100 years of Peace
The small boat passed the rock where Dôn was standing… the morning mist surrounded the silent men that rowed their boats toward south. Even if Dôn would have made herself as visible, she wasn’t sure whether they would have seen her even then. The Mist was thick. Dôn could still make difference between the men…Prince Reko sat on the helm position and the deep ruts in his face left little secret from his thoughts.
So many times before Dôn had seen those marks upon the faces of her grandsons and their children… Children of the Dôn, always worn out from the horrors of war that never satisfied their dreams or fulfilled their destinies.
For Gwynneth, Wales and England… Those were the words of Fulgues, son of Gwydion. Now it was for Liivinmaa, Vuojonmaa and Suomi. Names changed, men grew older and died, but always the next generation would take their place.
Dôn knew glory well; Vanity of the men seeking to magnify their position was nothing that mortals could claim for themselves exclusively. But in the Fairside, the foes and opponents would always remain the same, the battle and arguments would change and differ. But with mortal men…
It was like war and expansion was breastfeed to them from early on, for generation after generation. The men would change, even the countries would change but the reasons for war would remain there.
Dôn looked upon her children, all clad in iron and wearing helmets with demon faces curved upon them. They didn’t spoke anything; they just roved with their gauntlet covered fists squeezing their war-axes and lances. Was it that her children would always hold the role of the indifferent ones? Would her children always fight the undefeatable? Take the hardest burden and fight until the death with nothing more to win but their stubborn pride?
It had been long peace for Dôns. For almost century had passed since the pyre of England. Reko wouldn’t even remember the Frankish speech that his fathers and grandfathers spoke. So much had been forgotten and the new generation belongs to Wales as much as did windflowers to winter.
Yet they spoke the same things, with same weary faces. They fought for their homes and their futures and they were told and tossed around by the mightier lords and the Children of Dôn split their heart blood for vain and for nothing. And still they fought. The Kingdom of Chazaria couldn’t brag much these days with its situation or with its armies. Yet the Dôn’s stood there, all men, lads and little boys bearing arms and fighting the oppressor, with patriotism and passion unequalled in the world.
Still the Tsar had told to Reko that these lands were his land and only his highness would decide upon and over their fate. Dôn had stood there with his side when he was told that century’s long loyalty, valiancy and heroism they counted nothing. Dôn had stood there with Prince Reko’s side when he had told the Persian ambassador to stick the offer of Ukrainian throne to the darkest depths…years before this war and misery. Prince Reko was man of his word and loyal not only to his tsar but to those who he had given his word. He had chosen the hard way to maintain his honor and still stand loyal for his liege… he had even asked Gollevainen and Dôn herself to arrange the Russian chaotic succession crisis so that the foes in the south wouldn’t dare to intervene.
And he was told to prepare to lose everything. They weren’t his lands. He wasn’t even a bailiff for the Tsar; he was his pet dog to barking to amuse him, but to bark what the Tsar wanted to hear.
And Dôn would see that all from Reko’s face. Even behind his fearsome faceguard. He saw man leading 20,000 men into a battle in a war that didn’t anymore concern him, because his sayings wouldn’t matter in these things…in these wars…
Dôn feared that look; it wasn’t a look that foresaw anything good…
Dôn had seen it before, many times, when her grandsons had decided to gamble with the fate of the isles, with the fate of their own breathed.
For Gwynneth, Wales and England, but this time there were no place to run for cover. Dôn shook her head… war princes with looks of war kings on their faces. 100 years of peace was lot better.