Sibeasterus's blog

Short wrestling tale in 8 chapters. The place is somewhere in Chechnya, the time is 1990s

It's the sixth chapter of the tale. I began there: first, second, third, fourth, fifth

6.  No pasarán

A few weeks later, Ivan found himself on duty, guarding the road through a mountain pass. Among a stream of people who seemed like ordinary travelers, he suddenly saw Aslan. Dressed in ordinary mountain clothes, he looked inconspicuous in the crowd, walking along the road. Where could a rebel be going? And in disguise? Their eyes met. Ivan's duty was clear: detain or neutralize the enemy.

Ivan tapped the disguised rebel on the shoulder with his rifle, demanded to see his documents, and pulled him aside for a search. "I see you haven't understood anything and haven't learned anything. We had too many witnesses last time, so let's continue our man-to-man talk," he snapped.

Ivan explained to his comrades that this young man was a personal acquaintance of his, a spy he'd recruited, and the two of them needed to talk privately. Away from the bustle of the checkpoint, in a secluded spot, Ivan and Aslan were to once again meet in a fair wrestling match.

Now Aslan's life was at stake. If Ivan win him, he had the right to decide his fate, detain him, and deliver him into the right hands.

They silently moved to the side, where the rocks formed a small natural amphitheater, hidden from anybody’s eyes. They shed their clothes, Ivan set aside his rifle, Aslan, disguised as a refugee, was unarmed. They appeared before each other as nature had created them – strong, resilient, their bodies scarred with the scars of past battles. The air around them filled with tension, the anticipation of a match. This was not just a duel; it was a continuation of their shared history, an intertwining of destinies that had begun so long ago and so unexpectedly.

Ivan and Aslan simultaneously took a step toward each other. They circled each other, studying, assessing, and recalling each other's every move, every technique, every weakness and strength. Their bodies were trained to the limit, every muscle ready to lunge, to grab, to resist. This wasn't a struggle, it was a dance of strength and endurance, where every touch, every push, every effort had its purpose.

The first grip was cautious, tentative, but it immediately showed that neither had lost their strength. They wrestled equally, stepping across the ground, trying to find a hole in each other's defenses. Their breathing grew heavy, sweat poured down their bodies, but neither gave in. There was no fury in their movements, only focus and a desire to win.

Even an experienced wrestler can simply slip. Ivan slipped and fell down, and Aslan, without wasting a second, pounced on him. Whether it was the nervous tension of the last few days, or the blow of his head on the rock, or the weight of Aslan's body that had fallen on him, Ivan suddenly felt the sky and earth spinning, and then, abruptly, darkness fell.

***

When Ivan woke from his momentary swoon, he saw Aslan standing over him, clasping Ivan's own rifle. Aslan's face was distorted by a malicious smile, a true wolfish grin.

"Well, infidel dog, your end has come. I should have shot you the first time we met in the mountains, but Satan clouded my mind with youthful memories. The last time, after you left, I swore to my comrades that I would find you again and kill you with my own hands, washing away the shame of my past defeat. If you know a prayer, pray it."

Fragments of thoughts and memories raced through Ivan's head. It's a tragedy to die so young, just a month before demobilization. And to die so foolishly. After all, he'd laid down his rifle with his own hands to wrestle fairly. He'd placed his trust in the honour of a highlander, in his sporting honour. "Well, do it, Aslan," he exhaled and spat, "and I thought you were a normal man and an honest athlete."

Aslan's grin was truly devilish. To avoid darkening his last moments with the sight of that beast face, Ivan closed his eyes. "Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam."

***

Something cold stung his body, heated from the fight. He opened his eyes. His own rifle laid on his chest. Aslan was still standing over him, unarmed, his face completely different, a simple childish smile shining on his lips, and in his eyes there were... tears. "Ivan, did you really think I'd kill you like this, after we wrestled each other fairly here, in the middle of a war?"

Ivan sat up, put aside the unnecessary rifle, and... fell backwards. Even wrestlers' nerves are fragile sometimes.

***

Ivan woke up in Aslan's arms, feeling his warmth, his breath on his skin. In that moment, with their bodies so close, the line between hostility and something else, almost intimate, blurred. Minutes passed, but neither of them moved. They remained in this embrace, which was simultaneously defeat and salvation, both the end and the beginning of something new.

Aslan slowly loosened his embrace, but didn't pull away. His hand slid over Ivan's sweaty skin, lingering for a moment before releasing completely. Ivan, breathing heavily, raised his head and looked into Aslan's eyes. There was no triumph or gloating in them. Only a deep, almost painful thoughtfulness.

"Today you were the best of us," Ivan said quietly.

Aslan nodded, his gaze sliding over Ivan's face, lingering on his lips, his jawline. He didn't say a word, but his silence was more eloquent than any words. In that moment, so close, their bodies still remembered every touch, every effort, every thrust. The boundaries between them seemed to dissolve, leaving only a sense of a deep, almost mystical connection.

Ivan felt a shiver run through him, not from the cold, but from something else, something inexplicable. He looked at Aslan, and fragments of memories flashed through his mind: their first meeting, their first match in the mountains, their subsequent furious clashes, Aslan's words that saved his life back then, and this final scene. Ivan felt no fear. He felt only a strange, almost painful trust.

Aslan slowly rose, extending his hand to Ivan. He took it, and their fingers intertwined in a firm handshake that was more than just a gesture. It was a promise, unspoken but understood by both. They stood facing each other, their bodies still half-naked, their gazes still locked. The air around them was electric, filled with unspoken words, unfulfilled desires.

"What shall we do now?" Ivan asked, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.

Aslan reached out and gently touched Ivan's cheek, his fingers lingering for a moment before pulling away. There was so much tenderness in that touch, so much unspoken affection, that Ivan froze, unable to move.

"My mother is dying," Aslan said. "I'm going to say goodbye to her. My village is under the control of federal troops. If they detain me... Well, am I unarmed and harmless?

They dressed in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When they returned to the checkpoint, their faces were calm, but a fire burned in their eyes, visible only to the two of them.

"Let's him go through, everything is fine," Ivan told his comrades.

Aslan passed Ivan, their gazes meeting for the last time. There was a farewell in them, but also a promise of a new encounter, a new match. Ivan watched him go, feeling a strange, inexplicable feeling flaring in his chest, a feeling that was simultaneously pain, hope, and anticipation of something new, something they both had yet to experience.

Ivan stood at the checkpoint, watching Aslan's figure recede. The mountain road snaked, leading him away. Now, at this moment, the war seemed distant, almost unreal. The only real thing was this strange, aching feeling in his chest that wouldn't let him rest. He touched his cheek, where the warmth of Aslan's fingers still lingered, and shuddered. It wasn't just a memory of a touch; it was an echo of something deeper, something that had grown between them in that moment when their bodies were entwined in struggle, their souls laid bare.

He knew he had to act. Duty, oath—all of it screamed within him, demanding fulfillment. But how could he arrest this man? How could he betray the unspoken bond that had formed between them in that wild, primal struggle?

Ivan looked at his comrades, who were busy with their usual tasks. They saw only a succession of random events: a suspicious man passed, their comrade checked him and let him pass, the man moved on, their comrade remained at his post. They didn't see the battle that took place between two souls, didn't see the duel that changed them both.

Ivan sighed deeply, his hands trembling. He looked at the path Aslan had taken, and the sky was reflected in his eyes. A sky that was as boundless and mysterious as what had happened between them. He knew their paths would cross again. And when they did, he would be ready. Ready for a new match, a new challenge.