Prince of Two Eras

While the council was in session, Alexander was visited by the best healer and herbalist. Their task was to ensure that the prince had no complications and that his recovery was progressing normally.

Thanks to timely assistance and incredible physical resilience, the young prince was quickly recovering. Wounds that had recently appeared fatal were already beginning to heal, leaving scars resembling ancient runes.

Not only had Alexander regained consciousness, but he was also able to walk on his own - albeit with effort and without assistance. This astonished even the most experienced healers. People with such injuries usually couldn't get out of bed for weeks, and many remained bedridden for months.

- It's simply unthinkable, - said the chief healer, Miroslav, slowly examining the prince. His hands carefully touched the scars, already covered with scabs, as if he feared disrupting their integrity. His voice carried a mix of amazement and professional curiosity. - Such deep wounds healing in just a few days? This defies everything I know

He shook his head, as if trying to find an explanation, but in vain.

- In all my long life, I've never seen anything like this, - he added, stepping aside to make room for the herbalist.

The senior herbalist, Svyatomir, standing nearby, squinted, carefully scrutinizing Alexander. His gaze lingered on both old and new scars, as if searching for answers in their every curve.

- Of course, I won't downplay your strength, my prince, - he began, adjusting the leather belt holding his herbs and scissors. - But without my ointments and tinctures, which I prepared tirelessly through the nights, your body wouldn't have recovered so quickly

Svyatomir took a small clay vessel from his bag and held it up to Miroslav's eyes.

- See this blend? Pine resin, elecampane root, nettle leaves, and a touch of bear fat. I wouldn't call it magic, but for ordinary people, it works wonders. And in the hands of such a strong organism as the prince's, it delivers astounding results, - his voice carried a confident tone. - No one else could prepare such a remedy. Every herb in this blend was gathered at a specific time. The pine resin I harvested personally at sunrise, when the sun just begins to touch the forest. And elecampane, if plucked incorrectly, loses its potency

Miroslav squinted, glancing at the herbalist with slight disapproval.

- Yes, your ointments are effective, Svyatomir, - he noted, turning back to Alexander. - But one cannot deny the possibility of higher forces at play. I've had patients with similar wounds. They survived, but none recovered so quickly. This goes beyond the realm of the human

His gaze lingered on Alexander, and his voice softened, as if the healer feared disturbing something elusive.

- My prince, has there ever been anything similar in your family? Such recovery... It is otherworldly. Perhaps your ancestors were marked by something great? Legends, perhaps?

Alexander, observing their conversation, frowned and decided to play along. He nodded, though he didn't fully understand what was happening. The healers' words sounded convincing, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just about ointments or fate.

- Perhaps, - he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. - Maybe it is indeed something... beyond. Or... just a fortunate coincidence

Miroslav and Svyatomir exchanged glances. The herbalist frowned, as if offended that his contributions were attributed to divine forces, but he did not object. Miroslav, on the other hand, looked thoughtful.

- There are times, - he said quietly, - when the very earth or heavens mark the chosen ones. Perhaps you are one of them. Your father, the great prince Yaroslav, spoke of dreams that sometimes foretold coming calamities and victories. Who knows, perhaps you inherited part of his gift?

These words hung in the air like an inescapable prophecy. Alexander, though understanding that Miroslav's words might simply be an attempt to attribute meaning to his recovery, felt a strange, oppressive sensation, as if these phrases weren't random.

- We will pray for your continued recovery, my prince, - Miroslav said respectfully, bowing his head.

- Thank you, - Alexander replied briefly, gazing out the window. Yet his voice sounded firm.

When the healers left the chamber, Alexander remained alone, running his hand over his scars. These men saw a miracle, but he saw only a mystery that continued to haunt him. Everything that was happening went beyond the ordinary, and neither the healers nor he himself could provide a clear explanation.

Left alone, Alexander did not feel the confusion typical of an inexperienced youth. Instead, he was engulfed by a deep awareness of the unfolding reality, tinged with bitterness and harsh irony.

As a man in his middle years, who had endured the hardships of the modern world, he was accustomed to analyzing situations and finding footholds. Yet this world - its smells, sounds, even its light - felt so alien that it evoked a sharp sense of detachment.

The rough walls of gray stone, illuminated by the flickering glow of torches, seemed to close in around him. The air was thick with the scent of resin and dried herbs. The simplicity of this room was alluring in its honesty but robbed him of the familiar comfort he once knew.

Alexander ran his hand along the windowsill, feeling the cold, rough stone. The stark reality of this room was a world away from his past, where glass and steel replaced stone, and the scent of ozone from air purifiers eliminated all impurities.

He cautiously swung his legs off the bed, wincing as pain coursed through his body. In the past, such injuries would have meant weeks of rehabilitation, medical procedures, and controlled recovery. But here, he had no doctors, no equipment.

Only his willpower, physical strength, and the herbalist's ointments. Every movement was a step through pain, but he gritted his teeth. He knew that in this world, weakness was a luxury he could not afford.

When his hand slipped from the edge of the bed and he nearly fell, Alexander felt a flash of anger - not at the pain, not at his weakness, but at the situation itself. He recalled leading projects in the past that demanded immediate reactions and precise decisions and realized that his current slowness was more than just uncomfortable - it sparked an inner rebellion. Yet he steadied himself again, regained his balance, and continued moving toward the window.

Reaching the windowsill, he leaned heavily on it and inhaled the frosty air. His lungs burned with the cold, but the sensation was invigorating, almost reassuring. Outside stretched Kyiv, austere and majestic.

The faint hum of the city, emanating from somewhere far off, reminded him of the pulsating life of metropolises, but this noise held more order, less chaos.

His gaze lingered on the horizon. The moonlight piercing the night sky danced on the rooftops and church domes. In the distance, a hollow cry of a bird broke the silence, as if it carried a message from another world.

Alexander held his breath, listening. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had frozen, leaving him alone with himself. Was that cry a warning or a sign? He didn't know, but it added a note of unease to his thoughts.

- They've lived like this for centuries, - he whispered, gazing at Kyiv's streets. His voice was calm, but an inner struggle was evident. - Centuries of building, surviving, perishing. But can they create something greater? Can I?

Instead of succumbing to fruitless musings, he began to recall. His mind, accustomed to systematic thinking, instinctively sought parallels and solutions. Alexander remembered studying crisis periods in history and how humanity survived through adaptation and ingenuity. He knew that his experience could be the difference that altered the course of events.

Suddenly, a strange sensation overcame him. It was akin to a revelation, as if an invisible hand had rested on his shoulder. The memories of the body's previous owner, blurred and painful, washed over him.

He saw himself - the young prince wading through icy water, shooting arrows, training sword strikes under the watchful eye of a stern mentor. This body knew pain, and the mind - cold calculation. These memories seemed to intertwine with his own, creating a peculiar sense of merging two eras.

- Politics, - he muttered bitterly, gripping the windowsill. - The most unpredictable battle. And the most dangerous

Alexander remembered avoiding political intrigues in the past. Even in the modern world, the games of power remained a dirty business, requiring flexibility and ruthlessness. Now he understood that he would have to master this art, even if it went against his nature. This world demanded not just the strength of the sword but also wit, cunning, and diplomacy.

He looked out at the horizon again, inhaling the night air. A light breeze swept through the room, causing the candle flame to flicker. Alexander felt a chill on his skin, but the sensation was familiar, almost comforting. In the past, he had learned to trust his intuition, and now it told him one thing: his presence in this time was no coincidence.

His gaze fell upon the table where a book lay - the only item from his past that tied him to the future. This object, once perceived as a source of knowledge, had now become something greater - a lifeline anchoring his mind between two epochs.

Yet it carried with it a sense of unease. The book, once a safe instrument of learning, now seemed an enigma, a part of a fate he couldn't fully unravel.

Yesterday, he had fallen asleep without reading it. His eyes, strained by the flickering lines blurred in the dim candlelight, had closed, surrendering to exhaustion. But now, as he touched its rough cover, he felt that it held more than he could imagine. The book seemed to draw him in, promising answers that lingered on the edge of his understanding.

Alexander slowly opened it, flipping through its pages. The contents were familiar, yet every line now resonated differently. What once were abstract theories - information on medieval governance, wars, and culture - now came alive, taking on a tangible form. He read as an engineer studying the map of a new world, sensing that the map concealed something far more profound.

- If I'm here because of this book… - he muttered, furrowing his brow. - Then it must hold the key. Or at least a clue

He delved into chapters on economics and warfare. Strategies that had once seemed theoretical suddenly became real. Descriptions of siege engines, fortification systems, and army management were no longer just words on paper. They transformed into vivid images, mental blueprints that Alexander began constructing in his mind.

Each line reminded him of the vulnerabilities he faced in this world. The Poles, Hungarians, Cumans, and Pechenegs - external threats. The cunning boyars, hungry for power - internal dangers. Alexander saw that he needed to rely on three pillars: the army, the economy, and the trust of the people. Without them, his authority was doomed.

- Only a strong army and a stable economy can save Kievan Rus', - he said, closing the book. - But in this world, trust is more important than the sword. If people don't believe in me, nothing else matters

He lowered his gaze to his hands, running his fingers over the uneven scars. These hands had to wield a sword to protect. These same hands had to sign decrees to govern. He understood that without action, without immediate decisions, his authority would crumble like a poorly fortified castle.

Plans began forming in his mind. He needed to organize the economy, fortify the cities, and secure defenses. But first and foremost, he had to convince the boyars and the people that he was not only alive but capable of leading them forward.

- I can't just lie here doing nothing, - he said aloud, clenching his fists. His voice was firm, like an order to himself. - Tomorrow, I must begin

These words sounded like an oath, and in that moment, he felt a strange surge of strength. It wasn't physical relief but an internal realization that his past experience and the memories of Prince Oleksandr had intertwined. These two sides didn't contradict each other. They complemented and strengthened one another.

- A man from the future and a prince of the past, - he thought, smirking. - What a strange combination. But it's precisely what will give me a chance

He recalled his past projects. Complex schedules, long-term strategies, economic calculations. It all felt like building a castle out of countless blocks. Here, it was the same, only instead of computers, there were decrees and scrolls; instead of engineers, peasants and craftsmen. Alexander felt that his past experience would form the foundation for new solutions.

He reopened the book, his gaze lingering on a section about war strategies. Alexander studied the diagrams, descriptions of battles and sieges. He envisioned how these principles could be applied in real conditions.

The memories of Prince Oleksandr, layered upon his modern knowledge, whispered to him: war is mathematics and psychology. Every swing of a sword was not just a motion but the result of countless calculations.

But he understood that mistakes would cost far more than in his previous life. Here, there was no room for experimentation. His authority, life, and future hinged on every decision he made.

- Hesitation kills, - he murmured, recalling the words etched into the prince's memories. - A prince who hesitates is a dead prince

These words echoed in his mind, solidifying his resolve. Alexander knew that tomorrow, he would start small. He would work with what he had, gradually developing and strengthening his position. But hesitation was not an option.

He glanced at the window. Beyond it, the moon still shone, bathing the city in a soft light. The night was quiet, but Alexander knew that behind this silence lay a storm - a storm that would either destroy Kievan Rus' or make it stronger.

By the third day, Alexander felt significantly better. His body still ached, and each step brought a pulling pain from his wounds, but now he could walk normally. Sitting in his chambers all day had become unbearable. He understood that every moment of inaction was time wasted.

He recalled that the Saint Sophia Cathedral housed a vast library - a true treasure trove of knowledge, collected during the lifetime of his father, Yaroslav the Wise. While the memories of the body's previous owner gave him an understanding of the world, they were insufficient.

Most of the knowledge revolved around military matters - strategy, tactics, and the art of combat. However, governance, economics, and diplomacy remained hazy. He knew that to implement his plans, he needed to learn. Introducing innovations ahead of their time would be futile - people simply wouldn't understand them.

Leaving his chambers, Alexander immediately noticed how the palace bustled with activity. Servants rushed through the corridors carrying fabrics, goblets, and scrolls. Heralds loudly relayed orders that echoed through the stone walls.

By the door stood two guards, Mstislav and Mirnomir, keeping a watchful eye on everything around them. Upon seeing the prince, they gave a brief bow, though surprise flickered across their faces.

- Good morning, my prince! - Mstislav exclaimed, quickly straightening his shoulders, trying to hide his bewilderment. - You look... much livelier than we expected

Mirnomir nodded, glancing at Alexander with a hint of concern.

- Are you certain you should be going out? - he asked cautiously, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword as if ready to accompany him at a moment's notice. - You were only recently...

- I'm certain, - Alexander interrupted firmly, meeting their gazes. His voice carried confidence, leaving no room for doubt. - I cannot afford to waste time

Thanks to the memories of Prince Oleksandr, Alexander's actions had become assured and precise. These memories were like a key that opened doors to a new world - a world where he not only lived but played a pivotal role.

He understood his position, knew his status, and grasped the subtleties of etiquette that could easily become traps if he misstepped. The smallest details mattered: the proper tilt of the head, the weight of words, the restrained confidence in gestures. All of this now felt so natural, as if he had always been a part of this world.

This knowledge allowed him to integrate seamlessly. Alexander carried himself as if everything unfolding around him was familiar. He knew how to speak to the boyars, how to look at the guards, how to inspire while maintaining a safe distance. These nuances might have gone unnoticed by others, but their absence would have been disastrous.

He felt that the memories of the former prince were not just a tool but also a weapon. They allowed him to see not only what was happening but also what could happen if he chose the wrong path.

Mstislav and Mirnomir exchanged glances but did not argue. They both knew their duty was to obey the prince, even if he had not fully recovered. Yet their movements conveyed caution, as if they expected Alexander to falter or weaken at any moment.

- Follow me, - Alexander commanded, stepping forward. The pain in his body reminded him of its presence, but he gritted his teeth and moved with the determination that always inspired belief in his strength.

The guards followed closely, watching his every movement. Their faces, though composed, betrayed their concern. Mirnomir, in particular, seemed to hesitate several times, as if wanting to say something but refraining out of respect.

The path to the cathedral was uneventful, though Alexander felt the weight of the gazes upon him. People bowed and greeted their prince before returning to their tasks. Alexander noticed a mix of admiration and slight unease on their faces. His rapid recovery seemed unbelievable to them, and this gave him a surge of confidence.

Upon entering the cathedral, Alexander felt the noise of the outside world give way to silence. The air was cool, filled with the scent of incense. The high arches, stone walls, and soft light of oil lamps evoked a sense of eternity.

At the entrance to the library stood two more guards. Upon seeing Alexander, they bowed briefly.

- Wishing you health, my prince, - one of them said with a faint smile.

- Thank you. I'll be inside, - Alexander replied, gesturing for his guards to remain at the door. They nodded and took their positions.

Crossing the threshold, he paused. Tall shelves filled with scrolls and books rose to the ceiling. The soft light of the lamps reflected off the wooden racks, infusing the space with an air of reverence. This place felt like a true treasure.

Alexander took a few steps forward, scanning the rows of ancient tomes. His heart raced - not from excitement, but from the realization of the sheer volume of information hidden within. Suddenly, a quiet yet confident voice called out to him.

- My prince, may I be of assistance?

He turned to see the head librarian - a short monk with gentle features and a watchful gaze. His attire was modest, but ink stains on the cuffs betrayed a life spent copying manuscripts.

- Yes, - Alexander replied. - I need works on land management, governance, perhaps something on trade regulations or legal codes

The monk tilted his head thoughtfully, as if mentally sorting through the library's vast collection.

- We have treatises that may interest you, - he finally said. - Codices of laws, translations from Greek texts. There are also works on agriculture, useful for those managing land. As for trade... - he hesitated briefly. - There's not much, perhaps descriptions of how merchants transport their goods, but those are more often found in chronicles

Alexander nodded, satisfied to have immediately found someone who could help.

- Show me everything you think might be useful

The monk confidently led him along the rows of shelves. They stopped before a section filled with scrolls and books. The head librarian pulled out several texts and carefully handed them to the prince.

- This is Russkaya Pravda - a codex of laws. Here are descriptions of land distribution and judicial proceedings. And this - translated works on agriculture from Greek sources. They will be helpful if you wish to understand how to best use arable land

Alexander thanked him and made his way to an empty table. Settling in, he began to read, immersing himself in the texts. The pages seemed to come alive under the dim glow of the lamp. His gaze devoured the lines, searching for valuable knowledge.

Although much of the texts dealt with theology or legal matters, scattered within were insights into how the world functioned. Legal codes explained the structure of authority; rules provided guidance on governance; agricultural treatises revealed the foundation of life in Kievan Rus'.

- Archaeology hasn't preserved even half of these texts, - he whispered, carefully turning a page. His fingers brushed the parchment with the caution of someone touching a living thing.

Alexander realized these books were his weapons. Even limited information could become the key to building something greater. He delved deeper, memorizing details that could serve as the foundation for his plans.

Time flew unnoticed. Monks quietly came and went, replacing the oil lamps, but Alexander remained at the table. His mind worked ceaselessly, with every paragraph unveiling new possibilities. Yet with each passing hour, he became acutely aware of the overwhelming volume of information. Each book could hold a key to a solution, but there wasn't enough time to study it all.

The day passed in what felt like an instant. Afternoon turned to evening. Mstislav and Mirnomir had twice reminded Alexander of his missed meals. Each time, he merely nodded, assuring them that a light supper would suffice. Hunger didn't bother him. Knowledge, which could change his life and the fate of Kievan Rus', was far more important.

When he finished one of the scrolls, evening had already given way to night. Alexander leaned back in his chair with effort, feeling the tension in his back muscles. The pain reminded him that his body was still healing.

- That's enough for today, - he muttered, exhaling heavily.

Turning his attention to the head librarian, he spoke firmly:

- I'll take some of these books and scrolls with me. Is that possible?

The librarian, inclining his head slightly, replied respectfully:

- Of course, my prince. But please, once you've finished, return them. These are precious legacies

- Certainly, - Alexander nodded briefly, then turned to his guards. - Mstislav, Mirnomir, come here!

The two hurried over, their faces tense as though expecting bad news.

- Yes, my prince? - Mstislav asked, glancing at the stacks of books and scrolls.

- Help me carry these to my chambers. They are of utmost importance, - Alexander instructed, gesturing toward the table.

Mirnomir frowned, tilting his head slightly.

- Are you sure, my prince? Perhaps it's better to leave them here? You need rest, not work late into the night

- Rest can wait, - Alexander cut him off firmly. - Time is working against us. Our enemies won't wait

- But your wounds... - Mirnomir began, only for Mstislav to place a hand on his shoulder.

- We're not here to question the prince's orders, - he said quietly, looking at Alexander with respect. - My prince, everything will be delivered safely

Alexander nodded, gratitude flickering in his gaze for their concern. He pointed to a fragile book:

- Handle this carefully. It might fall apart with the slightest misstep. And these, - he gestured to a pile of birchbark documents, - don't lose them. They contain vital information on land management.

Mirnomir, shaking his head, cautiously picked up the ancient tome, while Mstislav gathered the other scrolls. Alexander himself carried a box of writing tools and led the way out. The guards exchanged a quick glance, their expressions a mix of concern and respect, but they followed silently.

Once everything had been brought to his chambers, Alexander sat down to eat, glancing at the prepared dishes with mild displeasure. The simple food, though nourishing, reminded him of the limited variety in the local diet.

- Variety and quantity, - he muttered. - That's something else to think about

As Alexander delved into one of the scrolls, his chambers began to fill with books and records laid out across the floor and table. The space was cluttered with texts he alternated between skimming for key points and studying slowly, making detailed notes on parchment.

Meanwhile, Stanislav, the head of the princely guard, decided to personally check on the young prince's condition. Reports that Alexander was recovering at an extraordinary pace, defying all expectations, had already begun to grow into rumors.

As evening enveloped the palace, Stanislav made his way to the prince's chambers. At the heavy doors stood Svyatomir and Vladimir, the night guards who had replaced the day shift. Seeing their commander, they straightened and saluted.

- Commander Stanislav, welcome, - Vladimir said respectfully.

- How is he? - Stanislav asked curtly, his gaze lingering on the massive doors.

- Still hasn't rested, - Svyatomir replied, his tone tinged with mild astonishment. - He's engrossed in books

- The healer and herbalist shook their heads again, - Vladimir added with a smirk. - They just left, saying the prince is recovering as if touched by the divine. His wounds are healing as though only a couple of days have passed

Svyatomir nodded, continuing:

- Miroslav, the healer, insists he's never seen anything like it in his life. And the herbalist Svyatomir claims his tinctures and ointments work miracles. Though, it seems he's a bit too proud of his remedies. Still, their conclusion is the same - the prince's condition isn't just stable; it improves by the hour

Vladimir, emboldened, added with a slight grin:

- The young prince is so absorbed in books that it's as if he's trying to learn in one night everything Grand Prince Yaroslav spent years collecting. It feels like he's not the same Alexander we knew

Stanislav frowned, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

- The Alexander we knew? - he repeated thoughtfully. - Did you ever really know him? The prince was always in the shadows. He lived for the sword, not for assemblies or councils

Svyatomir raised his brows slightly but remained silent. Vladimir nodded cautiously.

- That's true, sir. All we ever heard were rumors and speculations

Stanislav looked at the doors, behind which dim lamplight flickered, and took a deep breath. Fragments of conversations about the prince came to mind: guards speaking of his inhuman endurance, boyars whispering that Alexander had no interest in politics. He had always stayed in the background, a shadow among his brothers.

- Perhaps that's why he surprises us now, - Stanislav muttered softly, more to himself than to the others. - He was hidden. Few knew what he was capable of. And perhaps this time will finally reveal him to us

Svyatomir, noticing his commander's pensive demeanor, dared to break the silence. His voice was cautious but loud enough to pierce the thick stillness.

- Sir, people say he's changed. Too quickly. Some see it as a sign from above; others simply can't explain what's happening to him

Stanislav slowly raised his gaze to the guard, narrowing his eyes as though trying to discern something deeper behind the words. His face remained impassive, but a note of tension crept into his voice.

- Too quickly? - he repeated, emphasizing each word. - Too quickly for whom? For us, who live for decades in the same rhythm, accustomed to waiting, doubting? Or for him, who nearly lost everything and now struggles to find his place in a world that has taken his brothers, his father, and his peace?

He shifted his gaze to the second guard before returning it to Svyatomir. Stanislav's face hardened further, his tone growing firmer:

- We didn't know him before. We never saw who he truly was. Now we don't know how to regard him. But speculations and idle talk will do no good. He is the prince. A heavy lot has fallen to him, and it is our duty to serve and support him. Everyone who truly knew him gave their lives defending him. Now it's our turn to understand him better and stand by his side

His words, like the strike of a hammer, echoed in the silence. Both guards straightened, feeling the weight of what was said.

- Of course, sir, - they responded in unison, their voices firm yet tinged with respect.

Stanislav gave a brief nod, turned, and walked away slowly, his steps fading into the dim corridors. The sound of his boots echoed off the stone walls, and with each step, his mind swirled with thoughts. Was this new Alexander a manifestation of his true self, hidden for years, or merely a fleeting resolve driven by shock, guilt, and responsibility?

Stanislav didn't know. No one did. The former Alexander had been a stranger to them, a barely noticeable shadow among his brothers. But now, he was the only one who could claim the throne. Whether this was a blessing or a curse was a question no one could answer.

Stopping by a window, Stanislav looked out at the night sky. The moon, surrounded by scattered clouds, illuminated the courtyard where the guards' torches flickered. He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts.

- If this isn't his destiny, - he murmured under his breath, - our land will fall

A faint yet persistent hope flickered in his soul. A hope that this young prince held the strength to unite a land torn apart by chaos. A strength once possessed by his father, the great Prince Yaroslav. But doubts, like serpents, whispered that too much depended on Alexander himself - on his heart and his mind.

Only time will tell, Stanislav thought, whether this Alexander would become a great ruler or remain just a shadow of the past, forgotten as quickly as he was elevated. For now, they had no other choice.

His footsteps echoed once more in the silence, dissolving into the endless corridors. And as he walked, he repeated the words he could not escape:

- Kievan Rus' needs a strong prince. But does he have the strength to become that prince?