Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Wafting through short grasses from icy peaks, a spirit roams the primordial plain from which many hooves have thundered out. Into new lands like a flash of lightning, the horde from who knows where, gone as quick as they came, leaving behind seeds germinating in blood among the ruins of a thousand forgotten, once-bustling worlds. A tale as old as time, each generation repeating the follies and cunning of the old. I have seen it time and time again, families torn apart by feuds and politics, with bickering clansmen destroying themselves by loosing arrows upon their blood brothers.

Indeed I reveled in the bloodshed until the taste of iron was no longer sweet, heeding Tengri's call to serve my ancestors instead. Remembers ghosts forever wise and rolling in their graves for being unable to forge their children and children's children. Tonight and many night before I've danced to soothe their woes to a steady beat under the crescent moon bringing light to the intimidating black expanse, aided by the stars. Celestial bodies too far away to behold their true flame, yet remain content in their place.

Unlike the stars, continue in a forever wander, comfort of a hearth evading me, trepidation chasing and whispering: You are alone in this world everywhere I go with Tengri continual seizure of the souls of my teachers and companions. Now, I have been a student longer than a warrior, had froze during many winters, gotten trodden over by herd animals, had boiling oil flow through my veins, and arrows sticking out of every limb while watching men both stronger and younger wither away by the wind, shrinking into wrinkled leather before turning cold during a long night. Magma burns its way through my flesh instead tired weakness eating away at my lifeforce, leaving me with an itch to overflow and cement myself in this plane of existence, never to meet my ancestors. It breaks me out of my meditations to take foolish excursions at midnight, hoping the breeze will cool the heat, instead it whispers, it's message loud and clear,You alone, belongs this world, this truth reverberating in the immortal marrow of my bones; for even after all this time, Tengri has yet to come for my soul.

Imploring me to rise above a backwater after dedication to peace in a world dictated by the fight for life. Even my face is hidden by the skull of a predator who prowls, lying in wait for the opportunity to strike, gathering his pack. As I tried to become one with this world in order to feel the heart of the tree within I had gone months without sustenance in service to knowing this plane better than my own body, not limited to unfeeling grasses but extending my reach to beating hearts as well. I healed with chants and ointments, spoke of prophecies and tales of good fortune. I am another blade of perennially enduring green; content to remain, ignoring the world of those who dared tread upon me.

Yet I could not dismiss the whisper in the dark, beckoning me from the warmth of my wolf pelt as I attempt to sleep with nature, reminding me with the rustling grasses, who part as I make my way through, of a whole other world never at rest. Louder and louder they screamed for me to follow growing in a rhythmic concoction to overwhelm and intoxicate sharp ears, causing saliva to pool around pointed teeth as lips were pulled back.

The voices and strangling weeds died away with the the sudden shout of a woman. Her harsh and scolding voice cut through the whispers, compelling them to disappear into the night. Through the edges of my skull's eye sockets, I saw flickering flames at the edge of the abyss where I was concealed, crouched under thorns.

There were five boys seated around a firelight. The smallest sniveled and rubbed his eyes, while the others wore petulant frowns and scowls as a woman of most extraordinary beauty gave each of them an arrow shaft. My mouth fell open and my hand moved forward before I remembered my discipline though pining for my own arrow shaft.

Break them. She commanded, a strong voice that would echo throughout battle fields or lack there of

The younger boys hesitated, looking up at their mother with wonder as to why she was asking them to waste perfectly good shafts. One of the older ones scoffed and broke his with a loud snap. Not to be outdone, the rest followed as the fire crackled hungrily for more fuel. Eyes alight, thick, bundled hair golden, with the fire licking deep contours into her face, she stood up and held out a new bundle made up of five arrow shafts.

Now break this.

Instead of each boy getting their own bundle as they had an arrow shaft, it is passed from boy to boy, each attempting in vain to break it in every manner they could think of, unwilling to admit defeat. When it came to the eldest, he scoffed and attempted to smash it over his knee. His face grew red as he whacked it. He looked up with scrunched charcoal brows as his mother came over, long fingers outstretched to receive. Hanging his head, he gave it back, glaring at the fire reflecting its dance of glee at his failure in his eyes. Once again she stood before the flames, blue smoke framing her face as her red lips parted to speak like a spirit from the underworld about to speak a prophecy that would make the worlds tremble.

You, my five sons, were born from a single womb, you are just like the five arrow shafts; if you are alone, one by one, you will be easily broken by anyone, but if you are joined in accord as one, then how can you be broken by anyone? The anger and resentment that had characterized her boys whittled into shame as they looked to and fro. A heavy sense of foreboding came over my shoulders, pushing me forward into the dirt of the clearing and I crashed into the ground.

The eldest’s ears were the sharpest and he glanced over to shout wolf as they all leapt away. I got up, dusting myself off as they swung to aim their bows at me. My hands flew up and I turned away. I distracted myself from the pain to come by watching my imposing shadow cast by the fire, characterized by the roe antlers and eagle feathers framing my wolf skull’s sharp jaw.

Stand down, it is a healer. The woman called out, speaking more of her everlasting wisdom into existence and in unison, her sons backed away, lowering their weapons. Slowly, I turned around to see them surrounding the bonfire with scrutinizing looks misshaping the features inherited from their mother. I shook as I pulled out my drum, a lump in my throat as I began to beat a familiar tune for a song of praise towards the ancestors and Tengri for having led me here.

One by one the boys joined in the song, following their pious mother’s example. After its end, she added another shaft to the bundle and handed it to me. I did not make a futile attempt at breaking it, for I knew it was secure as the future could be. The oldest boy came forward to take my hand. It was rough, warm, and made of flesh.

Are we brothers now, oh wise one? His voice had a mocking edge that did not make me feel ashamed but instead warmer than blue fire. His hand clasped mine.

“Yes,” I nodded, bouncing with excitement, as if I too was but a mere boy.
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The cry of an eagle echoed across the battlefield where white knights charged after the retreating Mongol vanguard. Red banners fluttered from hilltops and the sun’s rays peeked through grey clouds to give the steel of helms and armor a deathly shine. Lancetips were pressed forward, each knight wanting to be the first to taste victory and run red with the blood of the invaders.

Fueled on this bloodlust, Królestwo Polskie rushed toward the forefront to spear the first Mongol himself before rounding back towards the infantry. They had been left alone after Duke Henry's orders to commit the cavalry to charge after the retreating Mongol vanguard.

He glanced back with a wild grin that fell from his face when he noticed the horizon and ground fogging together behind the dust kicked up by the horses. The clopping of hundreds of hooves and screaming of men faded from his ears, even the Polish “run, run,” which had started the chase, died away.

The world slowed down and he could inspect the miniscule scratches and enameling on the shoulder pouldron of the knight next to him. Królestwo Polskie swung his head around to the front where one of the Mangudai looked back. Their face was soft for a man, with eyes unnaturally golden and clear in the chaos and long braids jumping in rhythm with the motion of their horse’s gallop.

He reared his horse, lance skyward and pointing behind him in an attempt to get his knights to turn back when his shouting was not heard. But as soon as he had turned, the Mangudai signaled the rest of the Mongols to turn round from their feigned retreat with arrows raining from the sky, an appetizer for the slaughter that followed.

His cardinal red eyes lurched skyward as they hailed down on him, confused as to how quickly the tides had shifted against them before inwardly screaming at himself:

The infantry is unprotected!

His heart grew heavy with dismay and panic as he slashed wildly with his sabers after falling from his horse, realizing they wouldn't be able to meet up with his brother České království and come to Magyar Királyság’s aid.

In the sea of smoke, arrows and rising red haze, he came face to face with the harbinger of all Europa’s fate to be rained upon by the horde. He fought them back like a wounded animal in a forest with trees so high they blocked out the sun, where no doctors roamed.

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Golden eyes flashed again as a chestnut Turkmen akhal-tehe horse ran by. The rider sported a blue, short-sleeved chapan over a red, white, and green tunic dress that fluttered in the wind along with the matching flag she held up high instead of reins.

“O‘zbekiston!” Loudspeakers announced, to the tremor of clapping and hands knocking against fence posts and benches with whooping and hollering at each passing nation.

Another nation who was part of the crowd, not the lineup, felt his knees buckle, numbing as if they wanted to give out from under him. His left hand fell to balance himself as he grit his teeth, determined to see this through. Though his right hand reached up to a phantom ear under uncharacteristically long, white locks.

There is no danger, he repeated the mantra, yet the atmosphere of the event hardly prevented him from envisioning her standing over him, twirling a bloody dagger in the aftermath of the battle at Legnica.

“Qazaqstan!”

This nation flew past like a golden steppe eagle. He and his horse were as blue as the sky, both flashing a blinding smile as bright as the sun.

“Magyarország!”

The final nation was announced and the whole crowd went into the loudest uproar yet with everyone standing up and waving at the red, white and green flag flying its colors overhead a galloping steed.

“Dare to be Hungarian from dusk til dawn!” bellowed from the modern mike system, challenging spectators and participants alike, “as the ancient Turanian spirit that flies across the plains engulfs you!”

The thirteen nations stood side by side amongst the thirty-three smaller participating states. Their flags billowed in the wind, tall and proud, from Suomi to Daehan Minguk, all the steppe nations here ready to take on the challenge. Their unique tongues had brought them together, signifying that they were,

“Brothers by memory of common ancestry!"

The loudspeaker bellowed on about lines in the sand unwashed by the waves of time.

Under the Mongolian flag stood a horse, dressed up in its own folk costume. From his pointy ears hung long floppy cone coverings that swirled with red and blue. A blanket with yellow ornamental details covered the horse’s back like chain armor from battles past.

The horse’s rider was not of a different breed. Their face and head were covered by a large wolf skull with the antlers of a deer and feathers poking out from the beaded eye curtain. The costume was not too dissimilar to the Taltos Polska had seen lurking about. His fingers dug into the palms of his fists.

The Great Kuraltaj officially began with the dispersal of nations throughout the camp grounds. Magyarország and Qazaqstan stayed together, both waving arms in erratic conversation, punctuated by their boisterous laughter that caused bystanders to join in. The reaper rode up to them and laid a human hand on Qazak’s shoulder and broke them out of their discourse with a few quiet words.

“Cumans?” he’d asked Magyar Királyság as they drank together. They were half collapsed over maps and deep in thought. He studied the crease in his brow reflected on the goblet that had been refilled too many times to count.

“I'm trying to convert them though, many have accepted their place here regardless. How can I turn them over to those who've chased them from their home?”

Mongolia, the omnipresent nation, who towered over all the rest both literally and figuratively, the one behind the raids and invasions into his land and many others. The precursor to his sister who was embracing that part of her heritage after rejecting it for so long. An ear was little to what she’d put him through. Vast empires playing and exchanging the same pieces over and over for the land itself that never changed. He’d be damned before it happened to him again.

Polska turned and walked away from the field as they set up for the next equestrian display. He kicked a plain, smooth stone as he walked, hands in his pockets, feeling blue and out of place like the sweet song in the air.

The pebble disappeared into a myriad of feet, clad in leather or animal skin shoes. When he looked up again he found himself having followed the charming notes towards a big, wooden, and sun-shielded stage. The smell of sawed oak still lingered in the air, mingling with the heated moisture of the audience. He wrinkled his nose and crossed his arms, glancing at the notice where lectures, folk music and dancing from all participating nations were scheduled to be performed throughout the day.

At that very moment a group folk dance was being performed by six women in bright red and gold embroidered folk costumes. They flowed around each other, causing the layers of ruffles to bounce up and down. The partners in center stage were particularly eye-catching, especially the one dancer who spun with swirling red braids that shone orange in contrast to the dye of the costume.

She was even more characterized by the sharp energy that accompanied her movements, showcasing something powerful and ancient. A toothy grin served to hide age lines, her being an older woman amongst the young dancers.

As he nestled his place in the crowd to have a better view, he saw over the heads and hats the familiar blue, white and red skull cap bobbing up and down, moving ever closer to the stage as if she was being beckoned towards it.

The red haired dancer noticed and came forward in a sweeping motion, holding herself out from the stage with unnatural precision and strength to tap O’zbekiston on the nose before getting pulled back by her partner. They all spun around one another a final time and bowed. The background dancers then scattered away in tiny, floating shuffles as she took center stage.

“Moon light.” She announced.

Her voice was deep and raspy, catching attention as it reverberated clearly throughout the crowd without help from the speakers. Her dangling triangle earrings glimmered in the sunlight before suddenly being swept to the right as she began to dance. The crowd’s eyes had to work to keep up with the sudden fluid movements. His eyes remained trained on O’zbekiston, who kept moving closer to the stage.

Her hand reached out instinctively as the dancer swung by again and caught it. She was pulled up onto the stage and despite the contrasting costume they both danced as if it had been this way from the start, earning the admiration of the crowd. O’zbek matched her sharp movements better than her previous partner and they danced in the same choreography as the beginning of the song, repeating it in the final stanza. They finished with dramatic flair in their pose, like they always belonged together in the first place.

He was breathless when it ended, as if he had been the one in a flurry of motion. The music improved his mood and his chest was lighter, less constricting as he turned around with his eyes up to look upon the fair-grounds in a new light. The colors had lost their stark grim greys of future and past, melding them together into a world found in folktales filled with abundance and adventure.

People from across the steppe passed by him, warmly tanned by the sun with myriads of braids and topknots hidden under helms or hats in various styles and trimmed with lighter materials for the summer weather. Their clothing came in silks, felts, cottons, as bright and colorful as the patterned fabrics displayed at the stalls, decorated by fringes of disks or fanciful embroidery that took on a life of its own as the threads of fate intertwined with fashion through time, connecting these people gathered in celebration.

He watched a pair of children run to the stall selling painted horns, pulling a parent who had to weigh whether or not they wished to deal with all the noise back home. The mother was graced with peace by the passing eagle who caught the boy and girl’s attention as it flew between the shoppers, causing a spook and laughter. It landed on the gloved arm of the keeper by another stall where more fascinated individuals had gathered to see his hunting birds. His stall was flanked by others where bows hung on racks and knives with handles made of glossy wood that shone as much as their edges in the sunlight.

Other youths were less concerned by the treasures available for consumption but rather with freely running, chasing one another with mock bows or being swung around on baskets, their giddy shrieking adding to the low thrum of the camp. In the center of the sprawling steppe market, towering over all the rest was Attila's tent, the largest dismantlable yurt in the world.

The red, white and green flag held by a dismounting nation nearby acted as a homing beacon for Polska. He began to jog over towards the tent and passed the outskirts of the village of yurts where life through the creation of the goods displayed in the market was presented in the simple traditionalist setting.

The air rang with the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer on hot steel when he stopped to observe the closed off grounds where women sat in a circle weaving golden baskets. He nodded and gave a wave, to which some of the girls responded with tittering giggles before turning around to watch the God of Fire at work.

The blacksmith's arms were thick with muscle as he lifted and let fall in a rhythm akin to the earlier dancing. His long bronze hair was tied back, unobscured by a helm as it had been earlier. The impressive, twirled moustache twitched when sparks flew unlike the unblinking eyes that flowed with molten copper.

“I thought I had seen you at Atilla's tent.” Polska spoke when he dipped the red metal into water, causing a rush of steam to fog up the yurt and allowing Polska to not look directly at the face of the holy.

“Türkiye offered to deliver my flag. Though it’s no surprise he’s still gallivanting about with it.” Magyarország wiped the sweat from his brow.

“While you take part in settled societal activities?” Polska asked, trying to understand the contrast when Magyarország pulled out the blade, starkly showing the sharp edge of this “settled” trade.

“It’s the rhythm I like, whether it’s the horse’s hooves under me or the hammer in my hand Lech. Besides, anything that wishes to live on needs to adopt the ideas and technology of those who expended energy in such experimentation. It's a celebration of tradition, not of tying the millstone of the past around our necks.” He continued the clang of metal and steel, sending sparks and fire to invade the air, making it reek of iron.

“You are the best of my tradition and the millstone around my neck.” Polska mumbled from where he inspected sabers hanging on the wall with his back to the entrance. While running a finger along the upward curve of the blade edge, his thoughts trailed off to batorówkas and military reforms brought about by Stafon Batory. It was the start of the end for the commonwealth. Despite his assertiveness in foreign affairs, the Prince had ambitions beyond Polska's interests.

He grabbed one of the sabers and held it up to cut off half of Magyarország's face. An older brother who showed love by being the first to betray, glowing with fiery pride as the younger picked up his habits to beat him at his own game, always dancing around one another, never daring to come too close.

“Oh, but doesn't it work well together?” Magyarország’s eyes sparkled above the bushy moustache that hid all his smiles.

“Not when you refuse the lady’s affection and neglect your duties for campaigns elsewhere.”

“Are you speaking of Lietuva?” The brows raised themselves in confusion.

“No, Anna Jagiellon,” Polska followed his truth with another lie, ears warm from the forge’s fire.

“Perhaps… It could've been glorious.”

“To be free or to be with me?” was all Poska managed to coolly ask before getting the daylights shocked out of him when cold hands landed on his shoulders and he heard a soft “boo” in his remaining ear. He spun around with his blade and slashed at O’zbekiston. The top half of her skull cap slowly slid off and landed at their feet.

“Calm your wits,” Magyarország roared with a hand on his belly, always quick to laugh when Polska’s heart was beating at an unnatural rate. “O’zbekiston and Türkmenistan,” he nodded at the newcomers. The latter was a lanky man in long green robes wearing a towering, wide, off-white telpek.

“Magyarország. It is good to see you again, who is with you?” He asked, cocking his head and his large headwear.

“Pray tell! I keep seeing him around but he’s too rude to come and introduce himself." O’zbekiston cracked after swooping down for the piece of her hat and shaking it in Polska’s face. He shook his sabre in her face in retaliation. Magyarország began to clean up his station, wrapping his work up in a cloth without allowing for any inspection.

“This is Lech. I invited him to the Kuraltaj.” Magyarország stated, offering no further explanation but his nickname for the country in the plains, “I have to take this to Türkiye. I'll meet you at Attilia’s tent in an hour.” He playfully punched him in the shoulder and gestured he should put his saber back.

“I'm surrounded by Turks which you are leaving me alone with.” He grumbled before reluctantly placing it back on the rack and simultaneously organising all the rows.

“Certainly, you will not find any truer Turks than us.” Türkmenistan solemnly proclaimed.

O’zbekiston giggled, lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. Polska wondered how much these nations remembered from their past lives, if it all melded together in undisguised bloodshed.

“Let's get out of here, it reeks of civilization.” Her girlish hand wrapped around his and pulled with unexpected strength. The hand in question was littered with small white scars. When she caught him staring she whispered, “White gold,” into his ear.

He smiled and shook her hand, earning a look of surprise. He followed the both of them into the steppe nomad world knowing they all lived closer to the Soviet era than anything before and that it collectively weighed on their hearts. It is what brings them together in light of the collapse to seek the roots that had been considered unredeemable for too long.
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“A horse walked into a bar, why did he have a long face?” Türkmenistan asked, having filled the silence with awful jokes since they left. Polska was flanked on either side, unable to escape his Turkic hosts.

“Don't you mean the bartender asked why he had a long face?” Polska questioned, wanting to groan.

“Because he can’t buy alcohol,” O’zbekiston piped in, nudging Polska with an elbow. “Or drink it in Türkmenistan."

“No, no, noooo, it is because he is a horse!” The Turkmen started laughing at the oldest joke in the book.

As the Turkmen’s laugh subsided into soft chuckles, they had walked into another event. Men were cheering on and roaring in support of their man in a Yakut mas-wrestling championship.
Türkmenistan sauntered over to the front and transformed from the silent but jovial giant into the sort, parents tell their little ones, that parties in the clouds during a thunderstorm. He joined in the ruckus with pounding of his fists and yells of encouragement, incentivizing the losing candidate so much he soared with new determination and strength and pulled his opponent over the board.

Türkmenistan walked over to the board and kicks up a leg from his robes to rest atop the board, and spreads the hands hidden until now in his sleeves.

“Who is up for the challenge?” he called out, looming over the crowd in anticipation, looking from face to face with a wide grin, but he was met with silence. Nobody was keen on accepting the challenge ‘til Azerbaijan stepped forward from the spectators of rowdy men. Silver disks swayed from her headdress and a bright red chepken embroidered with white stars hugged her upper body over a light blue shirt and dark green trousers.

The breeze whispered and clothing rustled as she pulled out a silver coin to flip. Her nimble fingers tossed it into the air and the sunlight glinted on the edge as she caught it and pressed it into her palm, lifting it with a soft smile between wind burned cheeks.

“Alright sister, you choose.” She positioned her hands in the center of the stick, with the sun behind her back like a Roman gladiator.

O’zbekiston jumped in to referee, finding Polska a rather dull conversion partner. Her hand slicing through the air, she called out, “ Go!”

Both countries strained themselves in the pull, fingers locked tight around the stick when Azerbaijan was nearly pulled over the board. She caught herself just in the nick of time, the rest of her face reddening in the struggle.

“It’s gone, the place for horses.” Polska murmured his thoughts aloud, seeing roads and tracks cutting up landscapes and cultures over the struggle. Azerbaijan surged backwards then, with Türkmenistan tumbling over the board, his telpek cushioning the landing of his forehead. O’zbekiston scowled and Türkmenistan shook his head in disbelief, readjusting his hat before lunging at Polska.

They entered a scuffle, with the Turkmen having pulled him down into the dirt and throwing punches and kicks. He elbowed him in the gut and hooked his arm around his throat.

“Is there a wrestling match on?”

“I don't think so, the flyer said oil wrestling…”

Observers jumped out of the way as they rolled through. He was pushed onto his stomach when O’zbekiston joined in to bring order to the chaos. She knelt on his right arm and reached over grab to his left while Türkmenistan pinned his legs with his knees like iron tent pegs.

“You are far more interesting writhing beneath me. Quite boring isn't it, in a world where we’re all equal?” she snapped at him.

“Perhaps a world where you are all the same, believe in the same god would be. But equal…” Polska paused with ragged breaths, too aware of the sorrow that was brought when such beliefs were acted upon, for the suffering is never equal. “We’ll have to live many more years to see to that, and by then perhaps you too will have changed.”

She sat up and kicked him in the head like a soccer ball before announcing, “Best of 3,” to Türkmenistan and the baffled Azerbaijan. Grudgingly, the Turkemen lifted his weight off of him and Polska stared at his back, flowing green robes stained with dirt, as his head and body seared with pain.

“No, we’ve never been equals, and that's why from the day of birth we had to bathe in blood to prove our right to have a place in that world.’” he lifted himself on an elbow, shouting after them like a mad man. Their colorful traditional clothing morphed into the uniforms and armor that sanctified their existence.

“Don't mind him, he’s an outsider.” O’zbekiston hissed at the spectators within hearing distance who were glaring and yammering about Polska’s heretical nonsense.
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“Polska! You look like a frog who fought a crusade all on his own.” Bulgaria called out as Polska trudged alone to Attilia’s tent.

Polska, who'd been stewing in pain and memories of Turks and his sister since he arrived, chuckled when he heard the familiar, grounding voice.

“I'm in the wrong pond, that’s for sure.” he ran a hand through his disgruntled hair.

“Whatever pond Magyarország finds himself in, I expect you're not far off. Even if the water is muddy and you can't see the bottom you’d jump for the other.”

“Then how do you all fit in this pond? I’m certainly not welcome.”

"The world tree gets its water from all the ponds. The water molecules, as they say these days, feed into the tree and it blooms with lovely flowers and delicious fruits.”

“An old tree it must be…” he mused. Bulgaria’s bushy white brows lifted to reveal jade green eyes shining like the red dancer’s eyes had, hinting at their deeper understanding of the world, the skill it took to carve their place in history and remain.

“With thick roots that go deep so that the water can filter. Ha, you sure are thoughtful these days. So somber and serious when you are doing so well.”

Polska only nodded in response. A frog was in his throat, inhibiting further speech as they walked through the camp grounds. All the noise from the shrieking of children, loud shouts for attention, and the lecturer on the big stage became a buzzing blur. The sights melded together and he couldn't see the ground anymore; only the suffocating darkness of the void engulfed him.

He never spoke of this occurrence, unknowing if anyone else slipped to and fro after having been stuck there only able to surface for a vital gasp of air. Never knowing if it would just be another undoing for his legitimacy to exist.

Some nations flirted with death, others simply disappeared, and perhaps there were more who hid their disposition better, who like him, had inherited a world they took no part in shaping. Grasping and trying to grab a hold of the roots so deeply entrenched in the soil that you cannot find them among the seeds of chaos sown for fruit.

“Schr Eeeeeeeee!"

An eagle’s cry broke through the impending doom of being ripped into three. He was torn from forming links of past chains by the screeching of the bird of prey that so many nations guarded as their own.

The breeze picked up Polska’s strands of white hair and his arms rose up to ride along the wind in the attempt to join them in their flight. Like all the present nations who gallivanted upon their horses today, he felt between his thighs the strong muscled back of a horse as he rode into battle to spear the awaiting Mocsovites on their last attempt to rout his forces and partition his land at the battle of Mogilev. High on the fear in their eyes, lighting the fire in his blood with the screams and chaos around, whispering of eternal glory.

“What are you looking at, my man?” Bulgaria punched him in the shoulder, catching him in the trance of a memory not of tearing pain in his body and mind, or foreign on the page of a historical tome. He changed his pose, holding out an arm at a ninety-degree angle for the eagle to perch.

“The birds who led us to vast new lands. Their descendants return with new messages for us.”

“Never took you for a bird watcher. You should ask Qazaqstan to call them down for you. He is like one of America’s princesses; talking with his squeaking voice to the birds dolled up in bright colors. This is why you do not take Chinese silk. It is too soft and airy on the skin so it pampers the mind as well.” Bulgaria preached.

“Quite orthodox sentimentals.”

“Of course, here orthodox and tradition is all we’re about. Thanks to Magyarország and Princess Madjar….” He was interrupted by the devil himself, falling in between them to throw his arms over their shoulders.

“Talking about me behind my back, are we now?” Magyarország questioned coyly, his strong thick fingers digging into their respective shoulders. Polska was about to snap back at him but froze when Magyarország’s companion strutted in front of them with his hands clasped behind his back. Chain mail glittered like a snake’s scales when it basked in sunlight, layered over fine red fabric. From his belt hung two sheathed curved blades.

“Going to war, Sipahi? Where is your horse? Don't dirty your feet with us infantry.” Bulgaria chided. A lump had formed in Polska’s throat. “You're practically a centaur, how is it you’re not bleeding, oh wait.” He gestured at the spilled fabric.

“Ha, making up for lost land, sons, and time, are we not.” He glanced at Polska. “Wives, too.”

Polska snorted and pulled himself out of Magyarország’s embrace to march up to the Turk and grabbed the front of Türkiye’s tunic above the chain mail.

“I would've thanked O’zbekston’s with a kiss if I had not dealt you heavy blows myself.” he snidely remarked.

“Don't test your luck.” Türkiye smirked, the limp tails of his mustache perking up behind the two sabers he held up against Polska’s throat. Still agitated from having his ass handed to him earlier, Polska didn't care to wager cuts on top of bruises and threw a punch at Türkiye’s head.

“Luck doesn't have anything to do with these hands.” He brought another fist up to Türkiye’s ribcage, his knuckles screaming from knocking against raw steel. Only jumping back when Türkiye reoriented and took a swing at him, slicing cleanly from his clavicle to his sternum through his shirt. He froze and collapsed at the sharp, acute echo of pain in his nicked bones.

“I suppose the dirt was not from a trip and fall,” Bulgaria croaked. Magyarország jumped in between Türkiye, stalking over ready to finish the job, and Polska on the ground.

“Enough, save your energy for the Kökbar.” Magyarország scolded

“You've got good friends, Pole, it’s a shame you don't know who they are, throwing yourself like a marionette into useless conflict, ” Türkiye sneered, and ran a finger against the edge of the saber that cut Polska, collecting the blood, “Good workmanship Magyar. Red like the rest of them.” He flicked it away and sheathed the blades. Polska winced at the piercing sting.

“Give me one and we'll check if your blood is gold or blue.”

“Do you really have such high thoughts of me?” Türkiye chuckled. “In due time you may see, though I don't suppose you'll be taking part in the Kökbar since you can barely keep yourself in line as is.”

“Indeed, I am no steppe nation,” Polska spat, lunging forward to knock him off balance like the Turkmen had and see what color would run from his nose, though he knew as well as anyone his blood was crimson. Magyarország anticipated his plans and jumped, grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him away from Türkiye.

“A pity, always insisting on being worse, a profligate puppet, easily corruptible with your councils and elections, a toy to everyone more powerful…” Türkiye monologued behind them as Polska was being led away.

“Don't you have some engraving to do before the game, Türkiye?” Magyarország yelled back, silencing the screaming of Rossiyskaya Imperiya, Stormaktstiden, Österreich, and Preusen in Polska’s ears.

“I'll leave you two to cool down, I have a colleague of my own to track down…” Bulgaria saluted, springing away and making the celestial turtle with three interconnected eights dance on the back of his dark green waistcoat.

He was set down on a tree stump, and he tore a strip from his bloody shirt to hold against the cut. At Polska’s request, Magyarország had charmed an old lady selling hand-stitched, leather bags crawling in bright florals for a needle and thread.

“Nasty work Lech, are you sure I shouldn't do the stitches?” He offered as Polska positioned the thread with one hand, pulled with the other and held it with his teeth.

“You can track down a new shirt for me,” Polska snarled. He was supplied with a cheesy black t-shirt that read I am a Hungarian, I was born with fire in my soul, my heart on my sleeve and a mouth I can't control.

“Now, you can quit your separatist attitude and come and see where my greatest leader lives on; the adeptly christened ‘Attila’s tent.’” Magyarország pounded his chest with his free hand and squatted down next to Polska to pull him close against his chest with his right arm to behold the giant yurt. The curved ends of his bronze moustache tickled Polska’s smooth-shaven face.

“Where do you think you are going?” he asked from atop a black gelding, looming over the simple tribesman that was wandering his plains.

“Following the white eagle, it flew out of sight but will be back to guide me soon,” he’d replied in the haze of a dream, rambling nonsense to the Hun warrior who’d hunted him down.

The Hun cocked his elongated head. The sun took the opportunity to peek out from behind the clouds and bounce off the copper helm that accentuated the length and point of his head.

It was a grotesque and fearful appearance, yet he did not find himself turning to flee, instead welcoming mockery and an arrow into his heart. He looked towards the north, grasses yellowed by the coming snow and thought of how sweet it would be to wake up after a sunbathed nap without critters crawling all over him. He would stretch until he felt the blood reach his limbs from his pierced-through heart and continue his journey out of the Hun's land to where the bird flew. It would circle over his body with impatience, fending off jackals and wolves.

But instead of bellowing with laughter and letting an arrow fly, the Hun gazed into the distance where the eagle had allegedly flown. His eyes the color of amber, holding secrets reaching back to the beginning of time frozen in the primordial sap of his irises.

Polska entered the grand yurt expecting the kings to stare from over cups of wine with questions as to what their immortal servant had brought this young tribesman for.

“He needs safe lodging for the night and will pay in stories.”

“Oh, this is only the beginning of the great story of Lech, Czech and Rus! I am Lech.” He announced, spreading his hands, taking on the role with vigor.

“No doubt the most foolish of this trio.” His sponsor shook his head. The night was carried away by drink, tales long past, and grand expectations of what was to come.

Yet here instead of the central flame casting dancing shadows of warriors and dragons glowing with perspiration, it was cold, sterile and academic. A bronze cauldron had taken the fire’s place, surrounded by skulls instead of round, fire-warmed faces. The expert’s droning explanation of the archaeological exhibition and the hushed whispering of the observers roared louder in his ears than boisterous laughing gibes. Belongings and tools old and rusted lay on their own display separated from the skeletons once covered in flesh, who held them shining with life.

“It’s strange to see this sometimes, championing our ancestors with science by desecrating their graves.” Magyarország spoke robotically and Polska tasted charcoal.

“Indeed, I feel as if I had seen them walking in this very room!” Polska exclaimed in agreement but hurried to wisecrack, ”You drank from the skulls of the slain!”

Magyarország elbowed Polska, though both shared the sentiment that the dead should be left to wake on the youngest day so the both of them receive milder judgments. Polska fiddled with his crucifix, briefly having cursed the god Magyarország had been mellowed to for unity and peace. But today belongs to the sky god Kök Tengri and all his accomplices.

Once, there was a time before Christianity, though Polska cared not to remember his pagan ways as the Turkic nations seemed content to on this day. Those gods had not shown power as Tengri or Christ did.

“If you put it that way, then it's in character.” Magyarország swooped forward to hold one of the skulls up in the sky and tip it back while opening his mouth.

A teenager next to them watched with wide eyes as the expert who had a clear panoramic view stopped mid-speech to rush forward and tackle the skull from Magyarország. He scolded with a shaking finger and chiding threats to kick him out.

Meanwhile, Polska doubled over in laughter, holding his aching sides and took a step too many backwards and collided into the bronze cauldron. At the hollow pitiful sound the exhibitioner screeched, diverting his attention from Magyarország,

“The Cauldron of Törtel!”

Magyarország‘s face paled and he dove to his stomach in a futile attempt to save the cauldron after it tipped over. He cradled it in his burly arms like an oversized babe while the exhibitioner inspected the damage. Polska being the one who fell on his ass in the process helped himself up as a hyperventilating Magyarország was assured that it was “just a reconstruction” after his distress over the nick on the top rim.

Once composed, however, the expert smoothed his robes and walked towards the weapons display. His back remained turned as he reminded them of their ill actions throughout their short-lived visit. He then spun around while holding out a saber with black pits where his eyes should have been.

“A shame to your ancestors, the lot of you are! A shame!” he shouted and charged at them.

They both leapt away, scrambling towards the exit of the yurt, further shaming their ancestors. The proclamations of dyeing the Kuraltaj ground red with their blood incentivised their flight. Polska had been consistently denied a saber and Magyarország had given his to Türkiye, making neither keen on facing the guy who was cooped up learning all about their barbarous past as his job unarmed.

On their speedy departure, Polska moved fast enough to see the imposing panorama painting of Hun warriors run alongside him, galloping into battle and imposing onto the viewer's territory.

Outside the yurt there was a great uproar as reenactment battle demonstrations with infantry and cavalry were fought. Magyarország wove through the crowd and jumped the fence to join the fray after splitting up from Polska. He was handed a sword by a dead body with a thumbs up before turning around to face the exhibitioner, whose eyes lit up with delight. They entered into a terrific duel of experience against passion. Sabers flashing in the sunlight as they kicked up dust with their quick footwork.

The expert had no way of accounting that Magyarország was fueled by his knowledge of the past when he was sent flying and proclaimed dead. The man’s shining eyes said little of disappointment but of awe at the embodiment of his life’s work towering over him. Instead of miming rituals of mutilation, Magyarország reached his hand forward to lift the man from the disappearing ground as horses came running and obscured the scene from where Polska stood in the crowd of streaming ribbons and waving hands.

He glanced around to see at the other end of the field, arrows flying at targets. He saw the nation wearing a wolf skull ride by and let loose perfect shots, the empty sockets seeing nothing. His hands landed on the smooth log that made up the boards of the fence. His fingers curled around the solid wood and he bounced up and down on a leg in strange anticipation.

Polska shivered when he brushed elbows with the fair haired woman next to him. She stood tall, glowing against the dust, standing out in the endless throng of people. Her hands flexed open and closed on the fence after every shot.

Stormaktstiden lumbering down south to enact his will on Rzeczpospolita, the dominant power before Rossiyskaya Imperia had risen up to rip him apart. The cold calmed him down.

“Nice show, isn't it?” He tried breaking the ice.

Instead of responding, the nation simply turned her head to look at him. Liquid honey eroded holes into him and plugged them with syrupy goo that slowed time down. He wiped his hands on his pants and raised his right to shake with a friendly smile. Like his sister, her mouth made no move to quirk upwards. She took his hand. It was smooth and white as if sculpted out of snow, but heated with volcanic vapor. After the courtesy she turned back to watching the arrows.

Qazaqstan came riding past, hanging off his horse, making perfect shots near upside-down, to the delight of the audience. On his way back, he tagged hands that were stuck out from the barrier, bringing bright grins to children and adults alike. Her hand kept flexing as if itching to make a show itself.

“Think you’re a good shot? Why not work your magic?” He quipped above the chatter and whistling.

“The targets may be as obvious as brown uniforms on a snowy day,” Suomi chuckled, “but I'm rusty with the bow.” The sun beat down on Polska’s back as he gripped the fence post and grimaced at a splinter poking into his skin.

“Why are you here then? If not to fire your shot?”

“Let the others relive their glory days and have their fun, I'm content to simply feel the sun,” she said, her head turned upwards to look at the glaring ball of light.

Qazaqstan let loose the final arrows, whooping to the crowd as he galloped by, both hands outstretched like extensions of the sun rays that were stitched onto his börik.

“Quite something,” Polska attempted to make conversation again as they turned to leave, her face a slate of stone.

“Quite a nice show indeed,” she mused, “but for Magyarország, it's more than that, even if their horses will dot the fallen snow like…” His hand rose to her shoulder and clasped firmly. They stood as the masses parted around them, alone in the world.

“I'm not one to talk but perhaps for once we leave my sister out of this.”

“That’s naive, interests and sentiments all remain the same, there are few ways to actually gain power from…”

“Connecting to the past, tradition? Giving you people some solid ground to stand on in this world of changing tides and increasing homogeneity?"

“No, the tides of change are coming in regardless of half-assed attempts. Open your eyes. It has always happened that we ourselves change history on a whim to suit our objectives. You do not have a right to exist since the same history used to defend your existence is also used against it.” Something cracked within Polska and his face twisted into a scowl while she remained calm and cool. His fingers on her shoulder dug into the bones under the fat and muscle.

“Yet we are here…” He began but was interrupted.

“Yes, and that is why you need to be aware, simply because you share history does not mean you are a part of their wider goal! Fighting fire with fire only creates a larger flame. Do not fall for the fancy words and festivities, behind it all are other aspirations, motives that like everything else are tainted by Rossiya’s fingers.”

‘’Do not let your grudge against Rossiya prevent you from feeling the sun,” Polska whispered; an unnatural calm settled in his stomach and he released his hold on her. “Perhaps instead of expanding, they are just trying to heal. You were free all those years, Finland, the rest of us were not so lucky. We hold the candles of resistance from the Basmatchi Movement to the Autumn of Nations. However, as your children and future were swallowed up by the union, your sense of individuality, culture and defiance erodes, ground up by the cogs. Now with what is left, you wish to make our motives and reasoning Russian even after we've been freed from her?”

“‘We’ sounds pretty collective,” she grumbled, deflating as she looked at the bustling festivities around them. Older boys helped younger children out of swinging baskets to join everyone clambering to watch the new equestrian game in the field where Qazaq had retreated to. They could still see him towering over the heads, atop his horse in his bright blue costume. From the group of horsemen, Magyarország came forward towards Qazaqstan, who grinned as their hands met with a resounding clap. Qazaq’s grip tightened and he threatened to pull Magyarország from his horse, a booming mirth highlighting the affair.

“We should go support Magyarország. He is one of us.” Polska said, his eyes on his friend and his feet turning towards the game. His hand limply pulled Suomi along.

“Which of us, or do you mean yourself? The same Slavic and Germanic blood you share? It has no place here, don't you see he’s one of them? They started this.” She nodded the two now bickering, arms waving like flags in the breeze.

“If blood matters in this day and age, then we share more than any other, since he is Polish as much as he is Turkic, for mine runs fresh through his veins and not old and diluted by whoever walked the Pannonian plains when we used bronze as our steel.”

Magyarország’s crumpled body rested against one of the Gothic Revival Corinthian pillars that held up the arches leading to the entrance of the parliament building. Spread on the marble floors next to him lay a red, white and green flag with the center cut out. The fallen rebel seemed to glow against the muted grays, ever glorious in his resistance uniform. Not Slavic or Communist enough to thrive in the Union, but the red flush of health shone on his cheeks, a burning hope for the rest of them in an era characterized by the bitter cold.

“You were free all that time, yet you act doubly as haunted” said he who had slammed his hands on the desk of the greatest country in the world. His shades bounced up and down over the bridge of his nose to reveal sky blue eyes that knew not enough pain for the power they held in their hands. His hands formed into fists.

“Free, you say! Or simply a buffer between two giants, unallowed to pursue alliances lest I cause an imbalance. Perhaps my prejudices are ill-founded on my own lonesome, careful self having to watch as you hide your pain behind games. Everyone is looking forward, but these through mirrors of the past, none of which is warranted to be repeated. How will you tread forward, with him or us?"

Polska scowled, competing interests of allies had never stopped him and Magyarország. Seeing that Suomi was younger than old, surrounded by former adversaries in the north, his hand tightened around hers to pull her forward. Words would not be enough, “you need to feel the burn of the fire to know its truth.” She wasn't here by proxy and it was time she realised that, he thought bitterly.

He dragged her across the field, taking the wide steps of a soldier in a military parade. With her in tow, he jumped the fence and pushed her into the ring of nations on horseback who were discussing the teams for the Kökbar. O‘zbekiston and Türkmenistan leered at him on the left along with the red dancer in riding attire.

“Feel the sun, Suomi, play a game,” Polska demanded and to the brow-arching Qahzaqstan, “You have another player, she just needs a horse.”

“Another European? Why not?” he beamed, waving for a horse to be brought over. Suomi closed her eyes, letting the lines of age and wear recede.

“Aren't you a tad overdressed?” Polska pegged, he had met him before a few times under the USSR. He sat across from them in the room, forcing pleasantries with hollowed cheeks and eyes, rubbing his hands. His hair neatly combed back and revealed the sickly shine of his skin due to Soviet’s experiments in his region.

“I could ask you the same, your crime being lack of dress.” It occurred to him how he must look in comparison under Qazhaqstan’s scrutiny, clad in a simple black t-shirt and trousers.

“Perhaps you ought to whisk him away and fix that problem,” Türkiye piped in, and Polska’s face felt rather hot for a second. He glared at the Ottoman reincarnate volunteering him for the part of an unsuspecting peasant about to get raided by the Turks coming through.

“Do the dirty work yourself, Türkiye, besides, my Hussars can take flight now, not that they had much of a problem beforehand.”

“We all fly these days,” Türkiye sputtered, arms crossed on his gray horse trotting back and forth, draped in red like its rider. Indignant, needing to be taken seriously as an ally or enemy.

At this point a soft tempered palomino akhel-tehe in dark blue and white was brought forward for Suomi. Her mouth quivered upwards as she touched foreheads with her steed.

“Enough of this fraternizing, let the Kökbar begin!” The woman with the bouncing red braids strung with disks rode over to speed things along. “Oz’bekiston is growing impatient.” She spoke for the leader of the opposing team gathered at the other end of the field.

She was as dolled up as Qazaqstan; contrasting him in her bright red chapan and sporting a fur hat whose top was akin to an orthodox church’s onion-domed roof, bedazzled with jewels instead of tiles.

“Gotta make up for lost time, Kyrgyzstan. After all, diplomacy and peace is the way to conquer the world in this day and age,” Qazaqakstan responded, not for a moment breaking the illusion of being the sun’s prince. He stretched his hand out to clasp Polska’s, bowing his head forward in such a manner that black hair streaked with gold, shimmering like stars in the night sky, fell over his face.

“Lies and self sacrifice, subjugating your people in service to those who’d spit in your face,” Magyarország grumbled while twirling his mustache, giving his begrudging words an air of eloquence.

“A rather Christian way of doing things, I'm told,” Polska cut in, surprised at the exhibited frustration of his friend, despite feeling it boil within his gut as well.

“I’m doing the lord’s work then,” Qazaq spoke through his teeth, holding his lips pried apart too long for the Slavic nation’s comfort.

“Enough of this, let us get to a real game,” Kyrgyzstan cut in, attempting to diffuse the situation. “You have the entire rest of the year to indulge in your politics. Today is the day we are free of the modern day’s worries and plights!” She reveled, letting her voice boom across the crowd before whooping and letting her horse run around the field in a show of speed.

“Afraid I have to agree, even if it's still a tad too modern for my liking. They almost didn't let us use a real goat!” Qazaqstan exclaimed in false mockery at Magyarország who just shook his head.

“Don't blame me, I, for one, enjoy your peculiarities,”

“Goodness, I wonder why?” Kyrgyzstan rolled her eyes as she ran by them again. "Ain't quite what it used to be, but we make do!” she yelled, earning more cheers as she met up with her team again.

“We may have lost the battle of theatrics,” Qazaqstan pouted, “ but not the war!” He rode off into his position, gesturing for the rest of his team to join.

“Civilians should leave the field lest they get caught up in the round of fire.” Eesti nudged Polska as he passed by, saluting on his way to their end of the field.

“Go, Magyarország, I shan’t complain if you make O’zbekston fall and dirty her fine robes,”

“Intentional harm to the opposing team goes against the rules.”

“So this game isn't that barbarous then?”

“You'd be shocked by the civility and standards we hold ourselves too, unlike you…” Polska was left mystified with the remark.

“Polska will cheer for us, will you not?” Suomi asked from atop her steed. Magyarország nodded in agreement before both Finno Ugric speakers reared round and galloped to join Eesti and Qazaqstan, leaving only Türkiye.

“Cheer for me, my lady, your breath is wasted on Magyarország,” Türkiye implored with a mock bow. Polska tucked a stray hair behind his ear.

“Red suits you better than green.” Türkiye snorted before galloping off as well. Polska took Eesti’s advice and jumped the fence.

The teams lined up, O’zbekiston, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Türkmenistan, and Bulgaria versus Qazaqstan, Suomi, Magyarország, Türkiye, and Eesti. The goat’s head was deposited in the middle of the field, its beady eyes gazing up at the great expanse of the sky with dreams of galloping in fluffy clouds. The game began instantaneously, with Qazaqstan and O’zbekiston meeting in a tug of war in the middle. Brother and sister, sun and moon.

“Apollo and Artemis,” sang someone familiar next to him. Polska turned his head to see Elláda leaning against the fence with his back, watching the game over his shoulder. He absentmindedly plucked strings of a harp. A lazy smile was splayed on his face and his eyes were half closed and shadowed by brown curls.

“Now this is a surprise, who invited you?“ Polska exclaimed. Elláda’s olive eyes narrowed and his bottom lip pushed out in a pout.

“Embracing my roots of course! My empire stretched far and wide into those lands before it was cool, before it was infested by all these newfangled Turks,” he lamented while somberly playing the first few notes of “He comes as Lightning” that was interrupted by Kyzgzstan’s obnoxious cackle. She had scored the first point by making it across the field and successfully depositing the carcass in the goal hole.

“Don't you think you are reaching a tad far and back?” Polska asked. If they lamented about the world changing too much, it was a wonder Elláda could still remain standing. His glory age flaunted by all whom it did not belong to. How does one live on with their greatness forever enshrined in the past, unable to ever hold a candle up to it again. Polska expected him to be distraught over Anatolia, but he was envisioning Alexander’s conquests.

The lanky Türkmenistan came bounding past Bulgaria's carcass as he was getting hounded by Türkiye. His and his steed’s awkward, lanky stature translated to speedy agility, bending forward to decrease wind resistance and grabbing the goat’s ears, pulling it away as Türkiye toppled over his teammate. He rode the wind and dropped the goat in its new enclosure, waking Elláda out of his fantasies to strum a victory song.

“He’s the reason I'm here, you know, otherwise I wouldn't step foot where Türkiye treads.” He gestured at where Türkiye pulled Bulgaria up, pounding him on the back with a cackle before swinging onto his horse. Bulgaria shook his head and whistled for his chocolate brown akhel- tehe.

“Are you serious?” In recent decades, they had mostly improved their relations, like sending aid during natural disasters, yet nausea twisted Elláda’s otherwise sculpted features.

“Well, I exaggerate, but certain atmospheres make it harder to breathe. The better times do not outweigh the… less fortunate.” Polska placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly while Elláda rubbed bitter tears away. If the violent battle taking place on the field was to be taken into account, most of the nations here shared similar sentiments.

Magyarország’s insistence on fair play had become a distant memory as the game transformed into the age-old; survival of the fittest, let the best prevail. A struggle ensued between the two captains, baring teeth and wide eyes, beating, shoving, kicking as they tried to rip the carcass from each other. Qazaq twists and lunged over the back of his horse to grab the goat and O’zbekiston off her saddle. He spurs his horse onto the goal hole with the short whip in his other hand. An unnatural yelp from Kyrgyzstan causes him to briefly look over his shoulder.

Horror briefly flashed in his eyes when he saw O’zbekiston dragging along as he ran full gallop, fired up with bloodlust. Spectators and participants alike were caught up in the thrill of the game. He reared near the hole ready to dump both the carcass and O’zbekiston into it to the screeching whinny of his horse.

None of Ozbek’s teammates had caught up before Qahzaqstan stood over the hole, holding up the carcass that his dirt-streaked sister clutched. The sun blazed behind them, causing them to transform into shadows when he threw them both into the hole. O’zbekston ragdolled and flung herself onto the outer edge of the goal structure and pitched the carcass away from Qazaq for Kyrgyzstan to snatch away as she passed, having followed from behind the entire time. She galloped unfettered toward the opposite end of the field. The crowd was in complete uproar, with people standing up to bang fists against the fence or clap their hands, chanting to the beat of hooves.

Magyarország came in front but Polska watched him make no move to intercept, instead rearing his horse out of the way of the incoming red blur. Türkiye ran past, shouting curses, trying to to make up for Magyarország’s lax minstrations. Azerbaijan beat her brother to a sweating Kyrgyzstan who shouted along with the crowd, “Go!” after Azerbaijan took the carcass from her before turning around to body block with her ferocious steed, the incoming members of the opposition. Azerbaijan promptly scored the next point and Polska went briefly deaf from all the cheers.

Qazaq jumped from his horse to pull his sister from the hole with a sheepish grin. O’zbekiston whistled for her horse; a silver, white akhal tehe and jumped on as she passed, not looking back at Qazaqstan. A couple whispered between themselves next to Polska, marveling as to how she was still standing and not a bag of broken bones. Beyond the flying dirt Polska saw wide open eyes and mouth pressed into a line as she regrouped with her team. He saw a tremor in her striped chapan as they partook in the short break between periods. His hand reached to his phantom ear and let Christ’s blood wash the sin away.
___________________________________________________________________________

Bulgaria came round to where they stood, imploring Elláda to come and play.

“Let’s send Türkiye running back to Istanbul with his tail between his legs,” He held his hand out. On his arms, tree branches climbed up his laced leather cuffs.

“I know better than to fly so close to the sun.”

“You're a poet,” Polska mumbled.

“And I know it like I know my many capabilities, thank you very much.”

“What about you, Polska? Not a steppe nation, but you’ve always been good with horses.” Bulgaria turned to recruit him.

“Abandoning me to play second fiddle.” Elláda rested his palm on his chest. “But hey, you should go fight Türkiye for me, you have better luck with it.”

Despite his previous vexations, Polska’s body shook as he clasped Bulgaria’s hand and was pulled into the saddle with him to be taken over to O’zbekston’s team, where they were getting their fresh horses ready. A girl in a red and blue hanbok was leading a black gelding towards the team as well. She looked behind to give them a friendly wave, her horse swished its tail.

“This is why I should be the leader, youngin,” Kyrgyzstan was barking at O’zbekiston who clutched the reins of her akal tehe ‘til her knuckles shone white.

“Go bother Qazaq with your vanity! I will not hear it!” O’zbek snapped. Her braids jumped as she swung her head to point a finger at the other team.

“You can't play without switching out you foolish girl. Battles can’t be won that way, nevermind a simple game.”

“ You!” she snapped at him, ignoring Kyrgyzstan. “You've had plenty of time to improve since Legnica… Can you ride?” Golden eyes glared at him, ready to finish the job if he refused, so he nodded, his mouth dry.

“Alright Kyrgyzstan, at least one fresh player each round, you're free to go.”

“O’zbekston, she’s one of if not our best. Do you want both Qazaqstan and Kygryzstan on the same team and with two players to switch out with?” Bulgaria jumped in, trying to reason.

“You Götürks are one and the same, you can't submit to authority. We'll lose due to her self-confident haughtiness. As much as it is about our individual strengths, it is a team sport.”

“Despite being dragged from her horse like the olden days, she still doesn't get it. Oh well, your brother was always more accommodating. It'll be like old times again,” Kygz cackled. “You're welcome to join me, Bulgaria,” she whooped and jumped onto her passing horse to gallop across the field while rising up the crowd.

Polska’s hand fell onto Bulgaria's bristling shoulder. “For Elláda,” he chuckled as O’zbekiston eyed them with suspicion.

“You'll find that although we're cut from the same cloth, we form different patterns, the same way we made our way to different lands.” Her gaze softened somewhat and she nodded. “Like the silk road,” Bulgaria made winding motions with his hands.

“Need an extra Mongol to switch in and out with?” They heard the girl pipe up from behind them, settled on her gelding wearing a Mongolian-style helmet emblazoned with silver feathers of the bonghwang with turtle scales over linking on fur for the ear flaps.

“I was wondering when you'd show your face, Daehan Minguk.” Uzbek smiled. “It's almost game time. Do you all have confidence in my leadership?” Azerbaijan and Daehan Minguk nodded.

“We stuck around, is that not enough confidence?” Bulgaria asked. Polska agreed and glanced to where the opposite team was lined up. Kyrgyzstan, Qazaqstan, Magyarország, and Suomi were the first to go up against O’zbekiston, Polska, Daehan Minguk and Türkmenistan.

“This will be tough, I'll be the distraction since they're both out for my blood.” O’zbekston pointed at Kyrgyzstan and Qazaqstan, both open-mouth grinning like demonic horses. Polska felt relieved not to be the one torn apart for once.

“I'll take Magyarország,” he said, attempting to get out of this with minimal injury while watching Suomi elbow him.

Türkmenistan and Daehan Minguk nodded, it was between the two of them to slip past Suomi and score.

“I shall raise another Samarkand out of you all and raze their Bukhara,” O’zbekston declared, her fist in the air as they were let loose.
___________________________________________________________________________

As she predicted, Kyrgyzstan and Qazaqstan were on her as soon as she swooped down for the goat and ran with it as they closed in. She reared to the side and charged at them, having let the carcass slip from her lap. Türkmenistan, who’d been following behind, ran forward to catch the lost goods. He passed the steppe nations now at each other's throats, adding their shrill insults to the chaos.

Qazaq’s head lurched to look behind him, and he began to shout for Magyarország or Suomi to get the Türkman. Magyarország bounded forward and Polska intercepted by cutting in front. Magyarország forced his way past by spurring his horse with darkened eyes. His burly arm came out to push the Slavic nation on the chest. The force combined with the pain of his lacerations and tissue bruising sent him falling off his saddle. He was saved by his horse retreating and his left leg staying stuck in his stirrup. The ground came so close that he could see the precise shiny speckles dotting the earth before being swung back into his saddle.

He shook his head out of the daze, feeling the blood recede. He watched the rest of the nations come into close-quarter combat in a piled-up scramble for the carcass. Qazaqstan and Türkmenistan came together to block the other from stopping Magyarország, running over O’zbekston who was chasing Qazaqstan. Their horses’ legs tangled with her fallen horse and they tripped over each other as Magyarország let his steed fly over his fallen comrades and enemy to the goal. He left his saddle to jump over the guarding Daehan Minguk, taking a few teetering steps on the stone post edge before dropping the carcass into the hole and tumbling off.

By now, Polska had made it to the goal as well, breathing to the beat of a racing heart and trying to break free from a wounded ribcage. He jumped off his horse to shakingly pull the unsteady Magyarország up.

“Apologies Lech, for the dirty trick…. Got some broken ribs?”

“This is hell Magyar.” Polska laughed with hot tears brimming in his eyes.
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They lined up again, this time Türkiye stood in for Kyrgyzstan and Bulgaria for O’zbekiston.

Qazaq got the carcass first and expertly maneuvered around them, causing their horses to trip over themselves with Polska in particular suffering a brutal fall on his tailbone, another goal getting scored by the time he pulled his sore back onto the saddle again.

“You all should know not to let him be alone!” O’zbek rattled off at them as she swung onto her horse. Polska felt the daggers pointed at him as he decided to sit this roundout. “Best case, we hold him off until he has to switch.”

“What about Kyrgyzstan?" Daehan Minguk asked.

“I'll worry about her, like the good ol’ days,” Bulgaria assured.

Polska sat back with Azerbaijan to take notes as to how proper steppe nations played the game. Qazaq once again zoomed for the middle, along with O’zbekston who wrenched the carcass from his hands and pitched it towards Daehan Minguk whom Kyrgyzstan turned her attentions to before getting encircled by Bulgaria and Türkmenistan.

Daehan Minguk took a sharp turn around Türkiye, looking back laughing as her ear flaps bounced in sync with her trot. Her jubilee was cut short when Suomi jumped from her horse and grabbed the goat’s hind legs and then soared over an incredulous Daehan Minguk unable to stop the robbery. Suomi called back her steed, who was beginning to shine white from being on since the beginning of the game.

The sun was behind her when O’zbekston lunged from her saddle to grab the carcass from a half-hanging-off Suomi. Qazaqstan came charging through where they connected. Suomi’s eyes widened and she let go, curling up into the sturdy saddle. O’zbek’s horse ran at high speed in the opposite direction as the body on top miraculously pulled itself up with the weight of forty kilograms to drop the carcass into the hole as the announcement of the second period ending blared, declaring the score to be three to two in favour of O’zbekiston’s team.
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She was breathing raggedly when Azerbaijan helped her trembling body off her horse and offered water. The single goal lead did not alleviate fears for it was due to Kyrgyzstan, who had yet to prove herself on Qazaqstan's team. O’zbekiston threw her head back while chugging the water, loose drops ran down the contour of her chin and onto a green stripe on her khan atlas dress. She wiped her face with a mean grimace.

It was now Kyrgyzstan, Eesti, Magyarország, and Türkiye against Polska, O’zbekiston, Azerbaijan, and Bulgaria.

“Türkmenistan will switch with Polska when Qazaqstan shows up,” Uzbek said. “I'll tackle Kyrgyzstan again.” They looked at one another with apprehension, to which she scoffed and responded with, “She is immortal, not invincible.”

“You should let me keep Kyrgyzstan busy, you've been overtaxing yourself between the two of them. You're the only one, although choppily, who can match Qazaqstan’s skill with the horse,” Bulgaria stated. “Polska can handle Türkiye, he has the most luck with him anyways.” He winked at the Slavic nation.

“Perhaps O’zbek ought to sit this round out entirely, so she has the energy to take out Qazaq,” Azerbaijan added in. “We are still ahead so we can afford to let them score a point. Make them overexert themselves, but it makes no sense to have our best players being spent doing that.”

“I want to destroy them.” Her eyes were crazed as she looked across the field. “They have a plan but as you say, their objective should be to score right now. Fine, Daehan Minguk will take my place.” They glanced at one another, sharing the surprise that she yielded.

The game began with the usual zoom for the middle by Kyrgyzstan but as planned Bulgaria forced her to give the carcass up to Eesti, who swiftly passed it to Türkiye when Daehan Minguk gave chase. Polska saw his chance to intercept but was bodyblocked by Magyarország.

“Oh no ya don't, you upstart, don't you know the sun burns?” he laughed as their horses danced around each other's long legs.

“If I was known for giving up because of mere burns I wouldn't be here!” Polska quipped before standing up in his stirrups, removing his upper body from reach and feigning a head attack to overcome the obstacle.

He did a quick cavalry maneuver and charged at the retreating Türkiye. Kyrgyzstan wasn't long entertained by Bulgaria and turned round to the incoming Türkiye.

“Carcass over here!” she screamed and he threw it towards her. Polska sped forward to leap gracefully between them, catching the carcass mid air, and made a wide u-turn in the field.

As he galloped, the wind around him screamed like eagles and he saw only the round stone walls of the goal. The goat made a solid plopping sound as it hit the bottom of the hole. Polska grinned over the nonestop beating of his heart for this time the crowd was in uproar for him. His quivering arms opened to gather up the praise, the world around him spinning into rejoicing knights with wings and lances.
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“It seems my team is all about going against orders and doing their own thing,” Uzbekistan grumbled when he returned.

“I parted the sea,” Polska proclaimed, still riding the high of the goal and looking across the field with schemes fluttering like birds around his head as to how to pull it off again and again.

“Ain't no miracle like Moses.” O'zbekston walked over and put her foot into his stirrup to pull herself up to backhand him. He lurched backwards, his horse reared with a loud neigh as he grasped for the aggressor’s neck, but she had already jumped away. “Snap out of it, we're ahead, no use being so rash.”

“Since when do you fear the risk so much?” Polska sneered, “or did you never have to take them in the first place?”

“You can win all the battles, swoop in, steal their gold and kill their people and still not win the war.”

“Qazaqstan is on the field, Kyrgyzstan as well, Türkiye and Magyarország,” Bulgaria cut in. “We won't be scoring this round for sure. Polska, you have added to our buffer but also spurred them on. Remember what happened last time you went head to head against Qazaq.”

The ribs on his right side and tailbone still spasmed from time to time and considering how much O’zbekiston was thrown around, she must be on fire. Polska conceded and held his punches.

As plotted, Türkmenistan, O’zbekiston, Bulgaria, and Polska took to the field. This time Türkmenistan dashed for the center, his height matching Kazak's bulk as he swung the carcass over his head to O’zbek. Türkiye rode up to snatch it away but was pushed out of the way. When seeing Kygzstan coming at them, O’bekiston passed it to Bulgaria. Kygz swiftly changed course, no longer taking O’zbekiston’s bait, to chase Bulgaria.

“Ain't what you used to be, old man.” She cackled as she slammed into him, grabbing the hindquarters before it slipped onto the dirt and zoomed on their hole before pausing to flash a smile at the crowd while holding it over the hole, red braids a flame. It was enough time for Türkmenistan to dive from his horse, displacing the goat from her hand like an arrow piercing an apple to the anguished screams of the spectators.

Polska charged at the carcass, but Türkiye who was stalking him took the opportunity for ambush and ran around the goal with Polska at his heels. Bulgaria came bounding in as Türkiye took off to their end of the field, letting the goat slip onto the ground with a great plume of dust. Yet they both carried on hounding their fleeing enemy, both coming up on either side to close off his escape.

“See how you chase after me? I am your master now.” Türkiye cackled, turning around with them, letting them see Kazakhstan freely running at their goal.

“Kurva, Oz’bekiston told us not to leave him alone.” Polska attempted to make chase but Türkiye hooked his arm around his waist and made their horses go in small circles so neither party could advance.

“Horsemen don't mutiny!” he shouted after Bulgaria, who took off in an attempt to right their grave mistake. “You know, I never got to finish my speech earlier, no respect leaving a man hanging like that.”

“Such as you only understand the sword.” Polska spat, itching to forget the few rules of the Kökbar.

“A pity. Nevertheless a puppet you were, with their men sitting your throne, it was only in the shadows, the forest when you truly rose up with guns not petty corrupt councils even if you just realized this when you scored that goal.” Türkiye leaned in closer with unblinking eyes, the color of the prophet encircling the color of the church in the venn diagram flower of his irises displayed in wide open eyes.

“Go take poetry lessons from Elláda.”

“You were never gone to me, not for a second.” He felt the wolf’s hungry breath on his cheek as Türkiye whispered into his ear after pulling him near onto his own gelding.

Without a sound Magyarország came from behind, his arm circling around Polska to pull him off both horses and run into the setting sun.

“Hey, trying to carry me off? I'm not a goat!” Polska yelped, pulling himself onto the high speed moving animal and positioning himself so that he wasn't thrown off.

“Can't let Türkiye get you, the game is almost over. You saved your team a shoot out." Magyarország stopped to observe Suomi drop the carcass into the hole. It was as quiet as a winter evening since it wasn't a winning goal and scored too late. Polska started to whoop and cheer, echoing across the field. Hiding the sun as it painted the sky scarlet behind her back, the shadow made warrior on horseback saluted him.
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“Tell it true, were they trying to kill O’zbekison? It sure looked that way at times." Polska asked as they rode away from the field to drop the horses off for a well deserved break.

“They go way back. All empires fall apart due to infighting on top of the ever present conflict between young and old.” Polska nodded as he watched them gather together with glares and uneasy smiles. “Personally, I'm with Qazaqstan on this one. Although it was his idea to invite the other nations in the first place. So I wouldn't say their relationship is primarily built on hatred for the truest downfall would be indifference. We are a loud people. You as well my friend, or else no one would have heard your nonstop screaming for life. Only something living can be haunted, have glory, feel pain."

The sun was going down as they rode through camp. Magyarország insisted he had something to show him as they left the horseraces behind them when dropping off his akhal-tehe. He stroked her face and ruffled her hair before producing an apple.

“ Bribery?” Polska had cried with false shock, mulling over the words of Magyarország and Türkiye, even reaching back to Suomi and Bulgaria.

“ How else do you keep the Huns at bay?” He wiggled his bushy brows and they made their way through the dusk dusted camp where the activities of the day were dying down with stalls closing and parents with sleeping children in their arms. He noticed they were walking with the remnants of the crowd, all in leathers and armor, meandering past the yurts. It was quiet compared to the rage of the day. The silence acted as a soft blanket that trapped warmth under the covers for blissful sleep.

Polska yawned, dreaming of the devastating dawns of empires who faded away as quick as they came, the demise brought about by men on horses coming in from the steppe. The balance of civilization forever kept by the nomads who refused to settle. He wondered if those that remained would break out or fall under a modern stupor like the rest of the world. His gaze fell on his friend who was raising the next generation. Lietuva with her carefree smile and straw braids surrounded by icy snow and a colder nation she used to call her lover crossed his mind aswell.
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I presided over the construction of the sacred fire as men in skulls hanging with leaves, bones, bells, and ribbons drifted around me to build up the pyramid of wood. It was comforting to be amongst those like me which happened little when I was away from my territory, so small in comparison to the times when I had fulfilled my destiny.

We had grown too comfortable in our power, believing our unity was no longer of import and turned on ourselves. One after another we fell, and became subjected to those who were our servants. Though I suppose I feel some pride in seeing others learn and accomplish from me. Perhaps it's the fate of all who prosper.

“ Mongolia, I've seen very little of you. I could've used your help in the Kökbar.” O’zbekiston said, resting her head on my shoulder. Once I would’ve delighted to take part, but I’ve watched my empire fall and learned harmony with the spirits, natural world and one another was of greater significance than any trifling pleasure or humiliation. I frowned, I was displeased by what I had witnessed of the game, the remnants of which are still evident on O’zbekiston's face. Though it gladdens me that today she would forgo the washing and prayers in favor of those who had been with us since the beginning and allowed for her to have been born.

“I've been seeing to my duties,” I said as a torch was handed to me and O’zbekiston lifted her head from my shoulder. The lines on her face were highlighted by the fire that gave a golden glow to the eyes darkness had robbed of color. Qazaqstan came forward with hands in his pockets and a sheepish smile on his older face. The other nations that were invited had gathered alongside the traditionalists.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“That's a surprise.”

“Wait ‘til I finish before you condescend to me.” His hand came over his heart. “As I was saying, I was thinking about torching the fire. I know it's traditionally done by Taltos but I'd argue nations have much the same right.” I frowned at his impertinence and pride.

“You wish to light?” Magyarország and Qazaqstan had no doubt lighted the fire at their first Great Kurultaj, being the only nations present. Since then they had fallen for the spectacle, begrudgingly making peace with commodification to fuel their futures.

“No, let me finish! I was going to propose O’zbekiston light. We should begin considering the other nations who take part, plus she valiantly led her team to victory today.” I wanted to rub my ears and ask him to repeat and O’zbekiston’s eyes widened.

“Oh… We can do it together,” she said, staring at her shuffling feet.

“Nah, I did it the first time round, Magyarország, Mongolia or the Taltos have done it since. It's your turn to pass on the flame.” Qazaqstan refused.

I held the torch out to her, to see if she would trust and accept her brother’s proposal. She nodded, squaring her shoulders as she took it from my hand and held it onto the pyramid of sticks the size of short trees. After their first brief licks to taste the flames traveled from their small isolated world to devourer a greater land.

“It seems this Kuraltaj was more than just a fest and not in vain,” I mused and put my arms around my children’s shoulders.

As the fire climbed up the wood into the spilled ink of the night sky, people came forward to place their offerings of foods, mumbling prayers. Among these was the Slavic nation the Magyar had insisted on inviting, watching as if he was a Zoroastrian priest seeing visions in the flame. Magyarország grabbed his hand, bringing him back.

“What does one offer?” He asked, crimson eyes still trained on the fire.

“Food, prayers, song.”

“I have no food, long stopped praying, and my song has been cut short.” Despite the strong words he turned his head to Magyarország with a grin.

Around them the traditionalists were murmuring a song making it difficult to hear further conversation between the two. The pale haired nation’s eyes widened when presented with a saber by Magyarország. He held it out to catch the glare of the fire, cut through the air and then passed the safety boundaries to lean it against the still standing wood amongst the offerings of lamb ribs and other meats specifically prepared for this.

It stood there like a sword in the stone amongst fire and steel, as a couplet murmured across the pannonian plain was heard in the grass and sky,

“Pole and Hungarian brothers be,

both for saber and for glass.

Both courageous, both lively,

Upon them may God's blessings be.”