First Breath

Darkness breathed. Not merely surrounded - pressed in. Like a beast seated on the chest. Not growling, not lunging. One that waits until you stop breathing.

Its breath - damp, icy, smelling of the earth they lay the dead in - seeped through the skin, into the muscles, into the bones. Like poison. Not killing - dissolving.

No time. No sleep. No break. Only weight.

Only depth.

The air - no longer air. Tar. Viscous. Stretching like blood from a wound.

It did not enter the lungs - it pressed. The throat tightened, as if a hand had been shoved down it.

Inhale - like torture. Exhale - like fear.

Alexander tried to move - and realized: there was no body.

Hands - empty. Legs - stumps. Fingers - shadows.

Everything had become foreign, as if he had entered a marionette. Only consciousness - a dense clot, locked inside foreign flesh.

Panic did not flare. It crept. Coldly. Like frost through the veins. Growing, like winter's chill. It didn't shake - it bound. He did not breathe - he thrashed. Like a fish on the shore.

And then - an impact.

Fumm.

Not sound. Light.

As if the heavens were torn by a sword. White, like death. And hurled into his skull. Alexander would have screamed - but it was too late.

The flash split the darkness.

Then - a rumble. Deep, like the gates of hell. It struck his breastbone. His heart. His spine.

It swept through his body like a command: awaken.

A crack. Not sound - physical. The world breaking. Not outside - inside.

The void was gone.

What remained: a scream. Battle. Flame.

He opened his eyes.

Voivode Radomir. In front of him. Shield - like a door driven into the earth. He did not retreat.

He knew that name. Knew the face. Even the scar on the forehead - as if he himself had once sewn it shut.But the heart did not respond. No pain, no connection.

As if it were him - in another time. Or someone else - in his body.

Behind him - Anna. Silent. Swift. Arrow after arrow. The bowstring hummed like a nerve. She had no fear. She had a goal.

He heard her voice. Clearly. Sharply. Like a memory. But not his own.

As if the body remembered, but he - did not.

The smell. Not just smoke. Flesh. Blood. Iron. As if someone were burning the living, and the ash flew into the mouth. All of it - on the tongue, on the skin, in the brain.

Clang - not outside. Inside.

He raised his hand - like a drowning man, reaching not for air, but for proof that he hadn't vanished.

Fingers touched something coarse. Wood. Not stone. Not a weapon. He gripped it - and the palm responded with pain. Scars. Calluses. The hand - not his.

He exhaled. Dull. Hoarse.

- This...

The voice - foreign. As if after a scream. But he hadn't screamed.

He tried to rise.

And realized - the body would not lift. The ribs flared. The muscles - filled with lead. He fell. Air burst from him. He gasped. His eyes burned. The heart pounded - wrong. Not his.

- A dream? No...

He knew:

Dreams don't break ribs.

Dreams don't leave salt on your lips and the taste of iron in your throat.

Dreams don't tear you from inside, leaving a scar where "I" used to be.

Maybe it's a game. Or madness. Maybe death.

Everything seemed possible. But the pain - was not one of them. It was here. And it wasn't going away.

He clung to frameworks. But every breath - was real. Every pain - like a signature: you are here.

He raised his hand - not quite his own. As if reaching for a screen long since gone dark.

Fingers slid across skin - rough, like charred wood. This was no illusion. This - had sunk in. This was flesh that doesn't forget.

He was in it. He - was in it.

- These are not my hands... - not said. Spoken, like a sentence.

He looked around the room.

Everything - deaf. The air did not watch. The stone had not forgotten. Even the air. It smelled of an era.

His gaze held.

Walls - rough grey stone. The seams uneven.

Corners - not at angle. Ceiling - low, wooden, smoked.

Torches - real. Roaring. Smoking. No oil, no gas - pure fat.

The floor - stone, frozen. The rug - not fabric. Hide. Damp-rough.

He recognized the chest in the corner - ironbound, with carved hinges and a spiral pattern.

The ornament - not Christian. Pagan. Sun symbol. Moon. Wolf's maw. Exactly. He had seen it in reconstructions, in archives, in museums.

He turned his gaze to the wall - and froze.

A shield. Heavy, round, wooden. And at the center - a mark.

A simple line, branched like an antler. Not symmetry. Meaning.

Not a coat of arms. A lineage.

A sign of power. Personal. Like the princes of that era.

Rurikids.

He recognized the shape. Had seen it on coins in museums.

The two-pronged trident - Yaroslav the Wise. Son of Vladimir.

Not a symbol of faith - a symbol of power. The Rurikids did not share coats of arms.

They left imprints. Like a brand. Like will.

Alexander - a director, a technocrat, not a historian. But Yaroslav the Wise he knew. Who didn't?

"Father-in-law of Europe." "Rus' Justice."

He opened his mouth. Silent. The thought didn't come out.

He looked around again. Everything fit: the carving, the stone, the fabric, the smell, even the bowstring hanging in the corner - coarse, dry, hand-pulled.

He didn't know the exact year.

But he knew - this was not the 13th century.

This - was before the Mongols. Before unification. Before centralized churches and seals.

This - was Rus'. Raw. Princely. On the edge of an era.

- Eleventh century? - he whispered.

He didn't believe. But couldn't deny it either.

Everything in him screamed: you know this. You've seen it in books. You laughed at it in lectures. But now - these are walls. This is flesh.

He closed his eyes.

He hadn't died. He wasn't asleep.

He - was this place. This pain.

He - was here.

- But why? Why me? Why like this?

He didn't believe in signs. Didn't believe in reincarnations.

But he was here. With no way back. No exit handle.

- Forever, - he exhaled. Not as a sentence. As a vow.

He remained. Even lying down.

His hands slowly rose. Fingers touched the face. Cheeks. Nose. Cheekbones. All - not his. All - real.

He inhaled sharply. Too sharply. Pain fired. His forehead froze. His breath broke.

He closed his eyes again.

And felt that inside, it remained. The darkness.

Not as an enemy. As a remnant.

It no longer pressed. No more.

It sat quietly. As part.

He had not defeated it. He had become it.

How to hold yourself.

How to breathe.

Count.

Center.

Two beats in. Three - out.

Pause.

Fear.

Or was it already... soul?

Two beats in. Three - out. Pause.

It worked before.

Now - it didn't.

The world did not obey. Did not register. Did not respond.

Alexander shifted - not with his neck, with his skin. Like a man pulled toward light not by sight, but by pain in the back of the skull.

Turning his head wasn't a gesture. It was an exile.

From within. From schemes. From himself.

He wasn't there.

He was here.

And in this "here" - there was no cancellation protocol. No exit button. No guarantee of return.

He didn't want to know this. Didn't want to understand.

It was like a chess game where you suddenly realize: it's checkmate.

Not in a move. Not in two.

Now. Already.

The pieces still stand, but the meaning is gone.

Even the body - gone. The connection to it severed.

He tried to go inward - where memory used to live.

But even there - sand. Dry. Crumbling.

He tried to rise.

Like pressing emergency launch.

But the body wouldn't start.

The system - did not respond.

The muscles were silent.

The commands broke apart at the base of the spine.

He was like a surgeon opening the ribcage - and finding no heart. Only a serpent.

Steel. Alive. Cold.

And everything was falling apart.

The noise in his head - like a distant bell. First chime. Then - a voice.

Not a voice. A blow.

- Prince... you woke up. The gods have not taken away the last

Low. Earthy. As if it passed through the chest.

Eyes opened again. The world - in flashes. Light stabbed into his pupils like a blade. Alexander blinked. Space swayed, like after a strike to the temple.

He saw.

A man entered the room.

Not a man - a collapse. A mail cloak, shoulders like stone wearing armor.

Face - not a face. Charcoal, burnt and carved. Beard gray as first frost. And the eyes... like someone looking at a brother he thought long dead.

- Who... - the voice cracked, rasped. - You?..

He reached for his throat. The hand trembled. Skin - foreign. Like a mask after fire.

- You are safe. As much as that means now, - the man spoke as if through ash. - I am Stanislav. Voivode to your father Yaroslav

He paused.

- You do not remember?

Stanislav...

He knew him. Not closely. Not personally. But knew.

A figure in the house. Fear in the background. Silence heavy with oath.

Yaroslav...

...the Wise?

- My... father?..

Stanislav nodded. But not at once. He took a step. As if carrying a stone. In that step - everything: guilt, pain, impossibility.

- Forgive us. We... did not protect the brothers

The word "brothers" struck deep. As if an axe had passed through the air.

Stanislav fell silent. Looking into Alexander's face, as if waiting for a flinch. Recognition. A name.

But he only stared. Not at the floor. Not at the ceiling. Into nowhere.

Silent.

Too silent.

And then something shifted in Stanislav's eyes. Not fear. Not doubt. But a shadow.

As if for the first time, he allowed a thought he did not wish to speak.

- He... does not remember?

He tensed his shoulders, as if trying to shake it off - like dust, like black water.

- Perhaps from the wounds. Perhaps it will pass. He is a prince. He must remember

But the words stayed inside.

Outside - only a steady voice:

- The strike came from all sides. Lyakhs, Pechenegs, Polovtsians and others. Every arrow - to the heart

Alexander did not answer. But his gaze flickered. Slightly. As if deep within - something sparked.

And then it began.

Not from outside - from within.

Not like a thought - like a collapse.

As if someone struck a bell, and the echo passed through skull, through chest, through memory.

First - faces.

Then - voices.

And behind them - names.

Izyaslav. Stone in form. He did not speak - he laid down words like bricks.

- You fight. But Rus' - is held not by swords, but by counsel

Svyatoslav. Laughter - like thunder. Always with a bow. Always with a smirk.

- You'll beat the Polovtsians. But a boyarin? Only with words

Vsevolod. Few words. In his voice - gravel.

- Strike, but know - why. Not every enemy - is the one you see

Vyacheslav. Warm. Like sun through snow.

- Not all - is battle. Sometimes light is stronger than steel

They came - and went. In memory - like sparks burning through the black.

As if memory - were ash, and you were trying to see the faces you once loved in it, but the wind had already blown, and all had become one gray - without names, without warmth, without right to farewell.

Alexander closed his eyes. Inhale - like falling from a height. He clutched at the cloth beneath him. Fingers trembled. His back arched.

- All... of them?..

Stanislav did not blink. He only said. No pauses. No softening. Like a warrior giving honor to the fallen.

- Prince Izyaslav was lured into the forest. An ambush. He did not retreat. He held. To the end

- Prince Svyatoslav was betrayed. Disguised as merchants. The gates at night - from within. He met them himself. And closed them himself

- Prince Vsevolod. Near Pereyaslavl. Marched to the walls. Never reached. His warband vanished in flame

Alexander did not breathe. Only listened. As if everything he was - were ears.

Because if he listened to the end, if he believed even one death - then all that had been would die with them. And if he did not believe - he would live with it. Like a noose no one tied, but that tightens on its own.

- Vyacheslav... - barely a breath.

- The Smolensk road. Ambush. He fought. Fell last. He was the last we found

Silence.

Not the kind between words. The kind left after a collapse.

- We thought you too... - Stanislav didn't finish. Only the fingers on his swordbelt stirred slightly.

The words hung. He clenched his fist - and didn't unclench it right away.

His shoulders twitched. Just a moment - but it was enough. Not for weakness. For truth.

Alexander tried to speak - and couldn't. Only a rasp. Only:

- It's not... I didn't... It's a book... I...

He lurched. Pain. Lightning.

And in that moment he realized he could not escape, could not die, could not even forget - because all that remained was himself, stripped to pain, to scream, to alien skin, to this room, to these walls, to a single word: "live."

Inhale - like a knife. He cried out. Not from pain. From not knowing - who he was. Then the body sank. On its own. Without will.

Stanislav moved. Without noise - like a shadow with a weapon. He caught him. Braced him. His hand lay on Alexander's back - like a slab, like an oath.

- Breathe. Live. Prince... - the voice was not loud. But in it was a command. - You are alive. And you are the last son of the Grand Prince

- I?.. - Alexander breathed out, not understanding. - I'm no prince. I... am no one...

Stanislav straightened. But did not leave. Did not retreat. He looked - like into the face of an enemy he respects.

- Now - it doesn't matter. Whether you wanted it or not. Whether you were someone - or no one. - He took a step closer. Through the air. Through fear. - Now you are prince. Because there is no one else

Silence.

Stanislav leaned slightly. Spoke quietly. But as if the words lay upon stone.

- Kievan Rus' does not await perfection. It awaits the living. And you - are alive

He straightened. Inhaled.

- We will not leave you. But we will not let you hide either

He bowed. Not ceremonially. Roughly. Like a man.

- Rest. Morning will come - and with it, blood

Before Alexander could object, Stanislav stepped toward the door. Unhurried. As if not leaving - but finishing.

He left. Quietly. The door creaked - not plaintively, but as if breathing heavily, and shut behind him.

In the hallway stood a shadow. And in it - two men.

- Mstislav. Mirnomir, - he said quietly. But the walls seemed to grow heavier at the words.

One stepped forward. Tall. Covered in scars - as if his skin were a map of battles past. His eyes did not burn - they pulsed. He nodded.

- We'll stand, - said Mstislav. His voice - like a hammer head. Short. Without emotion.

The second turned his head slightly, as if hearing an enemy behind the wall. His gaze - precise. Hands not just near the sword - already in it. Mirnomir.

- No one will pass, - he said without looking at Stanislav. He spoke as if he already knew who would try.

- No shadow without order, - added Stanislav. - Any intruder - dead

- We obey, - in unison, but without ritual. Not like guards. Like a vow.

Stanislav lingered just for a moment. Looked - not at them, but through. As if seeing all those they had already lost together.

He walked on. Without looking back.

And at the end of the corridor, without turning, he spoke into the darkness. Not to them. To the void that remained of the Rurikids:

- All died, so one would remain

The silence shuddered. As if the stone exhaled.

And at the other end of the palace, where walls and doubts still held, - another weight had settled.

In the small princely chamber - the heart of the Boyar Council - there was no silence. There was a drawn-out pause. Not silence - waiting. Like before a battle. Like before a storm.

Stone walls, narrow windows, heavy air - everything inside was set not for argument, but for verdict. Inside - two men. But the shadows in the hall seemed more numerous. Shadows - of rumors.

The death of Yaroslav. Then - his sons. All at once.

All of Rus' - like a body without a head.

They spoke of the Polovtsians. Of the Pechenegs. A strike from four sides. But too precise. Too... timely.

Whispers crawled from province to province. Ugrians. Lyakhs. More often - their own. Someone who knew where the warband stood. And where - only the prince. Where to strike so no one would raise a sword in time. Where to hide behind the smoke.

Metropolitan Ilarion stood in the half-light, hands folded - not in prayer, but to hold back what must not be said aloud.

His gaze - not upward, into himself. Inward. Into doubt.

Oleg, representative of the elder boyars, sat carelessly, yet wound tight like a spring. His fingers moved slowly on the armrest, as if sketching moves not on parchment, but on fates.

And into that silence - footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried. As if the one entering knew: every movement here would be remembered.

Stanislav entered the chamber not as a guest - as a survivor. As one who had already stood in the grave, but had not lain down. Straight. Quiet. Beneath his feet - not boards, but gravestones. And each step - a name.

- What of Prince Alexander? - Ilarion whispered.

- Alive, - said Stanislav. His voice did not speak - it severed. - And awake

Silence.

- The princely line is not empty... - said Ilarion, without raising his head.

Oleg did not move.

- So quickly? - dryly. - After such a slaughter?

- He survived, - Stanislav replied. - And rose. Not to his feet. To a path

He spoke not to them. To the hall. To the stone. To the past.

- I swore to Yaroslav. Not to the name. To the blood. And the death of Izyaslav does not release the oath. It sharpens it

He took a step - as if with each one, the name of a fallen son beat within it.

- Alexander did not grow with me. I knew him - by others' word. But he is a Rurikid. And now he is the last. And I still stand

He looked at Ilarion. The gaze was plain: you pray - I hold the sword. But both of us stand over an abyss.

- I do not know what he will become. But I know - if not him, someone worse will come. Or no one. And the void always rules - first

- I'm not arguing, - said Oleg. - I'm thinking. If he falls... - he fell silent, then hoarsely, almost to himself: - Not only the princely house will fall. Everything that still made people... listen will fall

Stanislav stepped closer. His shadow fell across both - like a will that cannot be brushed aside.

- Tomorrow people will hear: the prince lives. His name - again beneath the cathedral's arches. Heralds will announce. Priests will affirm. No one will object. Because while you are consulting, near Chernigov they are already cutting down Novgorod's envoy

He did not demand. Did not plead. He simply spoke - and let the silence fall, like weight.

Ilarion crossed himself. Slowly. Not like a shepherd. Like a man who is unsure whether this path is from God. But knows there is no other.

Oleg looked aside. Silent.

But the fingers on the armrest froze. As if in the next second he was ready to grip a hilt - or bite through his own thought. Then - a short exhale.

He said nothing. But did not rise. Which meant - he agreed.

Stanislav turned.

- I don't know why I remained. Maybe I didn't lie down in time. But since I stand - he must too. At least one

He did not look back. Only whispered into the silence behind him:

- The oath is not sworn to the living. But to the dead

And at the other end of the princely terem - where no one spoke aloud - someone was learning to breathe again.

Alexander lay like a stone at the bottom of a river: motionless, pressed into silence and cold.

Pain lived in the body - not like a scream, like a postponed payment. The air was heavy, as if soaked with what had already happened: soot, incense, and someone's absence.

The hearth crackled - rhythmically, as if counting heartbeats.

He closed his eyes. The cold beneath his back. The roughness of the blanket. The smell of smoke. None of this - an image. It was proof.

- I... am in Kievan Rus', - he said, not believing, but hearing.

The voice was not his. Dry. Detached. As if spoken with someone else's mouth.

He tried to remember where he had been. The noise of the office. The gray corridor. The ex-wife on the phone. Spreadsheets. Without taste, without trace.

He tried to turn - and his ribs exploded with pain. But did not break. They reminded.

He was not in a dream. Not in a game. He - was here.

- I have to go back, - he said. And heard himself: empty.

There was nowhere to return. No one would raise a sword if he disappeared. No one would remember. Anything.

There - he was. But there was no meaning.

Here - there was no meaning. But he - was.

He froze. Not from pain. From the silence inside.

No parents. His wife had left. The job had been - and remained where it belonged: in the past, in fatigue, in the grey. No one had called. No one was waiting. Nothing was burning.

- There's no one there, - he exhaled.

And it didn't wound. It lifted a weight.

He looked to the side. Something lay nearby. As if it had always been there.

The book.

No title. No author. A black cover, like ash. His fingers rested - uncertain, like on cold metal.

He opened it.

"For the one who remained"

The first words. No foreword. No date.

"You are not obligated. But if you decide - read to the end. And do not set it aside."

Then - no chapters. Commands.

How to fortify. How to fight. How to recognize lies. How to hold people when everything falls.

And a phrase, marked by neither frame nor heading:

"Here, there is no forgiveness. No waiting. Whoever thinks - is already too late."

He did not blink. Did not react. He only closed the book.

It did not disappear. But it stopped being an object. Became a tool.

He sat up. Slowly. Drew in breath sharply - and did not release it at once. Held it for long. Then exhaled. Not with pain - with decision.

He knew: this was a chance. No guarantees. No feedback. But the only one.

He did not know who he would become.

But he knew - who he no longer wanted to be.

He did not speak aloud. There was no need.

He remained.

Which meant - he would begin.

***

Thanks to everyone who reads,

1. Revision - 2,540 words (January 15)

2. Revision - 4,125 words (February 11)

3. Revision - 3,349 words (April 11, final)

Why was he not brought into the 11th century in his own body, but in the body of a prince?

Because otherwise he would have died. Not from a sword. From water. From bread.

From his own body, unable to survive without bleach and pills.

Worms and parasites.

Today you pet a dog or drink from a stream - and catch opisthorchiasis, echinococcosis, toxocariasis.

Back then - it was normal. For everyone.

Children were born with worms. Lived with them. Death from abdominal pain wasn't considered "mysterious" - it was just a body giving up.

Liver, spleen, immune system.

Today your body is built on sterility. One contact with an ancient infection - and you drop. The people of that time lived in a swamp of microbes. Every day. From birth. And if you survived - you became a machine. Not better - but harder.

Children.

Half of them died before age five. The rest - turned into little biotanks. You hit yourself? Don't treat it. It hurts? Endure. Nauseous? Everyone's like that. And so they grew up.

Why didn't they all die back then?

Because they didn't know they were dying. Illness was background. If you walk - you're alive. If you fall - well, it happens. And whoever lived to forty - was nearly immortal by local standards. They didn't know heart attacks - no one lived long enough.

A modern person in the past?

Will die.

Immediately or in a couple of weeks - from a ruptured gut, from sepsis, from berries, from a bite. Even if they wash their hands. Even if they bring a medkit. It will run out. And then the real thing begins.

There, you don't enter the world. It enters you. Through the skin, through the nose, through a scratch. And if you're not from there - you become food.

Quickly. Without heroism. Without epic.

That's why he's in the body of a prince. Because otherwise the whole plot would've ended with the first cup of water.

Realism? Realism.