---
Chapter 26
The Lost Memories, Part 1
Потерянные воспоминания
---
Nikolai's POV
Everything was dark… pitch black, like the kind of darkness that swallows sound and time itself.
I floated in this empty void for what felt like hours—or maybe days. Time lost meaning here. There was nothing to hold onto, no sense of up or down, no hint of where I was. Just endless darkness pressing against me like a heavy wet cloth.
I couldn't remember what caused me to be in this void. The last image I had was an arrow—an arrow made of ice—tearing through my shoulder. Then, just like that, everything turned black. Like someone snuffed out the fire on the lamp in a dark room.
A cold panic gnawed at me. I needed to get back.
Artom. Igor.
They would be so worried. My boys… my sons. They might act strong, might put on brave faces and say they can handle themselves—but I know the truth. They're just children, trying hard to survive in this cursed forest, that doesn't care if they live or die. I feel like they've grown up too fast, they were only seven years old. But they are strong, curious, intelligent and sometimes a little mischievous. And yet… they still look to me for everything.
Over the years, I've taught them how to hunt, how to track, how to fight—but more than that, I tried to teach them what it means to be a family, that they must always work together, I even gave them a nice quote that they should live by: United you both stand and divided you both fall.
But despite all that… they still lean on me.
They cling to my presence like a fire in the dead of winter. And I—I am their warmth. Their shield. Their father.
And I want it to stay that way. I want them to need me. I want to protect them. They're my sons, my blood, and I would risk everything—even death—just to keep them safe.
But even so… I can't protect them forever. One day, I might not come back. One day, they might be alone. The thought of that—it tears at me like claws in my gut.
So I do what I can. I prepare them. I teach them to think for themselves. To fight for each other. To stay alive.
Still… it's never enough.
To be honest, I never had dreams for myself. Since the moment I woke up in that basement with no memory, my world has been simple—stay alive, feed my boys, and keep them breathing. That's all that's mattered.
Well... not entirely. There is something else. Something I promised Rosseweisse.
Yeah...
That one's gonna be tough. I don't even know how I'm going to keep that promise. Unlike her I'm just an illterate brute, I can't any language other than Russian, and maybe you can add broken english to that. The only things I'm good at are fighting… and cooking.
...Wait. Cooking. That's something.
Maybe I could be a cook. Rosseweisse once told me about restaurants.Those big kitchens where people make food for others and get paid for it... Yeah I could do that. I like cooking. It makes people happy, it makes me happy.
Yeah... maybe I'll open my own restaurant one day, I'll name it "The taste of Volkov". I'll Sell borscht, stews, grilled meat. Let people taste happiness through food and get rich in the process. That doesn't sound too bad, does it?
But first...
I need to get out of here. This black place. I've been floating too long. Too quiet. Too empty. How do I leave? Is there a door? A path?
I looked around, but there was nothing. No sound. No movement. No smell. Only an infinite sea of black.
As if in answer, a distant white glow bloomed far ahead of me. Soft at first, like a candle in the wind, but it grew—brighter and brighter with every heartbeat. The light spread, flooding the darkness, until it became a blinding wave of warmth and radiance.
It wrapped around me, pulled me in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I felt something solid beneath me.
I thought I was leaving the darkness behind.
Or so I hoped.
---
1988 AD, February, USSR
Winter was nearly over. One more month and the snow would begin to melt, revealing the green veins of Arkhangelsk Oblast beneath. This northern region of the Soviet Union, kissed by ice and pine, was known for its timber and fishing—industries as unforgiving as the climate.
In one of its most remote corners, surrounded by a dense forest, there was a small village called Belyy Les—White Forest. It stood kilometers from the nearest town, nestled between trees like a secret. A place where time moved slowly and life stayed simple.
Despite the isolation, the villagers lived contentedly. Farming was hard, only possible during the short summer months. But they relied heavily on lumber and fishing to get them through the brutal winters.
Among these stoic people was the Volkov family. Their house was modest but warm, its walls thick with insulation and love. Inside, a fire crackled in the stove as the day began.
"Aroha, is breakfast ready?" a deep voice called.
A man stepped into the kitchen, parting the curtain with his broad, calloused hand. Tall, powerfully built, with a thick beard and a quiet strength in his gaze, Boris Volkov looked like he could wrestle a bear and win.
His wife, Aroha, turned from the stove and smiled. "Almost done, dear."
Aroha wore layers of wool, her ensemble topped by a fur-lined ushanka. Her skin was a rich caramel brown, and a distinct chin tattoo revealed her Polynesian roots. The contrast between her and Boris—fair-skinned, blond-haired, grim-faced—was striking, but their affection was as warm as the fire.
"Are the children up yet? Nikolai's going to be late for school," she asked, worry furrowing her brow. It was already 6:30, and school began at 8.
"Nikolai's up. Anahera's still in bed," Boris said softly.
The mood in the room shifted.
Anahera. Their daughter. Diagnosed with autism just a few months ago. The news had devastated the family, especially Aroha, who carried a silent burden of guilt.
"Aroha," Boris said gently, sensing the cloud over her. He walked to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "It's not your fault. This can happen to anyone."
"I know," she whispered. Her eyes shimmered. "But sometimes... sometimes I feel like it's the wrath of my ancestors. Like I brought this curse onto her."
He pulled her into a hug, strong arms wrapping around her protectively. "Stop. You're a good mother. None of this is your doing."
Her sobs were muffled against his chest. "But what about her future? What if she suffers? I just want her to live a normal, happy life."
"Look at me, Aroha."
She lifted her tear-streaked face. His eyes were serious, but kind.
"Do you remember the first thing I said when I met you?"
She blinked, memories flooding back like waves crashing on a shore. A flicker of a smile touched her lips.
"You said: 'I will protect you no matter what.'"
Boris smiled. "And I meant it then. I mean it now. I will protect you, and our family, always. No matter what."
She kissed him, a deep, heartfelt kiss that said all the things words couldn't. He cradled the back of her head with his hand, gentle despite his size.
When they finally parted, he leaned his forehead against hers.
"Besides," he added with a small chuckle, "she has the best big brother in the whole world."
Right then, two small figures shuffled into the kitchen.
Nikolai Borisovich Volkov and Anahera Borisovna Volkov.
Nikolai, only six years old, already had the beginnings of his father's build. His skin and eyes mirrored his mother's, and he carried a quiet strength even as a child.
Anahera, just four, had inherited her father's fair features—blonde hair, blue eyes—but her soul was her mother's: bright, innocent, and full of curiosity.
Nikolai held her tiny hand as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. He guided her carefully, protectively, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.
She spotted her parents embracing and immediately wanted to join in. Smiling wide, she pulled her brother toward them and wrapped her arms around their legs.
"Mama! Papa! Hugs!"
Her voice was musical. Pure. She looked up and caught the glint of tears in her mother's eyes.
"Mama? You crying? Why?"
Aroha quickly wiped her face. "Mama was cutting onions, sweetheart. That's all."
"Oh! Onions bad!"
The whole room chuckled.
Aroha kissed her daughter's forehead and held her close. Anahera giggled and snuggled into her embrace.
Boris looked at his family—his entire world—and felt a fierce love burn inside his chest. There was nothing he wouldn't do to keep them safe. Nothing he wouldn't sacrifice.
He felt a small tug on his pants.
Nikolai was looking up at him with a solemn expression.
"Papa, what's for breakfast?"
And in that moment, everything was perfect.
...At least for now.
---