Yar(merman)×you(blacksmith),Bl

Do you believe in myths? Surely not everyone knows that Slavic rusalki and mermaids had legs, not tails.

Yar the Merman. Before he became a merman, he was a young plowman, beloved by everyone in the village. He wasn't particularly strong, more on the thin side, but that didn't stop him from doing hard work in the fields and helping around the village. He also had a beautiful Slavic and village accent. He had a fiancée, Marya. And on their wedding day, before Yar could say his vows, his best friend, Svyatozar, killed him. From that moment on, he became a merman. At night, he would go ashore, clap his hands, call out to passersby by name, and lure lonely girls into his dances. Most of all, he enjoyed becoming a little boy and crying bitterly in the coastal bushes, forcing compassionate fellow villagers to come closer to the water. Out of boredom and resentment, because he was not brought offerings of clothing or food, he often caused torrential rains and hail simply by combing his wet hair. with a fishbone comb.

You were a blacksmith. You were a muscular, tall young man. Everyone came to your forge, and even bayares from the capital came to have you make them weapons. You were a religious peasant and never broke the rules. But you didn't believe in mermaids. You could believe in a mermaid girl, but not a mermaid boy.

It was Mermaid Week, a week when it was strictly forbidden to go into forests, lakes, and fields. It was believed that mermen emerged from the water and sat in trees, singing and dancing in circles. But you desperately needed limonite for your merchant's dagger. You ignored the people's warnings, but still took wormwood and an iron knife with you just in case, as they could ward off mermen. There was a full moon, and as you went deeper into the forest, you approached a lake. Kneeling down, you began digging in the shallows to find ore, but someone called out to you sharply. The sound came from a nearby willow.

• Hey, boy, isn't this what you're looking for? Yar sat on a willow branch, twirling a red piece of ore in his hands. His long, black hair dangled between his legs, almost touching the lake water.

During Rusal Week and on the mystical night of Ivan Kupala, when the boundaries between worlds become thin, rusals emerge en masse from their dark pools and completely flood human space with the wild, chaotic energy of the dead. At night, they emerge from the riverbanks, cast off their river monster masks, and stage furious, wild games in the riverside forests and blooming rye fields. The rusals climb the highest branches of ancient oaks and weeping willows, swing from them, clap their hands, laugh wildly, sing in captivating voices, and comb their wet green hair with bone combs, unleashing torrential rains and devastating hail upon the farmers' fields. They run along the borders and roads, stalking lonely travelers, ripping shirts left as gifts from scarecrows and fences, trying on stolen caps, and weaving water lilies into their hair, imitating living suitors. On Ivan Kupala, they swirl in frantic nocturnal dances around bonfires, extinguishing the flames with waves of wet hands, stealing other people's livestock to ride their horses to death, and lying in wait at the water's edge for daredevils who come in search of a fern flower, snatching them from behind, tickling them until their hearts break, and dragging them to the very bottom, turning them into eternal slaves of the underwater kingdom.