Work Text:
A Kazakh hero meets a Russian fairy.
There is a god that dwells in the Steppe. His eyes are the green of the grass, his hair the gold of the sun, his voice the call of the wind.
Follow the eagles, my child, for they are his servants. Follow them for twenty nights and one. The journey will be a hard one, but if you stay true to the path, you will find yourself in a place that is not of this world. It is there, in that secret place, that the god will come. He will come to you, and he will grant you your wish.
O, choose your wish carefully, my child, for the gods are capricious beings, and the god of the Steppe is no different. He can be kind, and he can be cruel. He is the warmth that nourishes our herds, and he is the storm that rages across the plains.
O, choose your wish carefully, my child, for no one can truly know the heart of a god.
+
The sun was past its zenith in the sky when Otabek decided to break for lunch. By his own reckoning, he had at least six-and-a-half more days to go. Six-and-a-half more days, and seven more nights. If he squinted, he could just about make out the silhouette of an eagle on the horizon, its wings spread on an updraft.
He only hoped that the old women in his village had been right.
His mare was unusually skittish today, and it took longer for Otabek to calm her down. Still, he managed, crooning gentle nothings in her ear and stroking her flank until, eventually, she bowed her nose to the grass. Only then did he hunker down beside her with his noontime portion of jerky and his water skin.
It was a while before he realised that he had company.
“Hello,” said a cheerful voice from behind him. Otabek jumped, his right hand automatically grasping the handle of his short sword, even as he leapt to his feet and spun around to face his visitor.
A boy – no, Otabek corrected himself, a young man, close enough to Otabek’s own age – blinked at him guilelessly. Feeling foolish now, Otabek relaxed his grip on his sword slightly.
“Here, I made you drop this,” the stranger said, bending to pick up Otabek’s water skin and offering it to him. Otabek took the water skin mutely, his mind still cataloguing the appearance of his unexpected companion. The crimson wool and ermine fur of his garb – so different from Otabek’s own battle-stained leathers – suggested that the stranger was from a trading family, perhaps part of a caravan crossing the Steppe.
Except – “Where’s your party?” he asked warily.
The stranger smiled whimsically. “Would you believe me if I said that they’re just around the corner?”
“We’re in the middle of a giant plain of grass,” Otabek retorted tersely. “Try again.”
“Only if you tell me why you’re here,” the stranger replied calmly. “Don’t worry,” he added, lifting his arms up, palms weapon-less and facing outward in a sign of peace. That was when Otabek noticed, really noticed, the leather falconry glove on one of the stranger’s arms, and the golden embroidery on the hems of the stranger’s robes.
Otabek’s mouth went dry.
“I won’t harm you,” the stranger said, and his lips curved in a private joke.
“You’re him,” Otabek whispered. “The god.”
The stranger shrugged. “If you like. Mostly, I prefer to be called Yuri.”
“I thought you only appeared after twenty-one nights.”
Yuri laughed, and the bright sound pealed across the grassland like a carillon of silver bells. “Oh, that? I may have made that up. Weeds out those who want a quick answer to their life’s woes, from those who genuinely seek my help. It’s fun watching them struggle across the plains, sometimes.”
Otabek frowned. “Then, why appear to me? Why now?”
Yuri shrugged again, seemingly paying Otabek no mind as he stroked the nose of Otabek’s mare instead. “I thought you were cute.”
Otabek blinked. That was not an answer he had been expecting. “Oh,” he managed.
“Don’t look so startled. The wide-eyed look isn’t a good look on you,” Yuri chided teasingly. “Besides,” he added, a hint of wistfulness tinging his voice, “it gets lonely here sometimes, and it’s not often I get a warrior with a handsome face like yours.”
Otabek was pretty sure he was blushing at that point, and he found himself grateful that Yuri did not point it out. Up close, he couldn’t help but notice that Yuri’s eyes were as green as the stories described. They were as verdant as the sweet grass which his village used to gather every summer, as vivid as the peridot beads which used to hang on his mother’s headdress. Yuri’s eyes were as green as the stories said they were, and green in a way that made Otabek think of home, even though home no longer existed.
“So,” Yuri drawled, snapping Otabek’s attention back to the present. He suddenly sounded bored, impatient, and his gaze was cool as pale jade and flinty. “You’ve found the god of the Steppe, and the god has decided to grant you his favour, blah blah blah. What’s your wish?”
“I…” Otabek faltered. He had wished for many things in his life. But now, though. Now. “To avenge my village,” he rasped hoarsely.
“Done,” Yuri said briskly, his tone uncaring. He gave a whistle, and lifted his gloved arm towards the sky. The eagle on the horizon shrieked an answering cry, swooping back to land on Yuri’s raised arm. “My eagles will guide you out of the Steppe. You will find the barbarian horde you seek along the foothills on the far eastern reaches.” With that, he turned and started to walk away.
“Wait,” Otabek cried. Unthinkingly, he grabbed Yuri’s un-gloved arm. Yuri froze.
“I…” Otabek stammered, his voice breaking. “I’m not finished yet.”
Yuri arched a brow. Thunderclouds raced across the sky overhead, dark and ominous. Lightning flashed in the distance, and a clap of thunder cracked through the humming air. “Go on then, mortal. What else is it that you will have of me?”
“I want,” Otabek whispered, dared, “I want to return here, to you. After my revenge. I want to live with you on the Steppe.”
There was a pause, almost like a sigh. Yuri stared, and Otabek held his breath. Gradually, the heavy clouds began to part.
And, suddenly, Yuri smiled.
Beamed.
Laughed.
“Alright,” Yuri breathed as he stood beside Otabek, in the middle of the vast Steppe, haloed by the sun.
+
There is a god that dwells in the Steppe. His eyes are the green of the grass, his hair the gold of the sun, his voice the call of the wind. You will know him by the glove on his arm, by the embroidery on his robes. You will see these things, and you will know.
Follow his eagles, my child, if you desire to seek him out. Follow his eagles for twenty nights and one, and you may just find him.
And if you do find him, my child, do not be surprised if he is not alone.