Un popor înfrățit cu natura

Mărțișor aesthetic

Mărțișor is a Romanian celebration at the beginning of spring, on March the 1st in Romania, Moldova, and all territories inhabited by Romanians. The word Mărțișor is the diminutive of marț, the old folk name for March (martie, in modern Romanian), and thus literally means “little March”.

Mărțișor, marț and mărțiguș are all names for the red and white string with hanging tassel customarily given on the 1st day of March.

Hm… Well from what you’ve told me, I take it it’s better off without the boyars.

Really? That’s amazing! No wonder you consider him to be one of your best princes. It can’t be easy to do such a thing to an enemy’s weaponry. Sure, the act itself might not have been much, but surely such things had to be guarded by some soldiers. Seems to me he had a quick wit.

[He rubbed his chin for a moment.] A glass of wine, perhaps? Do you have any reds? And yes, I meant the Cyrillic alphabet. I recall seeing your version in a book, and I managed to recognize a few of the letters which were similar to the Greek ones.

‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’, no?

Nowadays, I only have respect for the current descendants of the boyars- they choose to contribute to the wider society instead of against them.

[He returns with a couple of red wines in his hands along with stemless wine glasses, then places them on the table.] I have Băbească neagră and Fetească neagră. And he did have a quick wit. In addition, he brought in maize and allowed printing presses to be used, leading to the works being translated and printed in Romanian. Granted, we were still using the Cyrillic alphabet at the time.

I wasn’t the only one who chose to become a hajduc. Serbia, Bulgaria and a handful others in the Balkans did it, too. The hajducs also played an important role in our upcoming nationalism and fight for our independence.

We continued using Cyrillic letters until 1860 in attempt to use the Latin letters as a way of going back to our origins. Although, I feel that we should have used both like Serbia.

Băbească neagră for me. 

You speak fondly of this old prince. I take it people like himself would be useful nowadays? I try to keep up with what is currently happening, though I’m mostly getting my news from newspapers. Maybe from the television, when I visit some of the neighbours who have one. The current political climate you have leaves... much to be desired.

Did you ever go on any of these hajduc adventures with them? Or did you all simply remain within the bounds of your own lands?

He took one long look at the Austrian and proceeded to sigh. Others had showed up in the village or right at his home in similar situations already. But he couldn’t exactly leave the other like this. “A walk through the village wouldn’t hurt, I suppose. Let me get some things and then we’ll leave.” With that being said, he turned and went back into his house briefly, getting some and his keys, before returning to the gate of his home. Once said gate was looked, he turned towards the Austrian. “Off we go. Should be a few minutes by foot.”

Ah… The age old problem of powerful people. I’ve seen it happen with kings in my time. Good kings would be replaced by their sons, greedy, weak bastards…

They’re not a surprise… I know how much you struggled with them. What would’ve been worrying was if it was coming from your own people. Though, if they were in the service of those two, then they may have labelled you as such themselves, whether they were your people or not. Ungrateful humans.

If I recall well, you were allied with Bulgaria during those times? And you used the alphabet Bulgaria made? Must have been salt on the wound for Byzantium. I remember how Hellas used to insist I learn her alphabet. I gave in eventually.

If it wasn’t for the Regulamentul Organic and the 1866 constitution, the current government would have turned out far differently. We’d still have the current boyar families in charge.

[A loud snort to the part of ungrateful humans] You should have seen what Șerban Cantacuzino did during the Battle of Vienna in 1683. Not only he warned the Austrians beforehand, he also managed to make the Turks lose by stuffing hay and straws into cannons so that they wouldn’t cause major damage to the city walls. One of the best Princes of Wallachia I ever had.

[Getting up, Mircea goes for something for both of them to drink.] You want something to drink? And yeah, although it was more of his complete takeover of the lands. He was, indeed. [He chuckles]. They only ceased to fight when the Ottomans took over, so.. The Cyrillic alphabet? Yeah- that was from the disciples of Sts. Cyril and Methodius when Boris I of Bulgaria invited them. We even developed our own Cyrillic alphabet.

Hm... Well from what you’ve told me, I take it it’s better off without the boyars.

Really? That’s amazing! No wonder you consider him to be one of your best princes. It can’t be easy to do such a thing to an enemy’s weaponry. Sure, the act itself might not have been much, but surely such things had to be guarded by some soldiers. Seems to me he had a quick wit.

[He rubbed his chin for a moment.] A glass of wine, perhaps? Do you have any reds? And yes, I meant the Cyrillic alphabet. I recall seeing your version in a book, and I managed to recognize a few of the letters which were similar to the Greek ones.

Decaeneus furrowed his brows as well, sensing a bit of familiarity in the other, but refused to comment on it. Instead, he opted to turn his gaze down the road the Austrian was gesturing towards. “Not great.” He simply said. The Dacian himself didn’t own car, didn’t care for them, preferred a horse and cart, as was common during his time (and thankfully still an occurrence today). But he knew cars needed fuel of some sort, and he knew of a nearby gas station. “At the edge of the village, not very far from here is a place where you can get fuel. You been here before? Know how to get there?”

“That is does, indeed. I’ve comes to know these mountains and forests well over my long years. I consider them home.” With that said, Decaeneus rose from his seat, a mere piece of wood, and placed his sculpture and knife on the windowsill of his small house. After dusting off any remaining wood chips from his clothes, he grabbed a coat he’d kept outside with him, in case the weather planned on changing soon, and headed towards the other. 

“I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself. I am Decaeneus.” He stretched out his hand for the other to shake. The Dacian mustered up a small smile as well, as to seem friendly. Others would sometimes find him intimidating, scary even. And often, Decaeneus would be glad of this. He’d used it as a defense mechanism for so long, and had managed to keep himself and others safe by being this way. But now his curiosity of the other overpowered his need to be defensive. 

Some time. Horia was right, he really had known these lands for some time. An immense amount of time, really. Decaeneus picked up on the other’s tone, brow raised as he continued to speak. “Is that so? Dragobete is already sending birds out with messages, I see.” Decaeneus chuckled lightly. “But the little bird is right. I grew and lived within these places and traveled throughout these lands often.” 

I also died in these places, he thought to himself. But of course, to suddenly say such a thing to Horia would be a foolish thing to do, regardless of the other’s nature. Besides, he still had to study green-eyed man and decipher what he truly was, know if he could be trusted, before revealing anything too personal.

He’d watch him as at last he stood, two meters of a man, he’d estimate, from just one scrutinising look. Straight-backed, confident he was and built like grizzled warriors, Horia stared then remembering the stories his elders told him all his youth, of Dacians older than the forests who worshipped once the gods of storm wizards back when the Christians hadn’t come yet, before their faith had turned to legend. Something sparked then in his gaze, maybe, an understanding; irrational and deeply primal, an ancient feeling like an instinct fluttering wild within his chest much like the sorcery that summoned whirlwinds crackling across the very air, when he would call the lightning down prying it from the howling storm clouds.

That was when he found himself taking a step closer, suffocating almost in his unnatural intensity for just a single, silent moment before he suddenly remembered this was supposed to be his secret. It faded right as wizard’s courteous smile began to grow across his face anew; a casual pretence, humanlike facade as he answered the other’s handshake grinning now wider upon hearing his name:

“Indeed. I’m... quite proud of my name. Of my namesake.” He could still remember the priest himself, could remember working alongside both him and Burebista. Back then, the elder Dacian had gone by a different name, but as is normal with his kind, there came the time to change his name, and he’d taken the name Decaeneus. It was to honor the old priest and later king, and its meaning was simple characterization of himself. It fit perfectly. 

His features turned softened with sadness and nostalgia for a few moments as he continued thinking of his people. How alone he felt in such moments, despite having someone right next to him, despite having the village he lived in as well. “He was a good man...” He found himself saying out loud, unaware how it might sound. It took him another moment to realize exactly how he’d phrased that sentence. “A good man, if the history books are anything to go by.” 

You’re supposed to be human, like the rest of them, Decaeneus had to remind himself. 

Genuinely good ones, or one that just seemed good? If the other boyars saw those around them being greedy traitors, then they should have done or said something. You can’t stand around doing nothing. 

Treason? Ha! If only they knew who they were truly calling a traitor! Insolent fool, that’s what they were. Gave them a lesson afterwards? [He’s grinning now, gently elbowing the younger man in the arm. It’s all in good fun, but at the same time he’s being slightly serious.]

Ah, I remember Byzantium. Better than Rome, that I’ll agree. Of course, neither would have been best, but I suppose we never really had such options back then, and even later on, from what you’re telling me.

Just the genuinely good ones, the ones who worked hard to make things better for us. However, no matter how hard they tried, each time they were replaced, a new boyar or other would come along to undo everything.

Tell that to the Hungarian nobility and Ottomans back then. Always quick to label us traitors every time we complained and started rebellions. So when we invaded and occupied Budapest a century ago, I was all too glad to rub it in Hungary’s face. I’ve been waiting for a revenge like that. Then we were ordered to leave. At least, we treated the civilians well, for most part.

Ah... The age old problem of powerful people. I’ve seen it happen with kings in my time. Good kings would be replaced by their sons, greedy, weak bastards...

They’re not a surprise... I know how much you struggled with them. What would’ve been worrying was if it was coming from your own people. Though, if they were in the service of those two, then they may have labelled you as such themselves, whether they were your people or not. Ungrateful humans.

@matthew-james-williams​

“If you’re looking for the ruins to visit them, they’re further up north. Gas station is at the edge of the village. And don’t ask about vampires.” Decaeneus didn’t bother to look up, instead opting to continue tending to his horse, brushing he mane gently. He didn’t know who he talking to, though. All he knew was that the nearby presence was an unfamiliar one, and decided it must have been a tourist, either lost or stopping by for supplies.