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[IC] Шᴀшᴋᴀ

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Hidden 8 yrs ago Post by Briza
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Briza

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“Нет ничего проще, чем осудить злодея и нет ничего сложнее, чем понять его.”

— Фёдор Миха́йлович Достое́вский


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“Спаситель мой! Ты положил за нас душу Свою, чтобы спасти нас. Ты заповедал и нам полагать души своя за друзей наших, за близких нам. Радостно иду я исполнить святую волю Твою и положить жизнь свою за Царя и Отечество. Вооружи меня крепостию и мужеством на одоление врагов наших и даруй мне умереть с твёрдой верою и надеждою вечной блаженной жизни в Твоём царстве. Мати Божия! Сохрани меня под кровом твоим.”
Hidden 8 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Briza
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S I B E R I A • T H E R U S S I A N E A S T • J A N U A R Y

♦ ♦ ♦


Like long, lost karakul sheep, the Cossacks wandered all too ceaselessly through the dry, cold, harsh weather of the Siberian terrain. Winter was rustic and rude, yet in themselves, they still found deep fondness in respecting such a creation as their dirty, felt boots, soiled by tough, untrodden roads, padded their merciless journey of footprints into a distinct trail of white shadows, dipping almost unnoticeable into the thick, hard snow, which stretched for ages and ages against the Holy Russian Empire’s Eastern Territory — spread with mountains and valleys in mystery and majesty like a fortress and her army praying respectful tribute to the traditional rituals of the Eastern Landscape.

The East's bold face of the wilderness, uncharted yet ominously controlled, held whimsical tales of terror and triumphant victory, could be heard whispering through detailed winds, aridly bashed and haunted all at once, laid its muscular body forward in taunt and stoic, uncouth warmth. Brash winter misery unfolded for an eternal memory and taught the fantasmic history of her folk stories as something only vaguely understood by daring wanderers who humbly marched to the sound of the muted, unspoken hymns, which rung like leaves that shook on the wrinkled trees, grown and twisted in penitential jubilation, sacrificed in prominent silence underneath their modestly pompous foliage attire. However, in the wake of a dying year, a deep shadow cast along the tops of this land with a copious, gray cloak, curtaining tremendous lengths across the arid sky and spreading anteri draped arms towards the horizon, yet despite the dreary darkness, so brilliantly the large daytime star had managed to shine during the day as he permitted a small slivers of his face to reflect on the land. His vain reflections skipped the tiniest of dances to the commands of their owner, while his dominance over the land, still verily solemn in the parting of times, offered the faintest breath of hope, clouded from the lips of the nomadic like taciturn smoke, dispersed to invisible ash as would the fog when the Triodion should, once more.

Twofold warfare wove the stories of these travelers. Outside perfumes clung to their strong bodies, unbound by the permissible freedom of a predated procession. Veils of memories and longing tribulation, communed through generations and generations, pulled timeless noetic strings through the hearts of the Cossacks. These silk threads were too tough and inexhaustible to be sliced or broken by the sharp metal edge of a Shashka. The universal truths of glory and splendor were far too great to dismantle and abandon in this highly noble life, despite the rigorous sin stained in blood with scars of demons upon their very crosses, often elaborated as monstrous shadows cast in various directions, solely dependent on the morning star's mood.

In the name of Holy Mother Russia, their piety pierced through their rib cages like needles, stitching ribbons of honor through their bones and veins, and relentlessly tied into a braid that rested in guard upon one shoulder. It was believed, the Triune Godhead would bestow such tender mercies, sweeter than the honey sap that dripped in comfort along the Paschal Season, at the knowledge of their victories. His hand would plunge into the dark, heated, murky depths of the Dead, and as a spider dwindling on his thread, He would pull each one of them from the unbearable fire — for courageous battles had been won, tainting of spirits and souls in order to keep the Holy Empire under His command. The sacrifice, which caused much grievances of tormenting guilt and self-taught anguish would not go unnoticed. After all, a lowly Cossack was worth more than a Russian noble. This lesson was forged into the young ones’ minds before they learned any horsemanship, but for as a criminal, still being sculpted by the brute knowledge, Annushka Yuryevna Golitsyna had trouble swallowing this supposed truth.

Annushka had escaped the pompous moral of finely lit candles adorned in expensive icon corners, set up so meticulously by the servants of her father’s household. Her mother had placed a small but expensive token of opinion on this matter, draped with pearls, off-white like an evening wedding gown. Other faces, painted in colored egg yoke, recollected themselves across the various rooms in the place Anni used to call home. The ornate fixtures, twirled into beautiful mantle pieces and furnitures so delicate yet sturdy that the young woman often pondered in disdain over how the youth of Natalya, a servant of her father’s house, had grown in comparison to the coarse bitterness that dwelt in her own eyes. The midnight crows, so lofty and crafty in their shadowy steamed nature, had plucked the virginity from her amber eyes and left brown dirt, uninhabitable with nothing but death decored with thorns and rotten fruits caught in the sharp, terrible weeds, not even a desperate man would bother plucking for himself.

It was very well this way, Annu often told herself. The luscious scents of gold and fireplace burning could easily be replaced with blood and campfire. With open terms, the Cossack had taken her in, twice, now – a rescue each instance, and she never stopped being thankful to the Hetmen. On all fours with knees bent beneath her and her forehead pressed into the ashy dirt of the ground, she gave them her life and gratitude. How could she not? They were like bears, they protected their kind; burly and upright and with courageous hearts pumping barrel chests of conquest into the healthy color of their skin; nothing scared them. For this reason, Annu felt relief in Dmitry Krepchenko’s deep wisdom. His bellowing voice carried years of hard earned experience no man without true honor could ever master. His wisdom was well-built and long like the stark brown roots, which motioned through the deafening, lucid shield that had frozen fragments of ice against the Siberian earth. His word meant well as low and deep and trembling with truth as they were. His seriousness could slide caution as he held tightly the handles of responsibility. He was not all terror, though, despite the steepness that molded his face and drew serious precision into the center of his eyes and was dramatized by the ascetic contemplation of years afoot. Merry dashes peaked through his wild nature. It was most noticeable during evening feasts of alcohol and folklore, curved upwards and under his gray mustache.

Annu learned hastily that medicine for the soul came in two forms for the Cossacks: Communion and Vodka. Communion, as some sort of mystical symbol to heal the soul, and Vodka, to lift their spirits, worn in pain from the constant carrying of heavy, eternally sickened souls who carried more weight than their hoofed comrades. Her stomach was weakest when she had first arrived. It may have been a fever of guilt and abrupt lust, sickened in her spirit like a sour fruit she could not stop consuming, but the truth was her gut had never been exposed to such a ritual. As well, the sourness rarely left her bosom; it had cradled securely in the only place she had ever been able to find warmth and slowly wrapped its shackles around her soul. She often felt cold like the winter; dry with lips that occasionally split from torment and constant hissing airs – the gossip around the Cossacks were far more knowledgeable than the city dwellers at times, and even with mouths that cracked with cold, their discussions rarely ended except during meditative moments that were encompassed by the dark world with only a slight campfire to remind them that they were not yet dead even if the day was.

A grunt and then a carrying command settled amongst the Zeporozhian, heeding the large, colorful flock with movements in the sky. A shift of time from day-to-night was painting itself across the horizon, so subtle as the gray hues who dimmed their wealth and retreated back inside their heavenly homes to escape the pitch black wet ink crawling dusky trinkets of gloom to part the hours. A clothed hand, bulky with fabric against thin fingers, pressed cotton to wool and shifted Annu’s papakha. Motioning softly over her hair, the black wool began blending into the night, just as her valenki had blended with the snow. She was only a woman, not yet in her late twenties, but she managed to blend into the clan much easier than she had amongst the schismatic Old Believers — even without a man to claim her. She had stretched her muscles to exhaustion, and if her feet were sore from the day’s journey, there was no use in admitting such a pain. Physical limitations were no discouragement to Annushka. It was the mental ones, unable to overcome the past with forgiveness with which she had the most trouble. The year’s death had only brought more sadness, hidden underneath her many layers of clothing.

At one point, these layers — so bundled with care, unveiled in the darkness of mirth and unlawfulness, brought her much joy, but now, the memories merely bequeathed shamefulness that she never wished to disrobe, again. Frailty of heart in the bitter decay of snow like despair was hard hidden, locked in a bird cage awaiting the Phoenix to consume the worm with victorious fires come Spring. Her soul had ridden many lengths; now traveling by foot with the reins of her horse clenched in want under her closed knuckles. Dark eyes scanned the blank sky. The heavenly hosts were hiding this evening. They had out sung themselves this year during the Nativity, and having outdone themselves in boastful sin were hiding in shame behind the scornful clouds.

Empathy for the heavenly hosts' pride had captivated Annushka for sometime. If by chance she had done the same, she had full faith, larger than a mustard seed, that they would shine once again. Even her storms of doubt measured nothing against her knowledge of the seasons. They marched onward with Time like a never ending Service. No one could so as much control how these things went about Time except for Him, alone. And so, their punishment for being so proud was to hide until winter had breathed her last breath. Hopeful thoughts, breathed like incense from her trembling lips at night that God, too, would let her shine, again.

With the same hand that had adjusted her papakha, Annu pet the ebony chin of her Karabakh horse. The long lashes of her devoated companion bashfully dropped in response, closing her eyes in regards to her master’s touch. A snort bristled from her nostrils, toughness exuding like that of her rider’s; a commonality that reminded them of each other on the outside. After a brief moment, perhaps when the wind finally stopped gossiping about the Great Queen’s orders, Annushka let her mittened hand fall to her side once more. The pinkness of her lips pinched in firmness as orders began in another such litany.

As patterns began reweaving themselves, it was made clear that it would be another silent night, albeit not so holy with the stars in hiding. The tranquility pushed her desire for the muscular arms of her deceased husband to wrap around her once more. The blonde growth of his hair and trimmed mustache and beard tickling her skin, and yet the very thought reminded her of their childish affair — only made sinless by the Old Calendarists, who had renounced the Church and all her ways. And so, Annushka would sometimes weep quietly in pleading prayer that God would forgive him for his carnal sins, the addiction that had enraptured them both like moths to a flame. No, no, more akin to two terrible insects struggling against each other in a sinister spider’s web, and with each movement towards each other, more entangled and shackled in sin they became. Many times, to ease her woes that felt much like heavy, invisible tears dripping down the hollow of her chest from her heart, she would remind herself how wicked he could be. A murderer, an adulterer, an abuser, a fake. No – he could never have been an adulterer if they were never truly married, and his hands were never hard enough to leave prominent mark like his lips had. It was also true that he had not murdered out of plot. It was an accident! Perhaps, perhaps then if he hadn't been so handsome and tall and strong, she would not have dared disown her family for him (or maybe it was the other way around).

It was all vanity, and on occasion, Annu found herself praying to her husband to intercede for her as if it were not for her wicked womanhood, he might still be well and quick today, living in Moscow with his brother still alive. He had been so terribly sorry for the murder. His grievances often showed after a long day’s travel like a secret only they both could really understand. She owed him so much. Why, just look at the Cossacks! Their children were better and more knowledgeable than the children of the Imperial cities. Such enterprise boasted with merriment and cheer from the brace, brute Cossacks. Even with the dirty consciences, their strong spirits refused to settle in their weaknesses. They were a triumphant kind, and in this, Annushka held hope close to the bitter decay nestled in her bosom in hopes that her childish fantasies of freedom would come true this time. If not, she feared for the rest of her life she would wander like some dog without a collar, rapid in craze for the quenching of her thirst. Her mind had settled that this was on the only way even if the campfire, so simply lit in the outer terrains was so meekly decided in comparison to the embellished candles burning in her parents’ icon corner. No, no, again, no, she had her gold cross, resting underneath her garments, protected like the most sensitive parts of herself.

She could feel the metal’s touch. It was warm and heated and matted to her chest. Sometimes, it was the only thing that truly kept her warm – it reminded her vividly of the candles at the Cathedral in Moscow. The long, thin, sculpted wax, pressed securely into the sand and shining brightly in the darkness of the Church and incense. The radiance would tear through the gray layers of reality as angels rushed back-and-forth to save the prayers arising to the dome. There was a time when she had swatted the flame, yes – this time, just like a moth. Her skin had been hurt by the small fire in her over-zealous curiosity for knowledge. And, here, she mused, the symbolic gesture of her fate: to cause herself inadvertent pain as she struggled to find the truth. Her gold cross never burned her, though, but it did shine through the gray veils with angels protecting her heart’s innermost desire along the way.

They had traveled along way today, gathered in the body of a forest to keep the violently cold, night winds from whipping death into their bones. Annushka’s eyes tonsured over her peers — prompt together like an army. As her mind registered and acknowledged each face swiftly, their names prayed through her mind in the circle of a chotki. Her eyes had landed on Dmitry as if he were the tassel of the prayer rope. She was far from pious, but a thought that her mother had brought her to Church enough for her to think like such and convinced her of this analogy. Dmitry was the leader; the soul who knotted them together. Anni even believed Dmitry, in his old age, had become fringed like the tassel of a chotki. There were other thoughts, less pious and more silly. However, she tucked them inside her pocket for the time being.

Despite the struggle of the day’s journey, the shadows cast on them weren’t covered in weary travels. Some winters were worse than others, she knew. However, she only understood the Zeporozhian so vaguely. Cossacks were Cossacks, but to say they were all the same would be comparing St. Petersburg and Moscow as nothing different than merely the names! Enough with herself, selfish as she may act at times, her mind was less preoccupied with her clans differences. It could be troublesome to ponder at times, even frustrating – although, she was too stubborn to get so discouraged. She had a night to prepare, and by the lively looks of everyone, drinks would be pouring forth over rims, and even if her hollowed stare said otherwise, she was content with this nighty affair that was to be held in the near future, shown through the tug of her navy coat, puffed in material around her willowy body.

Bryznut, her horse padded her hooves lightly, and the sounds of other's horses could be heard making soft noises. The trees chimed with the creatures as a cold wind lisped through the forest. Tonight would be nice, as long as everyone stayed warm and did not rely solely on alcohol to sooth their blood. Death was such a thought that began haunting her more and more. It was changing her personality. If it were age or circumstances, Annushka would have felt restful. However, she feared it was in fact that she had not the courage of a true Cossack, "Не бойтесь ничего," she whispered inaudibly, "Господи, помилуй," her body turned, leading Bryznut with her. The large horse flexed her muscles softly and padded her large hooves gently into the white terrain a loyalty to her master who guided her onward to a resting place, alas, "Le Seigneur a pitié," she whispered a bit louder. Life was such a Litany, greater than the Grand Litany of the Divine Liturgy (or was it?). Such rituals, traditions, habits, and patterns came and came and came, and even if Anni was saying it in vain, she knew there was some truth behind it just like the knots on her black, wool chotki — Lord, have mercy.
Hidden 8 yrs ago → 6 yrs ago Post by ct199
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With the short hours of the long day fading behind them, and the arrival of the cold night enveloping them with its own peculiar style of blanket, the group trudged northwardly onwards through the wilderness.

The day had been a long one - awakening before dawn to finish their travel preparations, which were many, and to receive a travel blessing from bishop Innokenty before setting off on the long overland trail to the northern Don river fortress.

Under normal circumstances, the group would have simply taken the winding path
around the eastern river crescent, allowing the winter ice to ease their burden and, thereby, more than make up for the longer distance. However, at present, with the scoundrel Zapadkov and his many bands of renegade factions loose in the east such an idea would be, as they say, not the brightest of ideas. Although Dimitri and his closest group of Zaklucheks and their men did not cower from a fight, they also didn't foolishly plunge themselves into one, and, given the current political
situation, this meant taking the more difficult and lesser known overland route due north instead.

The singular aim of the day's activity was to march northwards through the fields as much as was tolerable, stopping to hurriedly prepare camp after dusk and consume a quick evening meal of dried fish and bread before turning in, as the lengthening of today's journey would only serve to shorten the duration of tomorrows, and thereby provide them with more time to rest in the relative warmth and safety of the northern Don Cossack outpost which was the ultimate destination of the first leg of their journey.

The critical factor for Dmitry, at least as concerned his present duty as head organizer of the expedition, was to properly gauge the strength of the company, and to balance this against time so that camp was set none too early and none too late in their journey, and given that the early sunset and late sunrise of the deep winter, he currently estimated this to imply one to two hours of hiking after the sun set over the horizon.

As the last sliver of cold grey indigo winter dusk departed from the edge of the horizon, Dmitri pulled the reigns on his dear Zakluchek and gave a subtle nod and gestured to Michael Michaelovich Sokolov, his chief Starshyna, indicating that it was time to break and prepare the oil taper from the supply wagon. "Ostanovit!," Misha called out lowly, his voice creaking slightly from the silence of the journey and the cold weather, and with a slow and almost imperceptible motion the group lazily lurched to a halt. Dmitri and Michael Michaelovich abruptly dismounted, followed by the rest of the group, those in the wagons climbing down
as well so as to take advantage of the brief respite afforded by the activities of the lamp lighting.

Zakluchek, also being familiar with the evening routine, lowered his long muscular neck to and began to lap gently at the snow, balancing his thirst against his instinctual and animalistic desire for self preservation against the freezing of his extremities. Dmitri observed his breath and manner, gauging his strength against the other horses - as the Equestrian Hetman of the group, it was important Zakluchek be in good strength lest the other beasts also grow tired in following his lead. Zaklucheck snorted slightly, tiring of his snow drink, and raised up his head, glancing slightly at Dmitry as if to reassure him of his suitability and fitness for leadership as he did so.

Reassured by Zakluchek's foalish display of stamina, Dmitry Ivanovich chuckled slightly to himself, and, taking a flask from underneath his overcoat, took a deep draw of water, at a glance surveying their surroundings to his satisfaction. He
looked over the rest of the unit, some of which were retreating slightly to a nearby clump of trees to tend to the sort of natural requirements necessary to a long journey in wilderness but not necessarily to the fitting narration of our present tale.

"Five Minutes!", Dmitry announced out to the group, as Misha finished filling the oil reservoir on the candle-lamp and began to measure a length of wick suitable for the correct estimation of their after-dark travel. Dmitry glanced over at their unexpected guest, Annyuska, who was the primary excuse for the present expedition. Annushka sat patiently with a far off look, expressing neither contentment, nor dissatisfaction. Seeing that Annushka Yuryevna was not so as distracted as miss his words, Dmitri Ivanovich called out "So that you are aware, Annitka, we are stopping to prepare an evening-taper to measure the travel at night, and will be stopping in some two hours to make camp. If you wish to tend to
any personal needs, this would be a good time, since we will not be stopping still to make camp for many vershts yet." Annyushka, deep in thought as concerned the various matters leading to her present circumstances, slowly rotated her well bundled and delicate face towards Dmitri Ivanovich and issued a subtle, almost imperceptibly slight nod accompanied by a nearly as subtle and imperceptibly slight smile of gratitude at the gesture of hospitality displayed by the Hetman to his Guest.

As the time for their departure drew near, Michael Michaelovich returned to the front of the group with the now-prepared oil taper and retrieved the perpetual fire-lamp from the supply wagon. Handing the taper to Dmitri Ivanovich, the two men turned to the east and began their usual prostrations. The rest of the group assembled behind them and began to do the same, preparing to begin the ritual of the lighting of the evening taper that would signify the beginning of the last phase of the days - or, as it were, nights - journey.

Taking a deep breath, and admiring the barely visible beauty of the rapidly darkening winter horizon, Dmitri began the familiar evening ritual. "Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us and save us, Amen." The prayers, however shortened to suit the earthly necessity of the journey and the late hour, were always a solemn time to strengthen and unify the group before the evening, and it was times like this that he was proud to be Hetman, leading his people to unity under God in the struggle for the magnification of their Rus' Nation. The abbreviated service went quickly, first through the usual prayers, then the short recitation of the memorized psalms and the our father, the lighting of the lamps and finally the commemoration of the saints of the day. Finishing as he began, Dmitry Ivanovich Krepchenko uttered the last familiar phrase before he and the now fully gathered unit crossed themselves, said the final 'Amin', and climbed into place for the final stretch of the day's journey.

The time went quickly, with the reward of the evening meal and rest inspiring the group to a good pace, which was also accelerated despite their weariness by the requisite need to stay warm in the bitter winter cold and wind.. Seeing the oil line in the tapers window approaching the second line, Michael Michaelovich quietly notified his friend and superior that the time was near, and Dmitry began scanning the short length of the visible path for a suitable campground, which was found as the group entered a small clearing very shortly thereafter.

Much as before, Dmitry, with a loud voice commanded the group to stop, only this time with a bit more joy and relief in his voice. As the group compressed lurchingly to a halt behind him, the Hetman began the boisterous call of the old familiar dialog

"Though it is great to travel through the land as bretheren..."

pausing to await the response from the group, which after the long day
was not long in arriving..

"It is better still to sleep separately as Men!"

"And so", he continued slowly, pausing to take a breath for emphasis
and fortitude, "until we lie united with our women in our Fortress..."

The group, having left their prior solitary thoughts and now fully aware of the
present proceedings, paused to take a collective breath of relief, finished the
refrain with a shout and a cheer:

"Make Camp quickly, and let the Eating and the Drinking Begin!"
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Hidden 7 yrs ago → 6 yrs ago Post by Briza
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“We write of what we know; and for those who want to understand, we say, we bear witness to all that we have seen as we journeyed our path. He Himself has declared: ‘If a man does not abide in Me, he is cast out as a branch; and men gather it, and cast it into the fire, and it is burned. If he abides in Me, I abide in him’ (cf. John 15:5-6). The sun cannot shine without light; nor can the heart be cleansed of the stain of destructive thoughts without invoking the name of Jesus. This being the case we should use that name as we do our own breath. For that name is light, while evil thoughts are darkness; it is God and Master, while evil thoughts are slaves and demons.”

♦ ♦ ♦


Allowing the sullied thickness of her mittens to be brought up again and to trace the trough leather of Byznut’s reigns (drawn about her defined jaw and perched horse chin), she clung to the restraint secretly, holding the material dear to her like her own cross, nestled and warm against her pale wintry skin, as the two creatures wedded with the clan for their evening offerings. The weighted body of her equestrian pulled tired, strong muscles through the winter several steps closer, cracking the sounds of a beautiful horizon emerging in the distance. Reason had dismantled Annushka's air, as her body, wrapped abundantly stood silently and void with mere nods that meaninglessly showed her conditioned humility, annealed by the conscripted life. A dim veil still blinded her vision as she looked onward, unsettled by the ominous discord that had misaligned her own perceptions with the otherworldly entities. Although, she could still hear the colorful boldness that modestly cloaked each word being prayed in meditation from the Hetman, but in the midsts of the prayers, the evil one’s arrows were still able to pierce through her papakha and deliberately cut short her penitent thoughts, dragging her prayers to the graves of the ice to be lost in the shadows that were approaching from the forestry. In small hopes of hidden help, her dark eyes shed small glimpses towards Dmitry, standing with the pride that only a Cossack would know, as his bearish style withstood through the effervescent trumpets announcing the setting of the sun and the offense of the invisible enemies. And, she crossed her body as her gaze draped to the lowness of her own thoughts to the silent but strong word, Amin.

It had been the cherished Misha who had put flame in the dear lamps, burning the fragrant oil that set forth incense and worship towards the already smokey heavens, but it all seemed through the religious fashion of the moment that Dmitry’s own righteous spirit had been the real ignition of the flames and perhaps, it was his very own contrite prayers, which had cast such a cloudy coverage in the heather powdered sky. In Annushka’s very own chest, her heart felt the confines of prayer in the darkness of her soul set alight… yet she seemed to lose such faithful stillness as these feelings were imply snuffed and covered with ashen turmoil when she pondered with perversion the modesty that had shortened their evening prayers. This crux of love had been lost to poor Annushka, far before her Confession of the Old Believers. It was no such wonder or mystery as to how her life had taken such a fall. These reasons for not wanting to accept the truth were keeping her head low and her eyes from making much more merriment than necessary for guest’s sake and to not upset the host and any small prayer of chance she still had to kneel through the Gates.

Amin. The hem of Annushka’s garment swifted away at her ankles as her body motioned towards the group for food and drink. She was not far from the Hetman, zealous in his mountainous instrumental physique and thick hair. His unwavering care for her conveyed utmost honor, so skilled, no book could have taught him this Way. He was not the only one amongst the group who had been tonsured with such fervent grace. It clung to the clan like fiery ornaments with bold colors and holy passions. A recherché part of her wanted to imagine the army, vigorous and robust as they were, as beautiful flowers that had sprouted and blossomed through the gray monuments of sullen, achromatic ground jaded with sprinkles of black and brown dust, but so much despair had devoured her appetite for any decorative thoughts for such. Instead, her mind drifted, cradling gently back-and-forth in contemplation over the future that held the Cossacks on this journey in selfless ambition for her own salvation. So sweet were the words she wanted to speak in a feminine admiration, adorably founded in consideration for her new comrades’ acceptance, yet fear had smitten her tongue as she knew all too well the thirst that was driving her would not be quenched during tonight’s meal. Dread was churning away her spirits over-and-over as she imagined her Confession being quietly recited to a man she had no liking or dealing.

The Annushka she recollected as a youth seemed stronger than the person she was now. Small thoughts of temptation, so cheap and trite in their size were capsizing her courage far more than any such negativity ever had during her childish days. These thoughts had been tempting her in various ways and forms. In simple instances that seemed to last for longer bouts of times than she knew not to believe, the thoughts told her that her sins had died with her husband, and any trials to receive mercy were not needed. Such thoughts were hard not to heed, yet when she did often fall into their traps, sometimes laced in silk threads, Annyushka would find herself tumbling further into the web of neverendering melancholia. This discouragement tried to devour her into thinking her husband had taken all of their sins together and was now being persecuted for them. The eternal flames were burning him like charcoal, and the only scent to expunge from his immortal life was a stench not even the All-merciful God would acknowledge or care to remember. He had really died for her sins, now entombed in the belly of Gehenna, but it was all for her to be saved as a secret between her and her fallen and damned beloved. And still, she begged his intercessions.

In other instances, the temptations arose in her in shapes like a poisonous seed that told her it was hopeless to ask forgiveness. It drenched her mouth at times in the middle of the day, when her cheeks were feeling the dry coolness of the outskirting kingdom, and her skin was longing for a sip of something other than the water that kept nestled in her satchel. They were hidden traps so laid freely and dined; and the convinced her that the script in Jesus’ hand read not her husband’s name and neither would it ever have Annushka’s soul willfully scripted; but such doubts she knew were the type that drove beasts into the depths of their own feigned sinlessness as they roamed free and wild, always thinking to escape themselves but never succeeding.

Some other times, she saw Cossacks, even the men so dear to Dmitry as ruthless and cruel. Their intentions were none close to the Most Holy, and spitefully, she cast her own ill-will towards them in vain projection. Such falsehood, she saw too closely in her prayers, and she knew all these such thoughts were trivial even if they came like storms of black smoke that blinded her judgement in vile and baseness, as her own distraught nature to curse her husband and herself. Annu was many defenseless to these attacks, which all seemed so similar, in her sinful womanhood, evenly tempestuous. At times, they all seemed to be the same thought, over and over, merely weaving the same fabric that stretch not just over her own muscle and bone, but they announced a discorded story of a woman who longed to be damned. She was a stranger in this land, and yet treated with reverence, threaded to the Cossack who tied their truths to the One True Godhead, the very one she could not bare to see, blinded by her own faults and guilt, she willingly refused to sacrifice. Nevertheless, the heating of millet and fat was warming to her cold senses, a hearty celebration to the Nativity as warriors to feast rather than lament.

There was much to lament, however. It was not just Annyu who could feel the cold throne flowing over from the Queen’s Court or the wearily long-winded road that had taken them by necessity to direct safely around other Cossack; yet the cheer commanded onward in the Cossack; and the high spirits were painted not with their misery or tiredness but with the future in the coming day. Their courage was radiating with fires that prepared their foods, in pots over brewing fire. They came together for commune over travel and food. The sound of jest and laughter portrayed like a written picture, lost in the etymology of translation to Annushka, as a woman displaced in a society that had little use for the dainty mold to be so present. For such reasons, the situation not even understood to herself was drawn with a sturdy face worn upon her as to disguise her innermost self from even her own conscious. A comfort of this helped mask her own struggles of doubt as she began suiting her worth in the coming dawn, not to be beaten by the nature of her most intimate workings, she was brazen in her attire of the Don Cossacks. It was of utmost importance that her inner self was watchful as to guard her outer self. For years now, she had kept this womanly identity shut, and terror of being discovered had caged away the emotions that she so mostly wanted to let penetrate the snow fallen earth. How desperate she had been to be by her husband’s side; and now still, she felt the tug of his departed soul lingering with honest fervor and broken heartedness. Yet, pondering him left pity and confusion in her bosom along with a dishonored taste upon her tongue when she counted his memories beside her amongst the the new company.

Indeed, it was a God-given blessing in itself that tonight they should sleep so separately. To each stoic act of community, a private devotion of emotional indulgence was granted, seemed like the shortened prayers. A modest change in routine and structure was noted by Annushka each day. Only small and simple things and only daily, like trickling water, she was seeing the small droplet of forgiveness that softened the blow of the rigid lifestyle, unlike the previous one that had captured her memory in anguish and loathe. Their spirits, although kindled with spiritual kindness, were frighteningly stronger and more vibrant and fererent than the coarse mane that collected around the others in a clockwise manner.

There was joy in this, despite the mourning disposition of fictional widowhood, and a small smile pressed to her lips a she joined the herd. Her mind walked counterclockwise in a tiny jest of play. This was her new home, and her name would soon be allowed to be carved on the inner-workings of the clan, like the holy scroll painted in the Son’s hand. This impatience was a crucial nurturing she discerned to keep as excitement and spiritual anticipation to keep from falling away into the snares that left her soul bedridden with the weeds of her sins and memories of adultery. Even with the Hetman’s treatment, she was feeling the discrepancy of her own worth to not be a branch being gathered for the fire to shrewd but as a branch apart of the tree, impenetrable and patriarchal and not cast out and put to shame for the misery of a mistress’ evil desires and deeds. No longer with her husband by her side to hold up her astute act, her mind was learning to drift to the prayer of the heart. She would need it to stomach the journey in the morrow after a night of the grain wine, transparent like the force that exuded from the Hetman — a triumphant posture she had once seen long before somewhere, and only now was she starting to remember it.

She untucked the pinkness of her desires and embraced the pain, now able and willing to be numbed by the cold winds, encouraging the clan to commit further into each other. So far ahead of the fallen nature was the Hetman, so it seemed to her feminine mind. She allowed this trick to entangle her if only for disposition to give way for further respect for the man's authority and austerity. If a mark was being missed in this attempt, she told herself as comforting peace in the shortened prayers of a long-suffering journey, she was still trying, and in her trials and errors, God a Merciful hand, already guiding specially her to safety, the monastery come the new beginnings of the new born King. Христос родился. If Dimitri, dearest Dima, with his hound eyes so piercing and staggeringly bold, could take in her wretched being with cherished hyssop and fatherly blessings then so shall it be that his Creator through the witness yet to come do the same. Fear still blushing her, she turned her bare cheeks, kissed by the lulls of the weather's lucid, coils tipped to her left side, permitting her hoydenish traditions to rest upon the evening laurels of her braid as a gloved hand moved to the hilt of her saber, reforming a bond. There was a future forged for her with a fighting chance, s'long as she safe guarded the Holy Mother and allowed no sin to penetrate her royal doors as she failed to do properly before her own parents.
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"I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma: but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest." - Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, 1939


All the bustling sound of much bivouac activity echoed through the darkness as the Host flagrantly and boisterously began to make camp. Shuffles of feet against the hard snow and conversations that distracted the minds from their habits turned the melancholy tunes of the a long-winded travel and deadened night into a lively performance of some ancient dance that only the true elect of the Holy Rus could have inherited.

Mishka and Vasily with their large frames, bodies like bears, began to chop wood for the fire, while Andrusha and Bogdasha unloaded the cart in order to prepare the tents. Two large bundles of cloth and wood were carefully unleashed and slid out from between the side rails on each side of the cart, and the large cotton walls were slowly unravelled from around the wooden poles which would form the spine of their nights dwelling. Though custom and propriety would typically dictate a separate arrangement dwelling for Annu and any other females along for the journey, the spartan necessity of this journey’s proceedings and the intense cold dictated they all stay together, despite the unpleasant physical and also perhaps socially unseemly odor of the men, for the heat of the group would do much to insulate them against the cold. Ivan laid out his accoutrements and began chopping vegetables to add to the stew’s pots. which had been unleashed from the wagon of the group. Horses were tethered to nearby trees and amidst the smoke, Dmitri surveyed the horizon. It was long and full of hard earned victories. This land was of the Zeporozhian’s sabers.

Dmitry thought to himself that it was a good place to set camp - the cloudy moonlight afforded a good view from the top of the hill, and the tall, leafy trees (standing straight and strong with snow upon them) nearby offered good cover so that their caravan and group would not be as visible from afar. As it were true that they were technically in their own territory, the Hetman was verily aware that this was still the borderland, and any illusions of safety were only fleeting and guaranteed by the blade of the shashka.

As the form of the palatky which would form the group’s temporary shelter against the cold began to arise from the softly packed snow, Dmitry looked over the landscape with his telescope, traded many years ago in Riga from a curious old man in exchange for the net efforts of a long and arduous quest which shall be revealed at a later date, and in his peering out was relieved that the horizon seemed largely uninhabited and empty. A small cluster of small farmhouses was visible some distance away, with a few more small tenant huts and cleared land scattered about. Anyone hostile to the host inhabiting these dwellings would be hard pressed to muster any attack and more than likely terrified to do so, given the number and strength of size of men in Dmitry’s camp.

Having found satisfaction with the surroundings and breathing calmly knowing that the likelihood of a sudden skirmish was slight tonight, Dmitry turned his attention to the preparations underway for after the day’s long trek, he was eager to being discussing the pending journey with his advisors and enjoy a mug of grog and a hot bowl of stew, and he wanted to ensure that the steps necessary for this to occur were happening at the appropriate pace. Now, with eagerness to set the tone for the nightfall and to ensure that his men did not become too lazy with that passionate demon of sloth or lose sight of the goal, Dimitri began to issue orders in a stern but firm manner, reminding all the men that their duty was to the group, and that even if their task was not called out that a certain pace and rhythm needed to be followed, to ensure that the opulence of the camp was set forth and upright before their hunger and the evening turned too sharp or that a delay of the night might spill over into the next day.

“Mishka! Chop the smaller trees to the north, they will go faster and fuel the fire more quickly! Vasily - bring the wood to bogdasha and begin preparing the fire - the sooner you do, the sooner we all eat! Bogdan! — good work with the tent poles! if you keep up the pace I might loan you my spare fur for the night!” The orders continued sporadically as Dmitry paced and considered the agenda for the evening’s discussion, as well as the taste of the stew he would soon be consuming. He also considered the situation of the young lady who had inspired the particular mission. He knew she was a fierce and adventurous lady, who was happy to help make camp - and who might even be offended if not included in the proceedings, but he also knew that she had had an extremely rough few days after a rough few months of strife and so the time alone would be good for her to gather her strength for the journey ahead.

As men sometimes do in their own different ways, Dmitry could feel remorse for the young lady’s sufferings, despite his opinion of her companion who had found himself at the end of another man’s shashka. By the looks of the scene, the Hetman, having lived so many years in his upbringing as a Cossack could find no surprise in the death of the man’s pale and lifeless skin predictably slain during a Cossack battle. However, it was true that Dmitry was not a cold hearted man and understood that The Zeporozhians were a much tougher group of folk with higher standards and capability (why look at good ole Mishka!). This was not to say that he thought lower of the precious Annyu and all her nuances (or some such), because he would not have allowed her this token opportunity to join the Host if he thought anything less of her. She was of the right stature and frame and wore her determination in the colors of a mitten still holding fast to her shashka. even amongst the merriment of his dearest, most cherished men.

Quietly considering the proceedings of their current journey further to himself, all the while less quietly continuing his role as timepiece to the camp making, Dmitry continued his pacings and considered the topics which required immediate discussion during the evenings meal. Certainly, the plans for the evening defence and for the next days travel should occur. Less certainly would be the talk of their discussions with Ivan Ivanovich, leader of the Donets river Stanitsa of the Host. It was important to have some manner of plan in this matter, but such discussions would better be held in a less conspicuous and more circumspect manner, owing to the sensitivity of the plans and the fact that the most critical Annushka, while seeming sincere in her desire to shift allegiances and join their clan, had still yet to fully prove her her loyalty to her new allegiance in a more meaningful and significant way, and until then, Dmitri was cautious of discussing anything which might compromise the greater struggle with the Raskolovici as, while this particular journey, while relevant, had only a smaller part to play. Of course, also to be discussed would be more mundane manners such as the necessary supplies to obtain from the Torgovetsi, Boris and Elisaveta, the additional details of the next days journey, and so on and so forth. Having tallied a mental list for the evenings proceedings, and his appetite gaining more strength, Dmitry turned his attention to the silhouette of Annushka, who seemed to be meditating on her current predicament whilst perched atop a nearby log. Sensing that it would be best to provide some encouragement and reassurance that her presence was indeed a good thing both for herself and for the entire Host, and that she was making the correct decision in breaking with her recent past and trusting herself to his band of less-than-savory characters, Dmitry began to walk slowly but purposefully in her direction.

“Annushka!” Dmitry called out as he neared the young lady stewing chillledly on her log, “I certainly welcome the clarity of a frozen winter evening but I do not think Marena needs any help tonight in bringing us a chill!” he jested with a laugh as he placed his boot firmly on the other end of Annushka’s makeshift winter-queen throne. Pausing for effect, and taking in a deep but lighthearted breath, he let out a sigh before hitching up his Sharovary and slowly to her left to inquire of her current state and mood. Glancing carefully at her face and posture, for signs of her current temperament Dmitry turned to her and began with a simple but direct question - “So, How are you holding up after the day’s Journey?”
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Hidden 6 yrs ago → 6 yrs ago Post by Briza
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“We write of what we know; and for those who want to understand, we say, we bear witness to all that we have seen as we journeyed our path. He Himself has declared: ‘If a man does not abide in Me, he is cast out as a branch; and men gather it, and cast it into the fire, and it is burned. If he abides in Me, I abide in him’ (cf. John 15:5-6). The sun cannot shine without light; nor can the heart be cleansed of the stain of destructive thoughts without invoking the name of Jesus. This being the case we should use that name as we do our own breath. For that name is light, while evil thoughts are darkness; it is God and Master, while evil thoughts are slaves and demons.”

♦ ♦ ♦


Off-colored tents propped along the snow and settled their differences in various tones with sturdy posts and bearings. The noise between and inside them was boisterous and lavish in their makings and attempted to resuscitate such an impact of recollections -- that even during the quietest moments of this Host’s journeys, there is a commanding tune that still marches them onwards and never leaves their air,even if only heard amongst the Host and nothing more. A shame would be cast upon the Host if it was only noticed by them and nothing more, and for so great of a pride, it is hoped and wished that the animals and other creatures along the path might as well be in knowledge of this sound. It is even believed, even if a silent statement only thought through the minds and never vocally, that this song is the true leader of Zaporizhzhya. No other evey shall be able to deflect the triumphant march, unless of course, such a Will was granted from above.

There was a time when Annushka might have only fantasized such a scene. It would have been much more mystical and spectacular than what lie in front of her. However, it seemed to be a shame to think that the truth was anything less beautiful than a make believe realm. Her spirits had been lower than the temperature for quite some time, but she thought nothing more of it than a stoic woman trying to brave in a world that mostly only the masculine rummaged in their bravery and rivalry. Her daintier features were showing underneath all the garments that kept her warm from the Mother Land’s natural defenses. They were boasting in rosy colored cheeks and a broken heart that she could not hide when the truth was so abundantly cherished amongst the brethren that stood around her.

Safety was kept on her hilt, feeling the mushroom headed pommel cusp into the cushions guarding her calloused palms. She thought to join the small festivities and boast in the grandiose expenditures of having safely completed another day’s honor, but the temptation to remain seated and sour kept her position still. A human was allowed to mourn the deceased, and yet she could not help but think of the hopelessness that was plaguing her. Perhaps, it was that she had no such useful tools that could help her mourn properly, and stubbornly she refused to ask for any help. At least, she knew, tonight, when all were resting, her silent tribute could make its offering for relief of such misery.

Doubts had been clouding her judgement, though. Days perhaps even more than days, leading up to his death, Annushka had found herself mourning the loss of something. Whatever it was that she had lost, she had forgotten of what it was. The feeling had been mocking her, and in such a desperate attempt to flee its gluttonous snares, she was feeling overtly shamefaced repentant about a deceased man who never truly loved her. No, she could never admit that he never truly loved her, and with that thought, her demons laid waiting for her to venture further into the darkness, only to be interrupted by a harolding sound.

The sound came as the victorious word growling in jest from their leader, which turned Annushka’s attention with eyes widening to study the mirth of the large man, swifting and prodding his body closer to where she resided, albeit lazy in her young, harsh years she felt, with the jossle of his dark boot against the bark underneath her. “Annushka! I certainly welcome the clarity of a frozen winter evening but I do not think Marena needs any help tonight in bringing us a chill!”The power from his movement awoke her mood, stirring the dark clouds hovering around her juxtaposition. “So, How are you holding up after the day’s Journey?”

Sturdily she responded in kind to his joke, “Fair.” Although, she used the word prekrasnyy as opposed to bespristrastnyy. With the light, mocking word, she raised her head, tilting it upwards towards him, to study his large frame as she withdrew the satisfaction of his commanding recruitment of her. The padded knuckles that evenly gripped her shashka slid to her lap, motioning over her belt and satchel, “Sit, please,” her eyes glanced down at his boot, remarking silently to herself about the wear that stained them with use and long travels, and suddenly they were staring back at the Hetman, who’s large, gray mustache was dangling passed his chin. Although, not one to formally refer to himself with such allegiance, Annushka had hard learned habits that needed revisiting and correcting. This was one that would have to come later. She had other demons to slay, and she was certain that she was correct in knowing that the Hetman and she were on the same page about this. They both agreed she was out of line, but he had faith in her yet.

As for Annushka, she saw him as the light at the end of the darkness that kept trying to pull her further into its depths. If she remained with the Zaporochian, she could free herself from the despairing girdles that kept haunting her daily and nightly, unceasingly. Tomorrow should be a jubilant time after the Abbot would hear her story. There was always fear in repeating what she knew. It lingered constantly inside of her. The bellows of Dmitri caused these ghostly feelings to flee from time-to-time, but with the time so close, they clung to her with more perseverance, now. She felt stronger still next to Dmitry, even if the weariness from all the penance was beginning too heavy of a burden to carry.

Howeverbeit, she understood that idolatry was on her list of things to not let slip her mind during the Sacrament of tomorrow. It was hard not to hold such admiration for the aged man. His youthful spirits were magnificient, and like an illusionist, he made the depths of her wallows seem shallow and easy to navigate. There was much more respect for him that she wanted to offer, but for now, she could only pathetically think of him as the Hetman. He was nothing more than aligned with the Sich Rada, but he seemed so much more as than a Sich. She believed this was the very nature of the Zaporizhzhya Army. There was an honor that could not be shaken by even the deepest, darkest winters nor the heaviest and highest mountains. She saw this first hand and heard it secondhand from tales, legends, and historical accounts.

She was still lost on many of the details, which blundered her, even now, with Dmitry standing afoot over her in his brusque, bearish form. His eyes were sharp, but for her, they offered a sense of assurety and protection. There was still discernment yet to be made on what these things would mean for her. Time would unveil these truths, and Annushka hoped, the beauty of them would lead her from the misery that continued to blaspheme and spit upon the paths that she had tread. There was no use for self-pity in such a gorging manner. Annyu had no stomach for it, either, unlike Dmitry who made his appearance as a man who could stomach the worst, even more than the Queen, whom Annushka defined as fiendish for having such an appetite… Her own weak will had wavered at the odious thoughts left for the Tsarina.

It was agreed within multiple parts of her that she was very weak and easily swaded. However, Annyu knew that admitting aloud anything of her weakness would be too detrimental to her current status -- a custom she had long since been trying to recover since leaving her hometown. Tomorrow, after the noon time, she would be able to wear it, again, but this time, she hoped she would wear it with more humility and patience, and no longer would she feel ashamed to think that the gifts that had been given her were hers to throw away. How could she with a man like Dmitry Krepchenko?

“And the kulish. How is it?” She shifted from her spot, making room for wherever he decided to plant himself. She was not entirely sure but making a small guess did no such harm that she could forsee aside from offer him a better place for a more comfortable purpose. She continued her talking, not awaiting his reply with another pause as she had when answering his own inquiry, “Tomorrow night, I’ll help your cooks. They are the hardest workers, I am sure,” She made a small laugh from her abdomen, forcing what pain she felt to make use of itself. Her loneliness was showing, but at least, in all the darkness, there some sort of light being used through all the murky feelings, as off-beaten and foul as they were. The Hosts were following a stringent course of actions and stepping out was becoming harder and harder. Such a feat was nothing that shook Annushka away from them. If anything, it drew her closer, like the snow that yearned to fall from the sky and to the ground. She prayed to keep such a relationship prosperous. Each ash of her sin that was collected along their journey, she prayed would become crumbs of Zvya'toy Khleb, blessed enough for even the wild boars to consume along their way to Paradise.
Hidden 6 yrs ago → 6 yrs ago Post by ct199
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"I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma: but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest." - Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, 1939


Dmitry put on a suitably mild smile and assessed the situation in front of him. He knew Annushka was more unsure of her situation than her strong facade was admitting, and the man also knew that her ability to keep up this false but entirely befitting and in no way dishonest facade betrayed a true inner strength that she was only beginning to come to terms with. It was his role in this adventure to protect the fragile and tarnished flower that sat before him, and shelter her through the winter so that she could blossom fully as a full member of their Host. The matters currently before them were but small details in this larger endeavor, and it was his duty to balance the need to fully engage in the moment whilst not losing sight of the bigger picture, but yet, fully engage in the moment he must, and so with this moonlit backdrop in mind he leaned back, took in a deep breath and clapped his hands together suddenly, a boisterous “So!” lightly booming from his chest in suitable concert with the frost and snow which cascaded from his thick leather gloves, “You feel you can improve the food around here?”

“A welcome addition you will be indeed!” Dimitry let back a small chuckle with his jest so as to lighten the mood in the darkened night in hopes of making Annu feel more at ease. “But you do know it is not all fun and games, even with our less adventurous Host, no?”

Annushka’s eyes narrowed, peeking in amusement at his comment, all joyous and cunning at the same time. Dmitry seemed to be up for whatever direction she so chose, ready to to hunt her down and bring her back. “Hopefully you will not grow tired of such domestic things, even though we will ask more of you, and lose your calm, returning to the deep Ukraine like an untrained Mare, no?” As he spoke, the trees were tending to the forest, covering in snow and watching under the trumpets that he reigned. It was difficult not to fall under his influence. This was his territory, a blessing of the Host.

Not minding her surroundings or his previous comment about being a welcome addition (even if she was relieved to be such), she answered in two-fold with one word, “нет,” Annushka spoke, falling deeply embedded in his comment, and she fell more than she ought to have been considering his jesting nature. He had caught her, again, again, and again. There was not much the man could not foresee. The threads of this knowledge were carefully beginning to weave this bit of knowledge to her, and still, she wanted to refuse its offering despite how truthful they were. Her rejection, as internal as it was, planted slothful patterns into the journey by making it ever more tiring in her perspective, already worn from a long days worth of contemplation, “I spit upon the witch,” and with that comment, she feigned the rights of disgrace upon the evil one by motioning her head quickly and falsely spitting to the ashen snow, no longer skirted by her long wardrobe, which was hiked for dramatic banality.

After the gesture was completed, a dark mit tapped her mouth, feeling the warmth of the fabric against her lips, not caring for the childish display to cause calloused discomfort upon her skin. Annushka let the mit rest now in her lap, not making a return to her shashka. Dmitry was disarming her, and it was foolish for her to continue in such a brute manner. A man of his type could read her with no such problems like the men she had grown accustomed to entertaining. He was a livelier man, in more ways than one, and she was thankful his eros could give such an attentive nature to her. Although, the jest still remained inevitable, and allowing him to come to close so early on was always unwise.

Dmitry enjoyed seeing Annushka rebuke his critique of her untamed tendencies in such a rogue and equine manner, and was glad to have her along for the journey, even though the journey was entirely caused by said equine manner. Though in his maturity he often seemed to have foreknowledge of some events by virtue of his experience, this actually was quite often not the case, and in many instances what appeared to be sagely wisdom was simply him applying what he knew of his own untamed and wild nature to the situation. Which is not to say he did not have some insight to Annushka’s state, having many times veered off into the wilderness on rogue journeys in his younger days before marrying his late Evgenia and rising in the ranks of the Zoprozhian.

“Well, it is of no concern. I am sure in no time you will see our journey to be worthwhile, and you will be reconciled fully, both to the past, in the present, and with your more certain and right future.” Dmitry paused to see if his words had a soothing effect.

Having lost herself in a dear childhood memory of her eldest sister’s friend who later joined the convent undertaking Saint Mara as her Patron. It made her wonder who she was truly spitting upon during that Hellenistic moment. She decided to pay this thought no mind, not wanting to hold any sadness of how she longed to embrace her sister once more. Dmitry seemed to pay no mind to her absent mindedness, and his words extended. His tune was strong, and it was for that of a leader to keep the Host in line as his conversation did.

He saw that Annushka said nothing to his response and proceeded with his service, “As you know we will be traveling up the river and will arrive at Trinity Monastery, I’m sure your offerings and prayers will be accepted, and that the calm of the dormitory will bring you much calm, and a much-needed new beginning to this chapter of our tale.” Dimitry paused to study Annushka’s face for signs of softening before resuming. “Some council with the Starets I think will do you well, and though his critique of your deviation may be harsh like the the Siberian winds, cutting through the icy landscape, he will be sure to apply this cold to aid you in keeping your heart warm for the coming months.” Seeing her veiled coldness re-cloak itself in a smattering of fearful joy, he continued “I know you are fearful of this reconciliation, for it means you will face your shame, but fear not, Our God is a Forgiving God, and you seem to me quite like the woman who feels much relief despite herself after the reconciliation is complete. Of course we will be with you in our contrition, many of us facing far worse sins than do you! Do not fear, little Annu, all will be well.”

It seemed unreasonable to Annushka that God should be ever merciful to her. Her mind could not understand how Dmitry could talk so whimsically and surely about something so great and mysterious. Her impression of him never seemed to falter, not since she had met him, “I enjoy your confidence, dearest Misha,” she looked downward at the seat he had yet to take. It was useless to ask, again, and his words were fearsome and bothersome in their comforting style. An impatience no longer wanted to hear his lecture, and for such a reason, her mit re-tucked the lines of her pants into her boot, “How is your confidence with dancing, then. Just as pious?” She feigned to stand her body upwards, next to the large man. He continued towering over her, and yet again she felt the same adoration for him, even if she could not yet show the proper respect.

Despite his general sense of confidence and his strong duty to display leadership at most all times, especially those such as this, Dmitry always felt a little bit unsure of his direction when faced in the presence the glow of such an intense and serious ember as Annushka. And all the more so owing to her most particular and unique ferocity in the world of all embers. It always made him chuckle to himself a bit, or perhaps feel a bit terrified, depending on his level of self confidence or self mockery, that he should be so strong in matters so unimportant, but in things such as these, so utterly without direction. But of course these were things he could never admit publicly, and tried to keep out of his mind, lest he dwell on them too much and unravel the many threads of woolen fabric he had woven together over the many years of harsh winters and terrible struggle. So he quickly placed the question out of mind and and hitched up his Sharovary with his heavy leather gloves, pivoting on one boot with some gusto to plop down dramatically with a sigh on the log about an arshin or so away from Annushka.

“You know, Annuska” Dmitry began with a slightly solemn and caring tone, “I do know it is not as easy as I try to make it sound sometimes. Many times I too face my own uncertainty and yearn to have a clear direction, or the strength to face the clear direction in front of me.” Dmitry peered out into the wilderness, glancing over to ensure Annushka’s attention as he confessed this to her, hoping to provide some assurance both of his assurances and of their true commonality despite their vast difference in years. “Thankfully,” he continued, “God has granted me great responsibilities despite myself which provides me with much motivation when I might not find it otherwise. In my younger years I would have rebelled against such things, but there came a time when I had to seek a different approach, finding strength in the challenges before me.” Dmitry paused, rebuking himself slightly in mind despite the generally good advice, for sounding too pompous and leaderly. It was a hard habit to set aside at times. Suddenly, he tilted slightly to the side and made a jesting face in Annushka’s direction. “Hopefully I listened!” he said, slapping his knees slightly to emphasize the point, and also the jest.

A small smile quipped upon her,“I wonder if your ears ever rest.” Thoughts cast through her head, now that she had more of his attention. It was in vanity, and she wished they had gone to do something else. However, she respected his decision to continue talking instead of dancing and being so merry with the rest. Such was for her ability to ask, “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, indeed I probably talk too much and listen too little”, Dmitry nodded gently, imploring her to continue.

“No, no…” Nushka's smile remained, despite the looming disposition. The man was jolly and light with his humor. His comfort was a Trisagion to her, “Do I mourn too much?” She cast her eyes away, embarrassed, and her fingers shifted towards each other, mitted with fabric.

“Ohh.. poor Annu” he exclaimed softly, yearning with his heart to gently sweep at the frosty hairs peeking out from her hat to comfort her, but stopping himself short as he knew her present fragility and didn’t want to be too familiar with her, lest his touch be misconstrued as somehow inappropriate and therefore damaging. “You care so very much that you chop yourself up with your own guilt.” At a time long ago, Dmitry too had such a butcherly problem, and so he knew it well. It took him much struggle to see and forgive himself his clear and obvious faults and yet also to see the damage the knife of his self criticism was causing, a task which was made all the more difficult by the fact that the knife was initially turned inward out of a desire to protect those whom he used to stab with it. “One can never mourn too much, and yet one must also still live the life one has yet before them. It is a difficult thing to balance on a log such as this. In my dark times, it took me much failing to find my true mourning, but also to let go of it when the time had come. I had to see in my own stubborn way that this particular contrition, while still seeming true, was keeping me trapped in the dark, and so it was still all the more hard to move on, when leaving it behind seemed so foolish and lighthearted by comparison. And so I still must go back there at times to make sure it is still there, should I need it and should my current path prove incorrect, as it still so often seems. Which is not to say contrition is wrong of course - it is the true path. But, if we deny joy we also deny the love of God. Such is the puzzle of our lost way in this world."

Annushka remained silent. His words were helpful and thoughtful, but she had nothing in response. The overtone of the conversation had turned her, and she was unable to say anything. Instead, she sat, staring at her mittens, where light snow had fallen and was suckling on the ruffled fuzz of the fabric.

Dmitry sat quietly with Annu in the cold stillness, the silence somehow made warm by their solitude in the wilderness. The stars twinkled softly in the distance, and the winter spread its comforting but harsh coldness over the scene. After a short time, the sound of the encampment grew impatient with their departure, and Dmitry sensed Annushka’s response would remain silent like the nature of their wider surroundings, for the moment anyway. “Perhaps, my words are too much for the moment,” Dmitry began, brushing the frost from his legs as he stood up. ”You are right! Tonight affords us a chance to escape such solemnity and be merry with the group!” And with one nearly incomprehensible motion, Dmitry unsheathed his shashka, twirled it several times above their heads, and spun himself whirredly in the air, landing in a crouched cossack dance position with hand extended to pull Annushka off of her perch and lead them both in a most comradely and jovial spirit back to the camp.
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Parched on the snow with a knee upwards and an arm resting, Nyester Onigen rested by a tree, letting the large trunk shield him from the wind. He had advised Dmitri Krepchenko from taking this route, and indeed, he thought himself correct in saying, “нет.” There was a bad feeling in the air. He could smell it clearly. It cut through the wind like a rotten egg. It caused him to become ever more so disenchanted with the shenanigans the Host was doing tonight, and Nyester decided to take watch, instead. The feeling in his gut was unsettling, and even the newcomer was warranting a foul stench to him. He understood she would be better by the morrow, washed from that filthy heresy she had not minded until the Host came about her.

“Ложитесь с собаками, и вы встанете с блохами,” he told himself, fanning a hand in front of his face. The wind was sharp, as well. He felt colder than he ought to feel. In more ways than one, he supposed. There was no use in being a legal man, but as an old wolf, he knew a thing or two, whether Dmitri acknowledge them or not was another discussion Nyester would argue tooth and bone until he was buried underneath the Holy Land. Honor and dignity relied on it, like truth against the foul lies. He might be hard, but he had something in his teeth that he knew was right, “Agios Yuri,” he mumbled to no one in particular.

To Nyester, this was war. It always was war. He had a hard time enjoying himself when all he could see were the places where the Host had blackness and cracks. There were holes where not just prayer was needed. He was no monastic and thought himself to be the only one who ever bothered to mend and fill those places with something useful and worthwhile. It stretched him thin many of times and frayed his spirits.

“You speak?” The gruffness of Iosef Moskvin’s voice was hushed and growled through the area. His large hand was held on his detachment, and the chin was tucked under with his bushy facial hair, scanning the grounds with a mean penance. Nyster was never in his favor. There was something abominably negative about him. Iosef believed it to be the port man’s surname, which sounded oddly familiar to a certain heretic he once learned about. “Any more, and we will be deaf to the outside,” he mused, letting his tongue curl inside the softness of his mouth, sucking on the dew that had developed in his warmed position. He was a tough man, and therefore, he worked well with Nyester, even if he did not care for the other.

“To foes?” Nyester shook his head, mumbling under his breath. Iosef was a fool. His jokes were rarely ever clever and never funny, but the man had power of his own. Like a rock, he was solid against the terrain. He was one of the few that Nyester knew to never get injured. Twitching his nose, his body arose and trotted forward, to escape the presence of his comrade momentarily, but as he took another step, the sound of his boot chunked into the icy snow sounded unnaturally different. A chill took the wind, and silence beckoned across the land. The foul smell still hung in the air, much more noticeably now, and the man turned. The crinkling in the cloth of his clothes could be heard by Iosef, who was no longer visible to Nyester. Neither Cossack dared make another sound. The snuff of heavy breaths could be heeded. Both men knew what this could be.

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