The Root through the Stone

The Senior Keeper wished to continue the conversation with Alexander, but they were interrupted by quick, confident steps. Alexander and the Keeper exchanged glances: the one they had been waiting for had arrived.

A moment later, Senior Monk Boris stood before them, followed by Junior Monk Ssava.

Boris inspired respect. A tall silhouette, harsh features, a network of wrinkles around his eyes, gray hair gathered into a knot. He wore a simple robe and a leather satchel, stuffed with scrolls - heavy, like his life itself.

He bowed his head - briefly, as one places a stone on the grave of his own. There was no submission in this gesture. Only the burden of those who had buried others' hopes too often.

- I greet you, prince, - Boris said in a low, deep voice. - I was told you wished to see me

Ssava and the Senior Keeper bowed silently and stepped aside, leaving them alone.

Alexander did not hurry to speak. He looked closely at the monk - seeing in him not a novice, but a man who had borne too much.

- I heard you keep records of the lands, - Alexander finally said. - Where the fields are, where the mines, where the salt. Is that so?

Boris nodded. He slowly unfastened the satchel, took out a scroll, and handed it over.

- One of those that survived, - he said simply. - The rest... is still my burden

Alexander unrolled the scroll. He quickly scanned the lists: mines, fields, salt extraction, mines again, owners.

Behind the dry words stood the strength. And the weakness of Rus'.

He read to the end, rolled up the scroll, and returned it to Boris.

- This is what I need

Boris nodded, but his voice became lower, more muffled:

- Everything I keep, prince, - is under the seal of the past. By the will of Yaroslav, by old vows. Now - under the mark of Metropolitan Hilarion

He made a short pause.

- The scrolls must be returned. Such is the command

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

- Hilarion... - he drawled slowly. - So the Metropolitan decided to help me not only with prayers?

He fell into thought.

The first scroll was too precise. Too complete.

Such a map could have been compiled only by one who had access to the veins of power. An ordinary monk - would not even know where to look.

These lines were not written under fear. They were written - knowing the price of every figure.

Thus, behind them stood a hand. A strong one. Unhurried.

Hilarion.

The Metropolitan could have kept such knowledge. Could have gathered it. Could have hidden it - even from the boyars.

And now - revealed it.

Alexander raised his head.

And no alms come without a reckoning.

- And why is the Metropolitan so generous? - he asked aloud.

Boris remained silent. The pause hung between them - like a droplet on the tip of a blade.

At last, without raising his eyes, he said:

- The Metropolitan cares for the faith. But not only with prayers. The monasteries grow weaker. The orphans perish. The Church needs support. And the prince - as well

He raised his gaze. Heavy. Direct.

- The scrolls - are not mercy. They are a vow. We give you knowledge. You - keep those who can still stand

Alexander looked at him. Silent.

His thoughts did not scatter - they rose one after another, like walls.

To give money - was easier. To build a church - cheaper. To buy off.

But he knew: behind a church greed easily hides.

Prayer easily turns into bargaining.

And under holy vaults, children perish.

He was not going to ask.

He was going to demand.

- Not temples, - Alexander said quietly. - Children

Boris raised his eyes.

Alexander stood up.

- To build shelters. Separate. On the princely lands. Where there is light, not just incense. Where walls hold life, not only prayer

He stepped closer. His voice - like a hammer against an anvil: unhurried and giving no retreat.

- And more: at monasteries - extensions. But not in the altars. Not in the refectories. Separate buildings. For children. To teach them to live, to farm, to endure

He looked at Boris as one places a shield before a storm.

- Prayers save souls. But Rus' stands on those who survive

Boris remained silent.

And he felt:

The prince was not asking the Church.

The prince was putting it into formation. As one places a shield against a wall before a storm - knowing that the shield would crack, but there was no other.

Inside, in the chest, the iron creaked.

Not from fear.

From memory: where power broke faith. Where princes turned altars into tribunes. Where after psalms came swords.

Boris knew how easy it was to start for life - and end for pride.

He wanted to answer. Wanted to object.

But Alexander had already stepped closer.

And his voice was no longer the voice of a prince.

He spoke with the voice of the hand that holds steel - and knows the price of blood.

- The Lord said: "Let the children come unto Me"

He stopped. And added quietly, like a vow:

- To save one life - is to save the whole world

And then Boris understood:

This was not the voice of a prince.

It was the voice of the land, demanding those who can still stand.

Either Rus' would raise its children - or would cry to the heavens, standing orphaned upon the ashes.

He slowly bowed his head.

Accepting not a command.

Accepting a cross.

Alexander saw it.

And remained silent.

He was not one to throw prayers into the sky.

Did not wait for a reward.

Walked as the heart commanded: straight. Heavy. To the end.

And therefore his words struck harder than a sword.

Standing before him was not merely a monk.

Standing before him was a man.

He did not argue.

Did not defend the walls.

Did not hide behind fear.

He listened.

And accepted.

Understood: salvation - not in the altars.

Not in the wrought gates.

In those who can still rise to their feet.

And then Alexander understood:

Boris must not be lost.

He did not merely keep the land.

He held that which would one day hold Rus'.

Not walls. Not rites.

Children. Living. Real.

From them strength would grow.

Not from lineages. Not from nobility.

From memory. From duty. From blood.

Alexander did not smile. He only nodded to himself - briefly, as one seals a pact.

Boris would remain near.

And the children - as a silent verdict to those who would fall later.

And the wind outside stirred the banner.

Not cloth. Flesh of the future.

Change was already walking beyond the walls. With bare feet. Upon the damp earth.

And those who could not endure - would be swept away first.

Boris slowly clenched his fists, hiding the emotions rising to his throat.

In this young prince he saw not merely power - he saw the reflection of Yaroslav, the great ruler whose gaze had once changed fates.

- I see, prince, - Boris said, carefully selecting his words, as if laying them out with stones upon a shifting path. - Your intentions are pure. I believe Metropolitan Hilarion will support you. He sought not gold - he sought faith. In you. In the Church

- Of course, he will, - Alexander nodded shortly, more to himself than to Boris, cutting off doubts like unnecessary branches.

A short, heavy pause followed. Boris studied the young prince, then lowered his eyes, as if seeking support in the void beneath his feet.

- But who will maintain order? - he asked at last, in a tone where for the first time there was not caution, but anxiety. - Who will keep these shelters from sliding into another deceit?

Alexander smiled faintly - calmly, unhurriedly:

- Boris, I have heard of you. Of your care for the orphans - not for fame, but for truth. Why not lead the new cause? I will secure your appointment. You will be responsible for the upbringing and protection of the children in the monasteries and shelters

The silence that followed these words was different - as if a taut string had been drawn across the hall.

Boris did not answer immediately.

He lowered his head, ran his hand along the rough edge of his sleeve, as if feeling out his own past in the folds of the fabric.

His gaze fell upon the narrow window slit, covered by a sheet of mica. Beyond the murky light, it seemed as if in the distance children flickered. Several orphans, not yet knowing what price they would have to pay for others' games of power.

Something tightened in his chest.

Memory flared before his eyes: the cold halls of the monastery, bloodied bandages on the thin arms of boys, the dull groans of hungry nights when every life saved was a miracle.

Boris clenched his teeth.

He knew the price of promises. Knew how easily power turns vows to dust.

For a long second he wrestled with himself - between the fear of losing the purity of the intent and the faith that with this prince, one could try once more.

At last, he raised his head.

- It is a great responsibility, prince, - Boris said, and his voice was already different: heavy, pierced by the awareness of the cost. - The path will be hard. But if you trust me - I will accept. For their sake. For those who cannot protect themselves

- Excellent, - Alexander nodded firmly. - And also. I will demand an accounting of everything: every measure of grain, every grivna. I will send people to inspect - without warning

- And remember, Boris: if even one child suffers - my wrath will fall like fire upon the field. On everyone. On you. On Hilarion

These words crashed down like a sledgehammer, as if stitching the hall down to the last beam.

Boris bowed his head, accepting them not as a threat, but as a blood vow.

- I, Boris, senior monk and servant of God, take this upon myself, prince. If darkness attempts to penetrate - I will meet it first. And I will not let it pass further

His words were not a promise. It was a covenant, carved in the stone of their shared future.

Alexander nodded with satisfaction. He had found a man who could hold not only to his word - but to the entire heavy design.

But he knew: even a strong stone cracks if pressed for too long.

And there was no time left to wait.

And Boris would have to hold not only the children.

He would have to bear the whole burden of change.

Alone against fear. Against envy. Against habitual lies.

And when he began to crack - he would need more than just the prince's command.

He would need a hand.

A hand to raise a shield when the stones started flying.

And Alexander already knew: he himself would have to become that hand.

Wasting no time, he unrolled a clean scroll and began to write.

Boris watched silently: every movement of the prince's hand was precise, every word - measured. Alexander wrote easily, but firmly, relying on the memories of the real Oleksandr laid within his mind.

This is what appeared on the scroll:

Goal:

To bind faith with mercy. To shelter those the world forgets.

"Let the children come unto Me" (Mk. 10:14) - the foundation of the design.

What must be done:

Construction of orphan corps at 10 monasteries throughout Rus'.

Creation of two first orphan shelters in Kyiv, then three more in other cities.

Appointment of those responsible for each shelter.

Budget:

Construction of corps - 250 grivnas.

The two first shelters - 160 grivnas.

The next three - 240 grivnas.

Annual maintenance of 500 children - 500-700 grivnas (Partly borne by the monasteries, as both burden and duty).

Salary for teachers and caretakers - 20 grivnas per year (in monasteries free of charge).

Administrative expenses - 20 grivnas.

Responsible persons:

Metropolitan Hilarion - spiritual guidance.

Senior Monk Boris - head of the shelters and orphan corps.

Head of the Prince's Druzhina, Stanislav - control over order and reports.

Deadlines and reports:

The treasury is obliged to provide regular reports.

Every discrepancy - under personal responsibility.

When the text was completed, Alexander placed the princely seal.

He handed the scroll to Boris:

- Here is my sincerity and my faith. Read it, Senior Monk

And at that moment between them there were neither prince nor monk. Only two men, holding the future in their hands.

Boris, receiving the scroll, felt a light tremor in his hands.

He slowly read the lines, thoughtfully, as if weighing every word. A shadow of approval flickered in his eyes, but his face remained calm. He had not expected the prince to know the sacred texts so subtly.

When Boris reached the mention of the shelters of Mark and Matthew in Kyiv, his fingers clenched slightly. He looked away, closing his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts.

- Prince, - he said quietly, - this is not merely a good plan. It is a righteous one. I believe it will be accepted by all who still hold faith dear

He carefully folded the princely scroll and set it aside.

Then Boris laid out his own scrolls on the table - carefully, one after another, as if handing the prince the keys to the land. Alexander nodded, inspecting the laid-out parchments:

- Good. But this order must be sent to the treasury. Let them begin preparations

He paused for a moment, pondering: to whom to entrust such an important document? Boris, catching his hesitation, calmly suggested:

- My man, proven in deeds, will carry it together with one of the druzhina

Alexander nodded shortly:

- I do not want to run around the courtyards, but to send the first passerby - would be foolish

- Sensible, prince, - Boris nodded. - Varlaam!

Soon a monk appeared - of medium height, sturdy, with an attentive gaze.

- I greet you, prince, - he bowed. - How may I serve?

- Here is the scroll, - Boris handed over the order. His fingers lingered on the parchment slightly longer than needed. - Take it to the treasury. Accompanied by one of the Druzhina. Do not lose it. The lives of children depend on it

Varlaam bowed silently.

But something heavy flashed in his eyes - not fear, not zeal, but a cold, conscious readiness.

As a soldier accepts the banner before battle.

And Boris met his gaze.

Briefly. Heavily.

As one passes not a scroll - but a duty.

Alexander saw: everyone here knew what was at stake.

Neither Varlaam nor Boris treated it as mere service.

It was their cross.

And his - too.

Varlaam disappeared beyond the door.

And the air in the hall remained heavy.

Like before a storm.

Alexander turned to Boris:

- Where shall we begin?

Boris chose one scroll and handed it to the prince:

- Iron and silver. Without them, neither army nor power can stand

Alexander unrolled the parchment.

- Iron is mined along the great waters - by the Dnieper, by the Pripyat, by the Desna, - Boris explained calmly. - In the swamps of Polesia and in the lands of Cherven, there are deposits. Small veins of silver and lead - in the Ugrian mountains, on the western borders

Alexander read carefully. He saw: Boris was studying him no less than he was studying the scrolls.

Boris was observing.

Not openly - from the corner of his eye, as one watches the field before a storm.

He saw the prince's mind. Saw his will.

But he did not hurry to trust.

He had seen too many times how beautiful speeches turned into blood.

It was still too soon.

So far, the prince had only lit a spark.

But loyalty is carved by deeds, as a sword carves a path through the forest.

Boris stood. Silent.

And kept within himself an old thought:

- He who hurries to swear loyalty, betrays first

He would wait.

He would see.

And only then would he give himself fully.

Or fall into dust with those who had erred.

Meanwhile, in the treasury, the usual bustle was going on: the rustle of parchments, the heavy scraping of a quill.

Monk Varlaam and Gridyen' Svyatomir entered the hall.

Radomir the Silver tore himself away from the scrolls reluctantly. But seeing the princely seal, he quickly rose.

Varlaam silently handed over the scroll.

Radomir took it with a habitual movement. His gaze slid over the surface - expecting the usual tax, a new conscription levy, an order to build caravanserais.

He unrolled the parchment.

Read it. And froze.

Before him there were neither taxes nor wars.

There was an order about shelters. About children.

About those who were usually buried along with alms and forgotten behind the next hunt or trade.

Radomir clenched the scroll. The skin on his fingers turned white.

An old feeling rose in his chest. Long forgotten. Long buried.

Once, under Yaroslav, he believed: power - is duty.

Once the princely word stood stronger than walls.

He remembered it.

And saw how later everything broke.

How power became a market.

How duty became a commodity.

And now - this scroll.

The young prince.

And memory - came alive.

Radomir clenched the scroll tighter.

His gaze involuntarily crossed with the eyes of Monk Varlaam.

It was not merely a gaze of faith. In it lay the heaviness of old battles - without swords, but with blood.

Varlaam did not threaten openly. He simply stood. Looked. And that was enough.

Radomir froze for a moment.

He knew that gaze.

Knew where it grew from.

Varlaam was not merely a messenger.

Once, by chance, Radomir had seen him where he should not have been: in the corridors of shadows, where fates were decided that would never be written in chronicles.

Varlaam served under a man whose name was feared even to whisper within strong walls - the hidden advisor of Yaroslav the Wise. The one who wove conspiracies as others wove carpets: swiftly, invisibly, without regret.

Radomir knew this.

And never - to anyone - spoke of it.

Because he understood: it was enough to let slip a rumor - and silence would fall upon him and all who heard it. The kind that comes before the strike.

Varlaam was not a threat.

He was a mark.

If he held the scrolls - it meant the shadow of the sword was already sliding behind them.

If he stood here - it meant the hidden advisor was again in the game.

And he stood - behind the young prince Alexander.

Just as once - behind the great Yaroslav.

Radomir felt the cold run down his spine.

To contest the order?

It would be the same as tightening the noose around his own neck.

He slowly bowed his head, accepting the scroll.

Not out of fear.

Out of life.

He slowly bowed his head:

- We will begin immediately. The funds will be allocated. The construction plan will be drawn up in the shortest time, - he said dryly, feeling how the air in the hall grew heavy, as if filled with blood not yet shed.

- Senior Monk Boris will discuss the details after speaking with the prince, - Varlaam threw shortly.

And left, without looking back.

Svyatomir - behind him. Precisely. Silently. Like a shadow unafraid of the light.

Radomir was left alone, holding the scroll that was now more than an order.

He read the lines. About orphans. About bread. About blood.

Not about the treasury.

About honor.

And in him, deep under the crust of cynicism, something stirred. Something very old. Very heavy.

Once he too believed that honor and justice were worth more than gold.

Once he thought that power lay not in chains, but in care.

- Sometimes, to save the land, you must begin with the people

He took a deep breath.

Alexander had again proven: he was not merely playing at power. He believed. He built.

And therefore would be the most dangerous of all.

Radomir carefully folded the scroll, as if it were a weapon, and returned to his work.

His fingers trembled - as they once did when he still believed.

Now he worked differently.

Not because of the order.

Because of - faith.

And fear.

The fear of losing what had once saved him himself.

His fingers moved across the parchment slowly, like a blind man across the face of the native land he could save - or lose again.