight. Hæsten sees an opening and quickly lunges forward, intent on using his frame to overpower Oleksandr. He grabs hold of him, intending to lift him up and slam him into the ground with a pile-drive. But Oleksandr is faster and more agile, anticipating Hæsten's move. Instead of being thrown down, Oleksandr uses the momentum of Hæsten's grab to spring himself higher into the air, using the sudden lift to push himself onto Hæsten's shoulder. From there, he grabs hold of Hæsten's waist and forces him back down to the ground with a twist. He pins him down on his stomach for a moment before quickly standing and helping him up. Hæsten groans as he stands with a slight grin.

“Aye, well done, you slippery bastard.” The other men around the arena cheer, a few of them applauding and whistling.

Hæsten straightens up and looks around at the other soldiers. “You two shitheads, come, help me,” he says as he points at two men in the crowd. The two soldiers that Hæsten points at look back at him, their eyes wide in surprise at being called out. But after a moment, they straighten up and nod, their pride and their desire to prove themselves pushing them forward.

“Alright. We'll take you up on that offer.”

The match starts and the men fight hard, but it quickly becomes clear that the brothers have the upper hand. Their coordination is impeccable, each one moving like an extension of the other. They anticipate each other's moves, defending themselves and each other with a seamless precision that the others can't match. Despite the soldiers' skill, they find themselves struggling to keep up with the brothers' fluid onslaught. The men around the arena watch with wide eyes, their excitement growing as they see the brothers' skill in action. Hæsten fights with a mixture of pride and admiration, seeing firsthand the power and finesse that he only sensed before. The atmosphere is electric, the men around the arena holding their breath as they await the outcome. The three men struggle to catch their breath, their chests heaving with exhaustion as they get off the ground. Thekkur and Oleksandr straighten themselves up, wiping sweat and dust off their faces with their hands. The men around the arena break out into applause, their voices overlapping as they shout praises and cheers for the brothers. Hæsten grins, clapping his pals on the back.

“Where did you learn to fight, lads?"

“We were..” Thekkur begins with hesitation, “gladiators back in Siberia.” Hæsten's eyes widen in surprise.

“Gladiators, eh? That explains the fighting style. I've seen many skilled fighters before, but nothing like that. The way you two fight together... it's as if you're one warrior in two bodies.”

“We have fought all our lives. We never lose.” Hæsten chuckles at the brothers' confidence.

“Never lose, eh? That's quite a claim. I wonder how true it really is.” Thekkur points to four men on the sidelines.

“Come. Try us.” Hæsten looks to the four men that Thekkur gestures at, then back at the brothers with a raised eyebrow.

“You serious? You think you can take all four of them at once?”

“No. All seven of you.” Hæsten's eyes widen in surprise, but a grin spreads across his bearded face.

“All seven of us... You're really going to make us work for it, aren't you?”

At this point, all the men from the firepit have come to spectate the sparring. The seven men in the ring size up and encircle the brothers, determined to get at least one of them on the ground. The brothers stand back to back as they carefully scan the men with their eyes. The men move in, one after the other, each one determined to be the one to land a hit on the brothers. They attack in a barrage of punches and kicks, their movements quick and agile. Thekkur and Oleksandr sidestep, block, or deflect most of the hits, their reflexes lightning fast as they remain almost eerily calm under the attack. One of the men manages to get Thekkur on his ass for a moment, before Thekkur steadies himself, using his two feet to brutally kick two men away, before he goes on his side and spins with his leg out, knocking a couple of them off their feet. He springs to a stance, headbutting another. Oleksandr deflects a punch before grabbing the man's arm and pulling him towards him, lifting him up and hauling him towards two opponents. Thekkur and Oleksandr move with a grace and power that is almost mesmerizing to watch. They dodge and block, their reflexes lighting fast and their moves precise. The men around the ring watch with bated breath as the brothers fight, their eyes wide and their breath catching in their throats. Hæsten watches with a mixture of awe and respect, his eyes flickering between the brothers. He expected a good fight, but he never expected a performance like this. Oleksandr's final roundhouse kick connects, sending the last of the opponents sprawling to the ground with a loud groan. Hæsten shakes his head in disbelief, a cocky smile on his face.

“Never lost a fight, huh? You weren't kidding…”

As the night settles, the brothers and Hæsten make their way back to their barracks. Hæsten chuckles, shaking his head. “I'll admit, lads. I didn't expect you to take on seven men at once and knock them all on their asses like that.”

The brothers smirk before Thekkur responds, “wait until you see what we can do on horseback.” Hæsten raises an eyebrow at this, a intrigued smile on his face.

“Horseback, eh? I've seen some skilled riders in my years, but something tells me you two are in a different league entirely.”

“You are strong yourself,” Oleksandr says casually, “it's refreshing to be challenged.” Hæsten grins at Oleksandr's compliment, his chest puffing up slightly with pride.

“Well, I try my best. But there's nothing quite like facing someone who really pushes you to your limits, is there?”

“What kind of battle did you see in Denmark?” Hæsten's smile drops slightly at the question, a shadow passing over his face as he recalls the battlefield.

“Mostly raids, skirmishes, that sort of thing. We would attack small villages and settlements, taking what we wanted and moving on before any reinforcements could arrive. It was brutal and messy work, but it was what we had to do to survive and make a name for ourselves.”

“Plundering, hm? That’s what's going on in the north?”

“Aye, plunder and conquest. That's what drives most of the clans nowadays. There's riches to be had, land to gain, and power to be seized. It's a never-ending cycle of violence and bloodshed. The strong take what they can, and the weak are crushed under their boots.”

“Interesting.” The brothers exchange a curious gaze. Hæsten notices the brothers' exchanged glance, his curiosity piqued. He raises an eyebrow at them.

“What's up with you two? That look on your faces tells me there's something going on behind those eyes of yours.”

“Did your men often capture slaves?”

“That we did. It was common practice. We would take captives during our raids, and either ransom them back to their families or sell them at the market. It was a way to make some extra coin and a source of free labor. Why do you ask?”

“Who would purchase them?” Hæsten thinks for a moment, a pensive look on his face as he recollects memories.

“Mostly households and farms, I suppose. People would buy them as farmhands, fieldhands, housekeepers, and the like. And well, some of my men also took the pretty ones for more.. personal reasons, if you catch my drift.”

“Our mother, she was a slave. A Rus woman, kept by Uyghurs. Yet you tell us that Thekkurs name is Nordic.” Oleksandr says, and Thekkur continues.

“We always assumed our father was another slave, but we never heard word of him. Perhaps our father was the one who captured our mother. Perhaps he was a northman like yourself.” Hæsten frowns, his expression thoughtful as he considers the brothers' speculation. He rubs his chin as he ponders the possibility.

“It's possible that your father could have been one of the men who captured your mother. And if he was a northman, then it would explain your name and features.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “did your mother ever speak of your father? Did she ever mention anything about him, anything at all?”

“She died during childbirth. We never met her.”

“Pity. It's a shame that you never got the chance to know your mother, or to learn anything about your father. I can imagine that not knowing your origins has weighed heavily on you. It would certainly upset me.” The brothers exchange a glance. They like this man, the Dane. They feel a sense of kinship with him, and feel more comfortable opening up with him. Thekkur speaks first.

“We have been alienated our whole lives. We never looked like anyone else, were always treated as slaves, we never had allies except each other. It was always us versus the world. So yes, having no heritage or known origins doesn't help.” Oleksandr nods in agreement with his brother before he continues, “but we were never alone. Not even in the womb.... It was always us together. We have more than what others have, we are bound to each other since birth, not just by blood, but by soul.” Hæsten can't help but be moved by the brothers' words. He gazes at them with a mixture of awe and respect.

“You two truly are something else,” he says softly. “It's almost like fate itself has woven you two together.”

“Yes... We believe it is our fate to exit the world the same way we entered it. Together.” Hæsten smiles at the brothers' firm conviction. He nods approvingly, his respect and admiration growing for the two men. He can sense their unshakeable determination and the strength of their bond deep within them.

“You two are a force to be reckoned with,” he says gruffly. “Fate may have given you a difficult path to walk, but the gods have equipped you with the strength and loyalty to never stray from it.”