Spring Nears

These thoughts swarmed my mind that I failed to notice the girls tailgating us. Yarik told me that we should scare them off, but I disagreed. Again, Yarik warned me to not let these girls trail us, thinking that they were a threat to our safety. To prove him wrong, I slowed down, to offer the girls my hand, to prove they had no ill intent. They were starstruck at first, but the youngest, Boudiaca, decided to approach me. Her sister followed. Yarik did not approve of this, but he did not say much; instead he was figuring out how to explain this to Stanillo.

It did not take long for us to arrive at camp, we got a couple of weird looks. A mix of two things must have made people curious; for I was covered in the blood of the man whose eyes I gouged out, Yarik held captive one of the men involved, and the two girls walked beside me shoulder to shoulder. It was around noon, and people were eating, so we were on full display to the people at the camp.

I noticed the girls were uncomfortable by the odd gazes, likely feeling out of place. I gave the youngest, Boudiaca, my fur coat to cover herself and this action of mine brought a smile to her elder sister, who seemed grateful for my kindness. I escorted them to my tent, trying not to put them through any more spectacles, and it was also about time that I ate. I was pretty hungry.

I had somebody fetch some rations for myself and the girls. They sat there trying to figure out if I was genuine or not. I cannot blame them, when most people in their case would have enslaved them, thinking that they had the right to. I did not; if they followed me out of their conviction, I also would not mind. I thought of asking them if they liked our food; but I forgot the language barrier, so I did not ask.

I grabbed a couple of bowls to pour some stew for myself and my untimely guests. Throughout winter, there’s no better thing than homemade stew. Testing the warmth of it, I took a slight sip, reminding myself of my mother, how I missed her. I thought the warmth of the stew was fine, so I went to give the girls their bowls of stew, handing each of them a spoon. They took it; the eldest was the first to try it, and called out to me, ‘This is cold still, how about I take care of it?’

“You speak my language,” I replied, “How can that be?”

“It’s a long story, friend,” Coria said, “How about I serve you? It’s the least that I can do, for the boy who took the time to save somebody like us.”

“Okay,” I said, “just do not overheat my stew, I do not like it too hot.”

It was the first time another woman served me a meal, aside from my mother. Two strangers from two different worlds, yet, there was some mutual trust between us. She did not speak my language perfectly, I admit, but it was good enough to communicate with her. Throughout dinner, we exchanged each other's names, and her sister could speak our language.

This led to me to ask a couple of questions, like how could she speak our language? Coria revealed to me that she was a descendant of Belomas, my village; her paternal great-grandmother was a woman from Belomas, who was abducted four generations ago, by the Nori. Her explanation made sense, but this made me think; just how many people of these tribes are descended from our very own people? We may have crossed swords with one another, not knowing that the other might be a descendant of Belomas or Rus.

The cycles of war are a curious thing, but I wondered if Coria and Boudiaca had any existing relatives in our village still; I thought about asking her the name of this great-grandmother, but that would have been intrusive. After finishing dinner, Coria grabbed her sister's hand and mine, peering into my soul; this frightened me a bit, so I asked: ‘Is everything okay?’

She did not reply, instead, she kept staring into my eyes. Remembering this still creeps me out, but at last, she asked: 'Can you swear to me, Younger Illya, that you will provide me and my sister with a safeguard against your people? This does not have to be forever. We will leave in the spring, and you will never have to hear of us again, I promise.’

I firmly grasped her hand, promising that nothing would go around. I also told her she did not have to rush it, if she did not feel ready. However, I did tell her, I could not promise that my people would not act passive-aggressive to her and her sister. My people would not dare to lay a hand on them, as long as they stayed near me. They had to understand that our people have been fighting each other for generations, and that their appearance here likely would not be welcomed. On both sides, I acknowledged there were hurt families, but I wanted them to know that I would not allow them to be harmed, because of the actions of their ancestors and their people.

I understood the thirst that made both sides fight; each trying to protect a legacy. Our hands are covered in blood, regardless of the side that they were born on. It is why, I told them, that I hoped to put an end to conflict amongst us, and put the tribes under control, to prevent further warfare tearing us apart.

I should not have told them this, I admit, they were still strangers; but something in me told me, I could trust them. I never condoned the violence amongst these tribes, especially the casualties brought about by both sides. For many years of my childhood, I watched the mothers of many promising boys; mourn the death of their sons and some of them, not evening have a body returned to them. The armies returned in triumph from their victory against the enemy abroad, but what victory is there to celebrate? If fathers and mothers mourn the deaths of their children.

Coria was a bit surprised; she wondered how I planned to do that with the little men that I had here at the camp, stating how my forces were not able to combat the entire region. I told her I did not command the forces, and that most of our forces were still in the village. Her mention of my inadequate number of troops did make me wonder; just how will father solve that? I could only hope he brought a great army with him.

To get my point across, I assured her that my father and I merely wanted peace in this region. We did not intend to commit genocide, we understood that it is better to live amongst each other, instead of resorting to such barbaric measures. I had said what I wanted, but after I finished, Boudiaca asked me: ‘Will my sister and I be safe from this upcoming war of yours?’

I said they would be, but also advised them to stay nearby, and not leave the tent under any circumstances. If they did not wish to face hostility, it was the best course of action, in my opinion. They would have food, shelter, and my protection; what more could they need? I may not hold anything against them, but if I knew anything about people, it's that they tend to hold grudges against a particular set of people, if they were hurt by somebody like them in the past.

Two months and a half passed, the Elder Illya was finishing some last-minute preparations. He decided to leave two weeks beforehand, trying to catch the enemy off guard, but also because the Elder Illya worried about his son. He awoke that day, the same as before; having his breakfast and playing around with his children, as his wife prepared their meals. Illya resented the fact that he had to leave, when the birth of his daughter was on the horizon. There was no return date established for his campaign abroad, meaning he likely will miss the birth of his daughter.

That bothered him a bit, since he prided himself off being an attentive father to his children; you can imagine it hurt him to miss the birth of his first and only daughter. This daughter of his would be the final child between the two of them, which meant that I had five siblings and my mother and father had six children altogether.

Illya knew that missing this was something he would never get to experience again. However, his duty to establish control of the western part of Rus, was something that would benefit the quality of life for his daughter in the long run. He grabbed his coat, proceeding to equip his axes around his torso, for it was his signature weapon. These same axes had brought him great victory, so he took them out of habit and for goodluck.

He addressed his kids, leaving them in the care of their second-eldest brother, Iziaslav. Awaiting him at the door would be his wife, who teared up at the sight, asking him only one thing; to take care of himself and their son. He promised too, as he grabbed her from the waist, leaning towards her, giving her, hopefully not a final kiss. Iziaslav was quick to break this up, telling his father to focus on the task at hand and to bring glory to the family; Illya chuckled. His son’s words reminded him of what his wife told him: Iziaslav is ambitious.

Afterward, Illya opened the door, heading out of his home. The winter was brutal, he thought, as he shivered at the thought of what his son must be going through. He walked towards the village gates, where most of his personnel awaited him; however, his friend, Fedor, did not look to please. Illya greeted his comrades, proceeding to greet Fedor; but Fedor had to tell him the truth: the hired mercenaries came across some difficulties, and would be arriving a couple of days later than what was initially agreed upon.

This sudden news of the delay, infuriated Illya, rightfully so. He was anxious for his safety, but this delay just brought further trouble. He exclaimed to Fedor: ‘My son and the others are in a wolf's den. They are risking being caught at any moment of the day, and this is the news that you bring me, Fedor?’ Fedor lamented the situation, but there was no other choice, but to await the arrival of their hired mercenaries. They had given the money upfront for their services, and they also could not go on this campaign without these men, Fedor warned Illya. Without them, the campaign would be literal suicide.

Illya demands that they return some of the money, for their audacity not to plan their voyage ahead of time, but alas, his fury piped down. This inevitable delay gave Illya an idea, an idea that Fedor was not too keen on. Nonetheless, Illya suggested that with the delay of the mercenaries, they should send envoys to the Jarl of Stalavat, a neighbor of theirs. Fedor wanted to shut this down, but Illya insisted that she and her shield maidens could help with this upcoming campaign; not to mention that the conquest of the tribes benefits her borders too.

Once more, Fedor suggested otherwise, not wanting to give her a share of the plunder or potential territory acquisition. By law, she had the right to dictate how things went due to her status as Jarl, which was not a status that Illya possessed. Petitioning for her support in this campaign also meant subjecting themselves to the strongest power of the western region of Rus.

Illya had no care about this, as he told Fedor, that they would settle those issues of politics when the time came. Their priority should be to gather the best army they can, to ensure a successful campaign abroad. Fedor gave way to this, calling on his subordinates to be sent to this Jarl and invite her to campaign with them. As all this went on, Illya thought; ‘What has become of you in these months, my son?’

In the months that passed, Acco, the Chieftain of Nori, struggled to find an explanation of his personal guard’s annihilation. The worst of it had to be that not one of the sisters was found dead or alive. This made him grow anxious. If those bastard daughters of Abbula, killed his personal guard and found refuge amongst other tribes, what would stop them from gathering their support to restore the lands of the tribe to them? This impending peril would make it difficult to wage war against the Belomians, whose elderly advisors insisted that they should not stop their wars abroad against their foreign neighbors.

They did not have the personnel to fight two wars at once, especially against two skilled armies. He succeeded in bringing the point under his control, but these bastard daughters of Abbula did not let him rest; he needed to find these girls and deal with them. As Acco was anxious about the bastard daughters of Abbula, the Younger, Illya paraded through the forest with the two, holding the hand of the eldest daughter, Coria.

Love was truly there. Coria was seventeen years of age, two years older than the Younger Illya. The youngest of the sisters ran around the two lovebirds, oftentimes, trying to get in the way of their time together. The last two months were unlike anything he had lived before; he had never felt such an attraction towards a woman before. Her lavish silk golden hair, white skin, blue eyes, were something outside the mortal realm of beauty. Noticing his glare, she laughed, ‘Such curious eyes, Illya, but I have to ask: why do you look so different from your people despite being one of them?’

The truth, I told her, was that my mother is not from this country. His native homeland is a place called Uburaria, he told her. She was a bit surprised at it, asking him if it made a difference whether he lived here or over there? I told her, it did not. After all, I said, stopping there for a moment, to spin her towards me, clenching onto her waist; I kissed her.

However, I could not help but to ask; ‘after this ends’, I said, ‘Would you come to the village and be my wife?’ She blushed, not expecting this; doubting his sincerity of marriage, considering his age. Young Illya pleaded with her that he was being honest. If their indifference was what worried her, he told her not to worry. She would be the daughter-in-law of the village chieftain, so who would go against her?

She laughed at this, finding his plea to be desperate and adorable. Illya awkwardly awaited a response. She pulled the boy for a kiss; ‘Son of Illya,’ Coria said, 'I accept to be your wife, if you are willing to do as you say.’ This brought the Young Illya great joy, as he pulled her, kissing her and kissing her; until the two started laughing.

If joy could be long-lived, moments of joy would not be abundant. As the youthful couple lived it up, little did they know that they were being watched, creeping from behind; a lackey of Acco watched the three together. From the sight of Coria and the Younger Illya, he got the idea of this being an alliance between the daughters of Abbula and a foreigner of Belomas; for that, the clothing of the Younger Illya was unmistakable.

The man was certain that the Younger Illya was not alone. This led him to get the report to the Chief, trying to prevent a surprise attack from this terrifying assumed alliance. War was on the horizon between the Nori and Belomians; the worst of the Elder Illya’s had come true.