A Word for Rus'

These years became for Kievan Rus' what would later be called the Golden Age.

The capital thundered over the steppes like a blacksmith's strike. Caravans stretched from the Varangians to the Greeks, churches rose in stone, as if faith itself had taken up a chisel. The lands were united, and the prince - one.

His name was Yaroslav the Wise.

Just. Stern. Far-sighted.

He held the realm not only with the sword, but with the word.

Under his rule, Rus' did not merely endure - it rose. The prince's word resounded from the Black Sea to icy Ladoga. Even in Byzantium, they knew: the throne in Kiev - was no hollow sound.

But nothing is eternal.

When Yaroslav died, the sun did not dim - but the sky trembled.

He divided the lands among his sons. He wanted peace. He wanted balance. But gave division.

Death opened doors to those who had waited in shadow. Ambush. Bribery. Betrayal.

Yaroslav's sons were killed - swiftly and coldly. One after another. Not in battle, not on the field of war - in mud, on the road, in helpless, snow-covered tracts.

Izyaslav, Svyatoslav, Vsevolod, Vyacheslav - each fell. None remained who was ready to rule.

Except Alexander.

The youngest. Unnoticed. Underestimated.

Chroniclers did not write of him. The boyars did not argue over him in the towers. He stayed to the side. Trained. Hardened. Proved nothing to anyone - just lived in the shadow.

But when they struck at him too - he did not fall.

Alexander was traveling with his warband - two hundred men, seasoned, reliable, loyal.

The enemies knew the route. Knew where to strike. There were twice as many of them - nearly four hundred. The ambush was perfect.

First strike - to the flank. Second - to the rear. Third - to the horses, the packs, the weak points.

But they had miscalculated.

They came for a young princeling they thought a plaything. But attacked a fighter for whom death was no threat - but profession.

Alexander built no halls, played no dice, whispered with no advisors. He lived in armor. And those beside him were the same.

Not an entourage - an elite. Silent, trained, grown into their weapons.

The fight was bloody, drawn-out, without nobility. The earth howled under hooves. The air trembled from screams and clangor. The infantry clashed in hand-to-hand like wild beasts. The enemies fought by number. Alexander - by quality.

And still, they were too many.

By battle's end, of the two hundred, twenty remained. Twenty alive - of those who not only held, but tore through. Alexander - soaked in blood, his thigh pierced, his cheek torn, and his left hand no longer able to hold a sword. He did not fall. He kept walking, until it became clear - there was no one left to finish him.

When their own came, they found him standing. Not on his legs - on will. He looked as if he had already returned from hell. And those twenty who survived stood slightly behind. Silent. Not like survivors - like those who had passed through.

There were not enough horses. No carts. They carried him. Bandaged him in the saddle. Someone walked beside him, holding his shoulder. Blood ran down the armor like over a bronze statue.

There was no grand return. Only dull footsteps, slashed paths, cold halts. At the fires they were silent. Those who met them in the first villages asked no questions.

That same night, in the nearest elder's house, herbalists gathered. Sleds were sent. Messengers dispatched. Someone brought honey, someone - a midwife, a healer whose grandchildren were in that very warband.

And then - another battle began.

The healers did all they could.

They used everything: decoctions, ointments, incantations, bear fat and honey, infusions of celandine, nettle, extracts from bark and resin. The prince's body was wrapped in hot cloths, to keep the cold from tearing away the last of life.

An old herbalist whispered over him, never rising from his knees, calling the spirits of earth, sun, beast, even the dead ancestors.

But this was no ritual. This was a battle for the last breath.

He had lost so much blood that any other would already be in the ground. The wounds - deep, torn, infected. His cheek split to the bone. His thigh pierced, his left arm refused to obey. Breath - like a moan, pressed from within.

- He holds on like a she-wolf whose pup's been wounded, - whispered one of the elder healers. - But we can't promise a miracle

And it's true: back then, in the 11th century, to be wounded - meant to die.

Wounds were not just pain. They were a path to rot, to fever, to the grave. No antiseptics. No stitching. No salvation. You could die from a scratch if it held dirt. And his entire side was torn.

But he survived.

And it wasn't a miracle. Not a sign from the heavens. It was anatomy. Mechanics.

A senseless, terrifying force of nature.

Alexander wasn't enormous. He wasn't a grim brute.

He was compact. Dense, like a twisted rope. Dry. Springy. Every muscle - like a cord. Bones - heavy but flexible. Heart - with the rhythm of a drum. Lungs - like a blacksmith's bellows.

It wasn't a merit. It was built-in structure.

As if someone had gathered into him all that could endure war.

And then he began to train that body. From childhood. Bathed in snow. Breathed through smoke. Slept on stone. Hit trees until he bled. His pain - wasn't trauma. It was background.

It wasn't the prince who survived.

It was the organism that didn't know how to give up.

He studied. Listened to mentors. Knew the foundations of law, honored theology, could name all the great rulers of the past - but all that wasn't the center. It was background. Because from childhood he chose something else.

He gave himself to the body. To the sword. To snow. To early rising and late exhaustion.

He didn't spend hours singing psalms - he was drawing the bowstring.

Didn't weigh teachers' words - he weighed a horse's stride, the angle of a blow, the breath before a throw.

He knew how a beast's mind worked, how a spear cut flesh, how to ride bareback without stirrups.

He didn't play the prince. He became a fighter.

And it wasn't foolishness. It was a choice.

He didn't disregard study - he built knowledge into combat.

Didn't cram - remembered what mattered. Didn't argue - listened. Didn't waste time - carved out the essence.

Teachers said: "He is not diligent."

His father once said: "He will survive."

And he was right.

Because knowledge locked in books - burns. But knowledge absorbed by the body - remains.

And when in the morning he opened his eyes - there was no cry.

No gratitude. No tears.

There was silence.

Because those who stood beside him saw not a miracle - but a limit.

And understood - he was not from them. He was from somewhere further. Deeper. Harder.

And if he had risen - now the war would begin.

This news did not resound loudly - but spread through the walls like dampness in spring. First the warriors. Then the servants. Then those waiting by the porch. Then - the messengers. And by evening all of Kiev knew: the prince lives.

He breathes. Opens his eyes. Recognizes.

Which means - it is not the end.

Which means - there will be a beginning.

And then they began to watch. The elder boyars. As old as the walls, and young as wrath. Those who hid a sword behind their back, and those who hid intrigue behind a cross. They did not come. But they knew. The servants told. They listened at doors.

And that was when the second wave began. Not of herbs. Of gazes.

Many of the elder boyars looked at him as a youth. A puppet. A pitiful remnant of a great line.

Some - with pity. Some - with hunger for power. Some - with a dream to rip Rus' apart and become the master of a piece.

But not all were jackals.

They were torn from within.

Almost every one of them had sworn an oath to Yaroslav. Not in words - in blood. On swords. On their knees.

Princely Rus' stood not on borders, but on the fact that a word - had weight. An oath - a sentence. Betrayal - a curse.

And so every boyar had served his prince. His son of the great one. But now there was one prince. And one oath. And to abandon it - was to abandon Rus'.

They remembered that. Not all - but those who remained true. Dry, grim, silent. Those who didn't hunger for glory, but remembered that order - is everything.

At their head - Stanislav.

Grey as a birch in autumn mist.

He bowed to neither death, nor gold, nor flattery.

And when he saw that Alexander lived - he did not ask: "Is he ready?"

He said:

- We swore. We stand

And he rose. Not for Alexander. For Rus' itself.

To keep it from falling into dust.

That night he did not sleep.

Did not pray, did not waver, did not wait for signs. He simply stood by the narrow window and looked at the dark sky - like a warrior looks at the field before battle.

He did not think of himself. He thought of the walls. Of what holds Rus'. Not bricks. People. Not princes. Oaths.

And when the sky began to pale - he knew what to do.

Morning brought not only light. It brought reckoning.

Stanislav understood: there could be no waiting. Delay smelled of collapse.

He gathered all the key figures of Kiev in the small princely chamber - a place where fates are not discussed, but forged.

Candles and torches could not outshine the cold that came from the tall stone walls. The hall resembled a great chamber where not people - but ideas - rise to their full height. Every step within it sounded like a stride across history.

The first to enter was Ignat Slavyansky. Supreme Voivode of the eastern borders. His face - a map of the frontier. His gait - a verdict.

He was a predator, used to deciding fates with the spear, not with words. He did not bow. He simply took his place - and froze, as if before a throw.

Behind him - Stanislav the Great. One of the strongest men of Rus' - not by weight, but by the weight of his gaze. Commander of the princely warband, pillar of the great Yaroslav, now - the only one who could keep disintegrating power on a leash.

When their eyes met - the hall went quiet for a second. That was how men looked who had already fought side by side. And might have to again.

Then - the clergy. Ilarion, Metropolitan of all Rus'.

His figure - like the hammer of faith. He brought not words, but the power of the word.

Behind him - Luka Zhidiata, Bishop of Novgorod, sober-minded, deliberate, not yet departed.

Last came - Anthony of the Caves. Silent.

His presence needed no introduction. If he had risen - it meant the matter was almost settled. Because if he did not bless it - coronation was dead.

Next - the princely steward Oleg Vyshgorodsky. Politician, strategist, formerly - a warrior. He never spoke idly. But when he spoke - they listened. His face - iron. His words - stone. He knew this council would not repeat.

With him entered Dobrynya Vsevolodovich, Ognishchanin,(the house steward), as reliable as a gate lock. Manager of affairs, builder of order, executor of princely will. He did not dream - he did.

Then came the elder boyars of Kiev, Pereyaslavl, Chernigov, and other lands. They did not walk in together - but still moved like marks on the same map.

Some stayed closer to Stanislav - those who remembered Yaroslav.

Some - to Oleg, in the shadow of columns, where words could be whispered.

Some - near Ignat, joining no camp. Not from fear - from calculation. They chose not a side, but distance. Those who stand at the center are struck first less often.

Not factions - but already form. By blood, by gain, by memory.

They remembered to whom they had sworn. And they knew: now there was one prince. And one oath. And it demanded not words. It demanded to hold Rus'.

And then, when the hall was nearly full, Igor Rostislavich appeared.

Posadnik of Novgorod.

He had been summoned to Kiev by Izyaslav himself, when the latter had ascended to the Grand Princely throne. Not for a report, not for submission - for a conversation. For the future.

Prince Izyaslav had known: the North could not be held with one hand. There, they needed those who knew the veche, who knew the street, who knew what alarm looked like in the eyes of merchants. Igor was such a man. He didn't just rule - he listened. That's why he was needed.

Igor departed at once. Left the city - not as a fugitive, but as an envoy. To take part in the new alignment. To become part of the knot that had to bind Rus' - from Ladoga to the Black Sea.

But when he reached Kiev - Izyaslav was gone.

Neither alive, nor in power.

And now he stood in the Council hall - not as an observer. But as one who knew: if a clear answer does not come today, tomorrow the North will speak for itself.

Because the last to enter was Senior Boyar Mikhail Podolsky.

Not with guards. With a shadow.

He did not look around. Did not choose where to sit. He simply walked - and people stepped aside before him.

With him were his people. Wealthy merchants, like Lazar Torgovich. Boyars who needed no introduction. Those whose gold wasn't in chests, but in the debts of others.

They did not speak. But the hall felt it immediately: now all was gathered.

And when Mikhail took his seat - not by the wall, not in the center, but at the place where all lines invisibly converged - Ilarion raised his hand.

Everything fell silent.

Even the flame seemed to weaken.

- I greet you

His voice rang like a bell.

- By the mercy of the Lord, our prince lives. But the question is this: where and how to hold the ceremony, so that Alexander may ascend the throne. Because if he does not ascend - Rus' will fall

Silence. Then - the sound of breathing. People exchanged glances. Someone crossed themselves.

Because this was no longer politics. It was the final binding of the realm to itself.

The first to rise was Vyshata, voivode and commander of the Kiev garrison. His voice was dry as an order, and firm as a step in chainmail:

- The people murmur. On the road here - whispers in churches, at markets, by the wells. If the prince does not ascend the throne in the coming days, the crowd will become a weapon. Or an enemy. If we delay - we lose trust. And with it - power

A hum of agreement passed through the hall, but then the voice of Igor Rostislavich, posadnik of Novgorod, cut through the air:

- Then what are we waiting for? Where will the ceremony be? Time is slipping, allies are wavering, enemies smell weakness. Even in Novgorod they've begun to ask - is the prince alive at all, or is it smoke over ashes?

- Sophia, - said Anthony of the Caves. He did not rise. But even sitting, his voice settled into the bones.

- The coronation will be there. Because that church - is not walls. It is the heart. Its domes can be seen from every edge of Kiev. Let the people see: the heavens are with us

Ilarion nodded. No words were needed. The silence in the hall seemed to shift shade - from worry to hope.

And it was then that Oleg, the princely steward, spoke.

Quietly. Dryly. As if he wasn't speaking words - but pulling nails.

- And what if they attack?

A pause. Not of waiting - of tension.

- Polovtsians, Pechenegs, infiltrators - they will not wait. We will have a crowd. Not an army - faces. Who will find a dagger among them? Who will hear the poisoned word before it enters the blood?

He swept his gaze across the hall - sharp as a hook.

- What if the prince becomes the target - on the day when all eyes are watching?

The flames in the torches seemed to sway.

- We speak of the church. But not of the exit. We speak of the throne. But not of those who will shield it with their backs

He exhaled. Without anger. Without pathos. Only with understanding.

- I do not ask - I see. We are not ready

Silence. All eyes - on Ignat Slavyansky.

He sat like a monument to the sword. Only narrowed his eyes - as if aiming not at people, but at weak points.

- Everything will be sealed off, - he said. - Gates, crossings. Patrols - through the streets. The warband - around the perimeter. No infiltrator will get through. I give my word

Dobrynya rose almost at once. Without threat - but in his voice was the kind of firmness against which one tests not prayer - but a sword.

- A word is a guard. But where is the plan?

He looked directly at Ignat.

- If the crowd flares up - who will lead the nobles out? If it's an ambush - where is the retreat? Where is the second ring of defense? You gave your word. But who gives the order?

Ignat didn't answer right away. His shoulders tensed, as if from a blow. He spoke a little softer - but in his voice was steel:

- Archers - on the roofs. On the bell towers. On the walls. Under the guise of common folk - ours. In the crowd - our own. There will be more eyes than faces

- That's observation, - Dobrynya cut in. - And if they strike?

- Then - the ring, - Ignat said sharply. - Outer and inner. Saint Sophia - at the center. All approaches blocked. Alleys - under watch. Reserve - held back. Signalmen - at points

He exhaled. Not as an admission - as a shot.

- We do not hope it passes. We prepare, so that it cannot pass

The hall fell silent. But not with waiting - with counting.

Word followed word, like step after step across a narrow bridge.

Then voivode Vyshata, commander of the garrison, stepped forward. Dry. Sharp. As if he were throwing stones for others to walk across.

- If we show fear - they'll strike with joy.

He scanned the hall.

- But if we show confusion - they'll strike with certainty

He didn't let the words hang. Didn't let silence become a question.

- I say: Kiev cannot be taken. Not in words - in teeth. I take responsibility

And the hall - froze.

Because what had sounded wasn't an opinion.

A verdict.

But even a verdict - is not the whole truth.

Because security - is the bone. And Rus' still waits for flesh.

Then Mikhail Podolsky spoke.

He didn't raise his voice. He simply began to speak - and the hall seemed to grow quieter.

- Gentlemen. Security - matters. But do not forget: this is not only a day of order

He cast his gaze over their faces like a set of scales - weighing.

- This is a showcase

A pause - not for effect. For understanding.

- We can show strength. We can show fear. I stand for the first

He spoke as if it had already happened. As if he had seen what the others were still discussing.

- The merchants are ready to invest in the celebration, - he said, looking directly at Ignat. - If the result matches the investment

- Celebration? - barked Ignat. - Or would you rather leave the gates open? We show gold - and blood will mix with honey!

Mikhail didn't flinch. Only inclined his head slightly - not in agreement, but as if acknowledging: the question was right, but the answer would still be his.

- I speak of grandeur. Of what allies will see. Enemies. The people. Whoever sees that we are united, wealthy, confident - will think twice before making a move

He looked at the hall like a city from atop a tower.

- But an empty square, fear, anxiety on faces - that is not a coronation. That is a funeral

The words hung in the silence like a veil. Beautiful. Convincing. Dangerous.

Because behind them stood not opinion - but capital.

Then Bishop Luka Zhidiata spoke. His voice was heavy, like a bell that rings not in joy, but in warning.

- Too much splendor - and the people will turn away. Now is not the time for feasting. Prayers are more important than banquets. Otherwise - we will lose not power, but faith

He was not arguing with Mikhail. He was arguing with what stood behind him.

But then wealthy merchant Lazar Torgovich stood up. With a soft smile, as if stroking fur against the grain.

- And can faith block roads? The enemy won't ask how many psalms you know. And if he does - all the worse

Luka shifted his shoulders - was about to stand. Had already begun.

But Anthony of the Caves laid a hand on his shoulder.

Not firmly. Not with authority. Almost imperceptibly.

As if to say: one more word - and it won't be the argument that collapses, but what stands above it.

Luka froze. Understood. Lived it. Accepted. Sat down.

The silence in the hall became something else. Not quiet - glass.

And then Ilarion rose.

Not in haste. Without gesture.

But his voice sounded - as if someone had sealed the parchment.

- Today is the 18th of Berezozol(18 March). In seven days - the Annunciation. A new day. A new meaning. Let it be the beginning

- Too soon, - threw in Senior Boyar Ryurik Pechersky.

- Or too late, - replied Dobrynya. - The people await a sign. Give it to them

- The Annunciation is a special day, - said Luka. - The people will accept it. They will say: the heavens have given their blessing

Oleg Vyshgorodsky nodded:

- Spring. The people are free. The roads are open. Let them come

Ryurik Pechersky moved his shoulder slightly. Not in assent - in calculation.

He heard how the scene was forming - and decided not to interfere.

Ilarion noticed that motion. And that was enough.

Then Mikhail Podolsky rose.

Slowly. Like a man whose word is not a reply, but a mechanism.

He brushed invisible dust from his cloak - as if to remind them: there are no trifles here.

His eyes didn't seek an audience. He looked above their heads - like a judge who delivers not a sentence, but the formulation of the inevitable.

- All of us - boyars, warriors, merchants, priests - speak from our own place

He did not accuse. He named.

- But now we need the common

- The prince is alive. And he must be not a rumor - but a fact

He didn't raise his voice. But every word rang like a step on stone.

- The Annunciation is the day when we can stop arguing. The day when everyone will understand: Rus' has not scattered

He fell silent. And no one objected.

Because when Podolsky speaks - all of Rus' hears the sound of a coin falling on granite.

And then, in that dense, no longer breathable silence, one voice was heard. Not loud. Without a name. Like a crack that spreads through stone unseen - and then brings down the arch.

- What if he can't?..

Pause. Not silence - vacuum. Everything stopped. Even the candles seemed to stop flickering.

- We are deciding here... but has he woken? Can he stand? Speak?

Rustle of cloth. Creak of wood. Someone turned their head - slowly, as if afraid to see emptiness behind them.

- Maybe we're not crowning a prince. But a body

These words entered not ears - but bone. The ribs, the skull. They weren't repeated. But each heard them inside. Like pain that hasn't yet turned to scream.

- But what if he does stand?.. - came from the wall. Not a question - a thought that broke loose aloud.

The answer came not in words - in the pause.

Because then - there is no more deciding.

Then - we obey.

Stanislav rose. Not like a man - like a wall. Smoothly. Dully. And stood - as if shielding not a table, not a council, but Rus' itself.

He looked at no one. Spoke as if to himself. But every word was a nail driven into the floor of the hall.

- Even if he cannot stand... then we will stand in his place

- If he has fallen - then the crack has already begun. And if we let it spread - tomorrow Rus' will fall not from the sword. But from fear.

And then - it flickered.

Stanislav stepped back from the table - and the edge of his cloak trembled.

The fabric shifted. And all saw - the stain.

Dark. Dried.

The prince's blood.

It had stayed on him since that morning, when Alexander was dragged into Kiev, half-dead, barely breathing. He had held him by the shoulders, the wrists, by what remained of life.

No one had washed it off.

No one had dared.

And now, when he stood to speak - it was the blood that spoke.

- And who will stand?! - burst out suddenly. Not a shout - an eruption.

Boyar Andrey Borichevsky.

His face - ash, lips trembling like a drawn string. He wasn't yelling. But in his voice was hysteria that had already passed the stage of restraint.

- Who?! Us?! We don't even know... whether he'll survive!

He stepped forward as if he wanted to hammer his pain into the hall's floor. But it was too late. He had become a mirror - and in that mirror, everyone saw their own shadow.

- You say "we will stand"... But what if there's no one to stand?

No one answered. No one followed him. Because everyone heard: he had broken. And in that, there was truth.

Stanislav didn't move. Only his gaze shifted slightly to the side - as if he had heard not a voice, but the crack of stone.

He did not raise his voice. He simply said.

- Then those who haven't broken will remain

The air changed.

Because now "we" - meant not all.

Only those who will rise.

No one spoke again. Because the silence now was not after a debate - but after a verdict.

This hall was no longer a place of decisions.

It had become a chronicle. Where every word - was a line in the chronicle of the land.

***

Thank you to everyone who reads.

So far, only the first three chapters have been edited - and it is in this very style that I will be aligning the entire text.

There are still edits to be made up to Chapter 28, so don't be alarmed if the style shifts temporarily further on: this is not a decline - it simply hasn't reached revision yet.