While the morning gathering called by Stanislav was taking place below, two men entered the princely chambers - Miroslav and Svyatomir. Not as servants. Not as part of a morning round. As an herbalist and a healer, who had come not to examine health. But presence.
Alexander sat on the bed. Not leaning back. Not composed. Simply - sat. As if the body itself had chosen this corner, this posture, this stillness.
A blanket - on his knees. His shirt unbuttoned. The chest did not tremble. Eyes - open. But not for them.
Chief Healer Miroslav approached first. Silent. Intent. Fingers - precise, like those of a carver.
He carefully cut away the outer bandage. Then - the inner one. Removed the layers like husk, beneath which - there was not flesh, but something that should not have survived.
- Blood within limits, - he said. - No suppuration. The stitches are holding
He touched the scar. It was dry. Almost smooth. Too early.
- This should have been worse, - he said. And suddenly fell silent. As if something inside warned - say no more.
Senior Herbalist Svyatomir set down a vessel. Uncovered the lid. The scent burst out like a witness: resin, fat, nettle that had boiled by the wall for three nights.
- The first compound burned. The second - drew out. This one - seals. If the skin accepts - it will heal. If not - it will fall apart. That's up to the body now
He looked at the thigh. The skin - stretched like parchment. No swelling, no heat. No response.
- He is not recovering, - said Miroslav. - He... is returning. But I'm not certain - if it's really him
Svyatomir did not raise his head.
- The flesh knows. Sometimes before we do
Miroslav finished dressing the wound. Silent. Then looked into Alexander's face. For a long time.
- You are sitting upright. But not like a warrior. Like something waiting to be summoned again. The pulse - not weak. But foreign. As though inside - another rhythm. Not of the body. Of fate
- He is not resting, - Svyatomir answered. - He is lingering. Not like one who survived. Like one who remained
Alexander lifted his gaze. Slowly.
- Perhaps I'm not the one who returned. But the one who was not let go
Silence remained. Not as a pause. As a bead - after a prayer with no reply.
Svyatomir placed the vessel at the edge of the table.
- We will keep coming, - he said. Evenly, wearily. - Until you start caring for yourself
Alexander did not look away. Did not hide, did not press - simply held. And when he spoke again, there was no bitterness in his voice. Only something clearly understood:
- I did not stay to live. I stayed to carry through
Miroslav drew in a short breath. Svyatomir said nothing. Only let his gaze linger - not on the face, not on the wounds. As though trying to remember: what does a man look like who goes not toward life, but into it - as into battle.
They left.
Not into silence. Into air where a name still lay. But the body walked on - without it.
The stitches remained. The salves. The wrappings.
But the body left. Not to the chambers. Not to duties. Along a trail known only to itself.
It remembered battles he had not fought.
Decisions for which someone had died.
He stood in the prince's body. But was not him.
He was - the one who returned instead.
And as long as breath moved - he knew:
this was not his life.
This was a duty clothed in flesh.
And when the body no longer needed him - he would vanish.
Without a name. Without a sign.
Without the right to be himself.
He was left alone.
Silence did not call - it affirmed. It was not emptiness, but clarity.
He was not a prince in awakening. He was a man, cast into a world where even light breathes differently.
No glass. No synthetics. Only stone. Only resin. Only rhythm - one does not enter it. One must become it.
He ran his hand along the windowsill. The stone scratched the skin - not painfully, but as a mark: you are a stranger. Here, scars do not lead to a hospital. Here, pain is proof that you are still standing.
He lowered his legs. Pain burst forth in a flash.
A jolt - almost a fall. His hand slipped, and the body swayed.
That was enough. Something in him flared - not anger at the pain. At time itself. It does not heal. It demands.
He stood. Approached the window.
The stone of the windowsill was cold, as if the day itself had not yet awakened. The window faced southwest - toward the place where, beyond the walls of the detinets, the city began.
From the height of the princely terem, not all of Kyiv could be seen, but much could:
The inner square, the western market, part of the streets leading down to the river. Beyond the bend of the ramparts, domes could be glimpsed. The rest was hidden behind slopes, behind houses, behind smoke. But even that was enough to understand: the city was alive. Or not yet.
First - the market. Dusty strips of cloth stretched between tents. Through them - people: slow, wrapped in leather and wool, some carried a barrel, some - a sack, some - empty hands. Children crawled between the stalls. Dogs slept, curled beneath carts.
Farther - rooftops. Shingle and tile - dark, soaked from the night. The wood gleamed under moisture like scales. The houses - low, cramped, as if humming beneath the skin of the earth. From chimney flues, the first smoke rose. Somewhere a chicken screeched. Someone dumped slop directly into the street.
To the right - the guard yard. A spear by the wall, a dark patch of the pen, movement near the gates. There - a bathhouse, a service yard, sheds. A pile of firewood. A man in a long linen shirt carried out manure and did not turn, though the clatter of buckets could be heard even from here.
Higher - the domes. Those visible: part of Saint Sophia, a fragment of the bell tower, the edge of a chapel. The gold - matte, not gleaming, but muted, like an ancient seal. They did not rise - they pressed. Above them - only the sky. And perhaps, God.
The streets stretched from the square like veins - toward the gates, the market, the settlements beyond the river. Puddles - in pits, litter - by thresholds. Somewhere, roosters were already crowing. Somewhere, curses were flung. Somewhere - prayers.
The city did not call. It listened.
Alexander stood and felt: he was not above this city. He was sewn into it. Into this body. Into this pain. Into this blood.
- For centuries they build, survive... - he said. - But will they rise?
He did not know - whether he meant them, or himself. Or both.
A flash - not a thought. A memory. But not his.
A bowstring, ice underfoot, the mentor's voice - short as a strike. A sword - heavy, but true. This was not recollection. It was a command. Inside the body that remembered a war he had not fought.
He did not know who it was. But the body - knew.
- Politics, - he whispered. - The quietest death
In that world, he had avoided it. Here - it was air. In every glance, in every silence, in every slow nod.
He approached the table - not at once.
As to a body that may either save - or replace.
A book. Not memory. A knot.
He opened it - and the text ceased to be text. Diagrams. Decisions. Not words - actions.
Fingers turned pages, eyes calculated. In his mind a system formed: not a palace. A mechanism. Who works the bellows. Who is the salt. Who - the rumors.
Each line - a bolt that must not be lost.
He stood. There was no more pain. There was weight. Responsibility, risen with him.
- Sword. Economy. Trust
The words were not a formula. They were statute.
Fingers that once held a sword - now held pages.
Scars - not reminders.
They were seals. Beneath every decision not yet made.
He saw the map. Fortifications. Currents. People. Layers of power. Every knot - a point of strength. Tomorrow - he would begin. Not with a question. With a command.
- I do not lie down, - he said. - I align
He looked at the book. Siege. Strategy. Death written step by step.
- A mistake here is not a price. A mistake - is a body beneath your window
He closed the book.
- A prince who hesitates does not lose. He vanishes. Without a name. Without a banner. Without a chance to be understood
And the city will feel it - before he does.
The voice rang not as thought, but as oath. Without thunder. But with weight. Like the strike of a hammer, falling into air.
He did not grant himself the right to doubt. Did not allow himself to halt between "why" and "what if." He had already chosen.
Not a question.
A decision.
He moved the way a blade moves: not from itself, but through.
A cloak hung by the threshold. He threw it on - not as clothing, but as a sign: this was not recovery.
This was power.
His hand - on the bolt. The click - a signal. Not a step, but an ignition. And he stepped out.
Not outward. Inward.
The narrow corridor of the second floor met him with silence.
The ceiling - low, the beams - dark. The floorboards creaked not loudly, but with character - as if remembering who had walked here before him. Lamps on the walls cast a flickering light that did not illuminate but emphasized: this place was not for idle gazes.
Here - there was only step and shadow.
By the wall, opposite his chambers, stood two.
Mstislav and Mirnomir.
Gridni.
Not just warriors - the closest. Those beside not by statute, but by vow.
They were not seen in the tower - because they did not guard the doors. They appeared when the prince walked. Or fell.
If he collapsed - they would fall with him. If he rose - they would already be ahead.
And these two - masters of the blade. Not guards - linkage. Bond. Chosen by Stanislav back in Yaroslav's day, like bone under a seal.
They did not guard the door. They sensed the moment. Like hounds that do not bark - but freeze when the wind carries danger.
Seeing the prince, they did not nod at once. Not as subordinates - but as those who know: if he has stepped out - waiting is no longer an option.
For a moment, something flashed in their eyes that should not have been there: doubt. Not from mistrust. From the reality moving too fast.
He should not have been standing. But he stood.
- Good morning, Prince, - Mstislav said, straightening. His voice held strict discipline, but his face - faltered. - You look... stronger than we expected
Mirnomir said nothing. His palm - slowly - rested on the hilt. Not a threat. A habit. He felt it: something had changed. Inside the prince - a different balance of weight and shadow.
- Prince, are you certain you wish to walk? You are still...
- Certain, - Alexander cut in. - I cannot lose time
He spoke evenly. Without pressure - but in a way that left no shadow of doubt behind the words.
The prince's memory held his posture. His gaze. His tone.
But the body - did not. The body remained silent with effort. It resisted.
Beneath the skin stirred what had not yet healed. And each step was not taken by strength - but by resolve. He did not walk lightly. He moved like one breaking through ice: carefully, restrained - but inevitable.
- Follow me, - he said.
Mstislav nodded first. The corner of his mouth twitched - not a smile, but a signal that something within him had shifted. Mirnomir stepped behind the prince almost simultaneously, but did not avert his gaze. He was still watching - not the face. The gait.
That is not how those who walk move. That is how those move who can no longer not walk.
They moved slowly. Not out of reverence - out of precision. Because in this corridor, every step sounded like a word in a prayer: do not err.
To the left - a chapel. To the right - a chest. The lamp trembled, the air smelled of dried herbs. Everything quieter than it should have been. Like a house where someone has died - but the body has not yet been carried out.
A few more steps - a staircase.
It led downward: narrow, like the gap between epochs.
Stone steps - worn smooth by centuries. Slippery not from water - from time. The railing - warm, dark, rough. Bent beneath the palms of those who were already gone.
Alexander stepped cautiously. Not like an invalid. Like one who counts steps because he knows: each "down" may become "will not rise again."
Mstislav moved slightly ahead, Mirnomir - behind. Without words. Only the sound of steps.
Their armor did not clang - cloth over mail muffled everything. But beneath the silence was a readiness: if the prince stumbled - they would not steady him. They would catch him - like a wall.
The air changed with every turn.
On the second floor - the scent of resin, dust, lamp oil. Cedar shavings. Mint from the empty princess's chamber.
On the first - the smell of bread, wax, and iron. Deep, saturated, like a blacksmith's breath. Somewhere - smoke. Somewhere - wine. Somewhere - leather. The air was not warm - it was weighty. Like before a trial.
The terem did not smell like a home. It smelled like a decision not yet spoken, but already known.
The walls - not smooth. Plaster, clay, timber. Everything - as if not built, but restrained. On one - embroidery: birds, sun, people. On another - shields behind which no one would ever stand again. A cross - fused into wood. The icon - did not pray. It watched. Through.
The passage ran along the walls - not a corridor, but a spine. In niches sat servants. Some stitched. Some read from birch bark. Some held their fingers folded, as if they knew: waiting is labor too.
They passed:
To the left - the small council chamber. Dim, a candle, a table, a voice.
To the right - the scriptorium. Quill, parchment, the rustle of counting. Scrolls stacked like verdicts.
Farther - the minor treasury. A door with a copper hinge. Inside - not sacks. Seals. Marks. Charters that determined who would sit at the table tomorrow.
They passed the armory. The scent of metal and leather. Armor on hooks. It smelled of sweat, smoke, victory. One gridin pressed a sword to his chest, as if silently giving a blessing.
They passed the prayer room. There - shadow. A lamp. Silence no one entered.
And everywhere - people. But not as a crowd. As linked chains. The servants moved precisely. Did not bustle. Did not rush. Their glances - sharp, grazing. One lowered his eyes. A second - froze. A third - clutched a scroll, as if he now knew: he would speak no excess.
Alexander moved through them like through a mechanism, where everyone knew: not the same prince returned. But the very one they must now obey.
Because in his step - there was no doubt. Not in his gait. Not in his breath. Not in his shadow.
The terem felt it. Not like a house. Like a body. And what moved through its corridors did not ask to pass. It moved - and the terem recognized it. Yielded. Fell silent. Did not resist.
Because within it moved power. Not appointed. Returned.
They reached the northern wing.
Here, the ceilings were higher. The air - colder. The light - dimmer.
As if the walls held not shadows, but restrained screams. Here, at the end of the corridor, Yaroslav had ordered a passage built to Sophia. So the prince could reach the cathedral - without leaving the house.
Without showing fear. Without asking for escort. Only a step. Only he and God.
The gallery began like a wound.
A narrow nerve stretched between power and faith. The beams did not support - they constrained. The light did not pour - it filtered. The air was like the moment between two slaps: not a blow, but no longer a pause.
There was no glass. Only oiled cloth stretched over frames. Through them - nothing could be seen. But it was felt. It moved.
There - Kyiv. Not a city. Expectation.
The bells tolled. But not with joy. With foreboding. Like a pulse. Not alarm - pulsation. The city rang into itself and waited to see who would answer.
The gridni followed behind him. Silent. But their presence was dense, like a shield not yet raised - but already in position.
Alexander entered the gallery. Not quickly. As into an artery. Where every movement - is a beat.
Ahead - Saint Sophia of Kyiv. Temple. Heart. Weight.
He approached. Not as a supplicant. As one to whom the doors must open. Or would not dare to remain closed.
The boards beneath his feet creaked, but did not complain. This creak came not from age. From strain.
The passage bore the weight of power.
At the turn of the gallery - a view of the cathedral. Through the open opening at the far end - a patch of sky and a golden dome, which did not shine - it watched.
Sophia did not tower. She stood. As if to say:
"You are not the first. And you will not be the last"
Alexander paused for a moment at the opening. The wind struck his face. It smelled of ash, dust, human sweat. The city did not pull with a call - but with expectancy. As if someone had already understood that the prince was coming. But not with what.
He stepped forward. The last meters of the gallery hummed underfoot. The light grew harsher. The space - taller.
The cathedral's threshold did not greet. It tested. This was not an entrance. This - was a sifting. Those who passed - would stand. Those who did not - would vanish.
And every step was heard.
Saint Sophia did not meet the prince with chimes - but the air, as he entered, seemed to hush.
Cold, dry, with a faint scent of incense and ash, it did not simply keep silence - it demanded it.
Inside, it was not empty, but almost. In the side nave - movement.
One of the cathedral's keys, the senior deacon, was giving instructions to young novices. Their steps were nearly silent, their speech - muffled. Some carried fabrics. Some - scrolls. It was clear: they were preparing for something greater.
The metropolitan was not there. But it was felt: his shadow was present. Like a held breath before a word. Like the beginning of liturgy before the first bell strikes.
Alexander turned aside, toward the arched passage that led to the library. He knew the way. The memory of the body guided him like along a thread. Passing through the arch, he entered another space - not of the temple, but no less sacred.
At the entrance stood two. Not like sentries. Like guardians not of doors - but of entry.
In their gaze there was no hostility - only the attentiveness one gives to someone who has returned at the wrong time.
- Welcome back to health, Prince, - said one, nodding slightly.
- I will be inside, - Alexander replied shortly.
He entered.
And the air inside changed once more.
This was not a library.
This was not a repository of knowledge - but of decisions.
The vaults - high, like in a nave. The wood - dark, worn smooth by generations of hands. The shelves rose like columns. Between them - not aisles, but corridors of time.
Scrolls, birchbark charters, translations from Greek and Latin, Kyivan chronicles, lists of laws. Everything - breathed knowledge. But not abstract. Practical. Tenacious.
This was not for scholars. For princes. For those who decide.
Each row was labeled. Not by alphabet. By essence: Lands. People. Trade. Judgment. War. Faith.
Names - not of authors. Of holders. Who read, who amended. Who struck through.
Here and there - caskets. Seals. Symbols of treaties. Translations from Byzantium, from Khazaria. A list of tributes from tribes that no longer existed.
The books lay like weapons. Propped with stones, rings, heavy emblems.
The light of the lamps did not illuminate. It guarded.
And in that silence, Alexander understood: it was not the walls that protected the books. The books protected the walls. And the prince.
- Prince, may I be of service? - came a voice. Not loud. But as though it had not sounded - it had appeared.
He flinched. Turned.
A monk. The chief custodian. A face - dry as parchment. Eyes - as if they remembered everything that had ever been read here. Not over years. Over centuries.
Alexander looked at him - and for a moment found no words. Because he understood: this man was not a servant. He was part of this place. Its guardian. Its breath.
- I need texts about the land. About the people. About law and trade, - he finally said. - Not from scholars. From those who ruled
The monk nodded. Not as an executor. As a keeper who had heard the right request.
He left - and returned with what he carried not in his hands, but as if between epochs.
Not one scroll. Several. Bound in leather. On fine birchbark. Wrapped. Names. Marks. Some pages - with cut-out fragments. Some - with another's hand in the margins.
- "The Truth of Rus'," - he said. Quietly. Almost not for ears. - The first lists. Not as law. As agreement. Who owes whom. Who may strike whom. Who has no right to stay silent
- Land charters. Registers. Translations from Byzantium - how to govern, how to take, how to defend. Not in theory. In reality
Alexander did not take them immediately. He looked.
His hands trembled. Not from weakness. From the density of time that had suddenly come near. Closer than his breath.
He reached out - not as to a book. As to something alive.
He received it - like a sword. Cautiously. Aware of the weight. This was no scroll. This was will. The pulse of what he was only beginning to understand.
He sat down. Placed the lamp. The light trembled - and carved pages from the darkness. The pages unfurled - not like sheets. Like wings. Like banners.
And in that moment, Sophia ceased to be a temple.
She became a fortress.
But not of stone. Of memory.
A fortress of reason.
Every line, every faded mark - not merely text. It was what archaeology does not know. What ash did not preserve. Law. Order. Structure. A map of the world laid out in layers: who holds the salt. Who the court. Who the fear.
He ran his finger along a line. It crumbled. Like something living. Like something dying.
- They didn't manage to burn it, - he whispered. - But almost
He read. Not with eyes. With a system.
He made notes - first in the margins, then on separate birch slips. He selected, extracted, reassembled. He saw not laws. He saw knots. Who holds the salt. Who the fear. Who the price of life.
And every knot - not an idea. A person. A family. A land. A bargain.
The light in the cathedral changed. Monks entered, changed the lamps, brought scrolls, withdrew. Without sound. As if Sophia breathed with its own breath - not divine. Historical.
Mstislav and Mirnomir came twice. He nodded. But did not rise. Nourishment was not here.
He felt no fatigue.
Because for the first time since waking, he was not a coincidence. But a purpose.
He was not reading about the past. He was reading what his future had not received. What had vanished - in ash, in carelessness, in the rupture of memory. Law. Order. The weight of decision. The rhythm of power that is not assigned - but taken.
He read - not with eyes. With a system. And every line did not enlighten. It stitched.
He was not in a library.
He was in the core.
Where knowledge does not await application. But time - an answer.
By nightfall, his back ached. Alexander leaned against the chair's back - not to rest. To make sure: he was still here. The body had not detached from the will.
- Enough, - he said. Not tiredly. Like a period in a drawing.
He called for the keeper:
- I'll take several. Is that allowed?
The monk nodded. Not as a servant. As a guardian:
- So long as they return. These are not merely books. These - are the bones of Rus'
- I'll return them, - said Alexander. - Or from them, something new will rise
He turned.
- Mstislav. Mirnomir
Steps - at once. Faces - composed. Hands - already ready.
- All of this - to my chambers. Carefully. Without delay
Mirnomir frowned slightly:
- Prince… perhaps later? You should -
- Now, - Alexander interrupted. Sharply. Almost like a lash. - Time is no longer ours
Silence. A half-noose.
Mstislav nodded slowly. Not in agreement - in understanding.
- We do not ask. We carry
Alexander nodded - briefly. Not in gratitude. In his own way.
The gridni gathered. He - a box of ink, quill, a knife for scraping birchbark.
He walked first. Behind him - the documents in which Rus' lay.
In the chambers, he nodded silently to the late supper. Dense bread. Stew. Pickled radish.
- Variety, - he muttered. - That's what power gives.
He ate quickly. Like a soldier. Not a prince.
And then - back to the table.
The scrolls unfolded like a battlefront map. Birch rustled beneath his hand. The candle crackled.
He transcribed. Compared. Arranged.
This was not study.
This was preparation for an offensive.
But the pain did not leave. It did not scream - it breathed nearby. Dull. Stubborn.
Like a reminder that the body had not yet let go. Beneath the shirt - a bandage soaked with salve. It clung to the skin, stretched with each movement. Somewhere near the seam - a faint prickling.
Not dangerous. Just - his own.
The door creaked. No knock. Cautiously - as into a temple, where they fear to startle prayer.
- Are we disturbing? - asked Senior Herbalist Svyatomir quietly, his gaze gliding over the scrolls.
Alexander did not answer immediately. He fixed a line, wrote the final mark, only then - nodded. Not sharply. Slowly. As to someone who came not for him - but for the matter.
Chief Healer Miroslav stepped closer. He did not examine - he read. The body no longer troubled him. The gaze did.
- You are not resting, - he stated. - And the wounds have not gone quiet
- The body stays quiet if it is occupied, - Alexander replied. - As long as I move - I live
Svyatomir, standing by the table, smirked. Without joy. But without dispute.
- As long as you move - the blood doesn't thicken. That's life too. But it doesn't mean it's a path
He set down a vessel - not for Alexander. For his scars. As a challenge.
Alexander silently stood. Undid the ties, pulled off his shirt - slowly, as if peeling away not cloth, but a husk. Not like a prince - like a man whose body still contested his right to claim it.
Beneath the shirt - bandages. Darkened, smelling of herbs and pain. Miroslav stepped closer. Without words. Without request. His gaze - not of a healer. A reader.
He slid scissors beneath the edge, cut. Began to unwrap.
Layer by layer.
The scent of ointments and dense cotton filled the air. The cloth peeled away with a crackle.
Alexander did not flinch. Not from strength - from dulled, habitual fatigue. This pain was no longer pain. It had become a voice - low, constant, like a background hum in a stone hall.
Beneath the bandages - skin like a map. Flesh pressed as if by teeth. The scars were taut, hardened, like marks on metal. Foreign - but now fused into him.
- You carry the rhythm not of a body, - said Svyatomir, leaning slightly. - You carry the rhythm of a sentence
Miroslav did not lift his gaze.
- Are you afraid? - Alexander asked. Directly. Without force.
- Not of you, - Mirsolav replied. His voice was soft. Almost tender. - Of what follows behind you
He did not specify what. There was no need.
They left. Quietly. Without blessing.
Alexander remained, not raising his shirt. The body breathed. The table waited. The candle crackled, like a voice in the dark.
He sat. Returned to the scrolls.
Because he could do nothing else.
That same evening, Stanislav, head of the princely retinue, ascended to the prince's chambers not with a report and not with an order. He came - to look.
Rumors were already crawling. In whispers, like an unfinished curse:
- The prince is recovering. Too quickly. Too... differently
At the prince's door stood the gridni Svyatomir and Vladimir. Silent, upright, as if carved from the same boards that reinforced the gate.
- Commander Stanislav, - Vladimir was the first to speak. - Welcome
- How is he? - Stanislav asked quietly, casting a glance at the lamp by the door. The flame did not sway. Which meant - not asleep.
- Still at the table, - said Svyatomir. - Writing. Reading. He has not rested for a moment
- Healer Miroslav and the herbalist just left, - added Vladimir. - The wounds are unrecognizable. As if a week has passed. Or two. They're bewildered. Svyatomir, the one with the salves, even swore the ointment came alive - by the prince's will
Stanislav was silent. His eyes remained still, but inside - steel worked. Silently. Sharply.
- It's something else that troubles me, - Svyatomir spoke. - He is not just recovering. It's as if... he remembers things he never knew. Works as though he always knew what to look for
Vladimir allowed himself a cautious smirk:
- The young prince, who used to hide behind his sword, now reads as if his father's memory entered into him. It's not even strange. It's... not human
Stanislav rested his hand on the hilt.
- You're saying he's changed? - he said evenly.
- Too quickly, my lord, - said Svyatomir. - As if he returned... different
Stanislav stepped closer to the door, ran his fingers across the iron handle. Then - stepped back.
- And did you know him? Before? - he asked quietly. - Knew the one he was?
The gridni exchanged glances. Vladimir looked away.
- No, - admitted Svyatomir. - Few did
- Nor did I, - said Stanislav. - He was always - nearby. But never - among. Like a shadow behind his brothers. Like a sword on the wall: present, but no one reached for it
He fell silent. Then abruptly - as if cutting with a blade:
- Maybe that's how it's meant to be. Not the one who was - but the one who came in his place
The words hung in the air. Like a sentence. Or like salvation that does not yet know it is salvation.
- Now he is prince, - said Stanislav. - And we must learn not to recognize him - but to accept him. Not as someone familiar. As necessity
He turned away. Stepped toward the staircase. The torches cast shadows on the walls like scars - foreign, ancient, but still alive.
- If this is not his path, - he muttered, - then our land will die
He did not look back. Because if you look back - you begin to remember. And now it is time to forget.
- Rus' stands on those who do not ask who he was
But act - on who he must become.
Because the choice, Prince, is not yours to make.
The land makes it. And it - does not forgive.
***
Thank you to those who read to the end.
This story is not meant to lead by the hand. But to breathe together.
I do not seek to ease the text. I want it to live - with you or without you.
But if you have stayed, it means it does not breathe in vain.