While the city beyond the walls drowned in the silence before dawn, Metropolitan Illarion sat at a massive oak table.
Before him lay the prince's decree. The candlelight did not illuminate, but carved out the contours of the words. The letters rested on the parchment like sacred wounds.
He read as one reads Scripture. Only in Scripture - the will of God. And here - whose?
The handwriting was confident - as if not written by a boy, but by one who had already heard nothing from the world but "yes."
He gripped the decree like a staff. In his pupils - not flame. A flash. An old one. A memory.
Winter. Fire. A girl in ashes. The cross - melted. Silence - singular. Then.
Since then - not one.
He did not fear Alexander. He feared something else: that another hand might be guiding this pen.
If the Church is not the first - then it is already too late.
He looked again at the decree. Everything in place. Objectives. Treasury. Executors. No crack. No tremble.
Too smooth. Too assured. Not for his age. Not for the trace of a soul.
He rose. His back cracked. In his pupils - the candle. On the table - a step forward. But whose?
A couple of days remained until the coronation. But the prince was already striking the bell. Not calling. Declaring.
- "Suffer the little children to come unto Me"... - he muttered. - But if it is the prince who leads - he does not lead to Christ
He stood. Walked to the window. The city was quiet.
But within the silence something was already stirring. As though someone had begun to speak - not with a mouth.
- The boyars will not approve. Construction. Treasury. The influence of monasteries... - he whispered. - This is not mercy. This is the architecture of influence
He looked again at the text.
Everything calculated. But too calculated. Not by age. Not by style. Not by the rhythm of a heart.
- Why? - barely audible.
In his thoughts - the morning. Oleg's gaze. There had been no accusation. But there was a shadow. Subtle. In his voice - the breath of doubt.
- Oleg thinks this is my doing... - he snorted. - Let him think. But I have nothing to do with it
He bent again over the decree. In the list of responsible names - his own. As expected. Then - Stanislav. Understandable as well. But the third line…
- Boris?
The elder monk. The one who stays silent when all speak. The one who stood outside the Council - but always beside the heart of the people.
He did not seek power. But people followed him. Because they believed - he did not lead.
Illarion tensed.
- Boris is the face of mercy. The people follow him - not by faith. By hope. Alexander understood that. He is not using Boris
He is placing him on a pedestal. So we cannot cast him down - without shattering the altar.
And if Boris says the wrong thing - it will be too late. No one will dare correct him.
He was silent for a long time.
It was not a gesture. It was a move.
A move like those who do not wait for power. Who are already building it.
And still… what if he is wrong?
What if this move leads not to mercy, but into an abyss?
- Then we will burn with him. Not for heresy. For silence
He folded the decree slowly, almost reverently. The paper rustled like a vestment.
- Dangerous. Very dangerous. A prince like this does not ask. He declares. Even through the sacred.
He rose. His face - severe. His voice - like echoes of liturgy, in which there is no pleading.
- The Church does not follow. It guides. And if it does not guide - it punishes
He stood, leaning on the table as on a throne.
- Boris knows more than he says. And I want to know who breathed into that pen
Alexander - or the one who breathes through him.
He did not ring, did not knock - he simply said:
- Akim
The novice stood by the door. Heard - and entered.
- Bring Boris to me, - Illarion said, without raising his voice.
The boy bowed and left. Quickly, but noiselessly - as befits one who hears the word, not the call.
The word of Illarion moved faster than the sun. Because the sun warms. And he - scorches.
And if the prince now speaks with a voice the Church fears -
the Church will answer with what the prince fears.
He remained. Not in the room - in the shadow.
He was not waiting. He was declaring.
And he knew: Boris would come quickly.
Because on days like this, one does not go to a man.
One goes to the center.
Boris received the message - and did not delay.
He knew: a summons from Illarion was no call. It was a point. Through such an axis, directions shift.
He walked calmly. But with each step - as if closer to fire.
He was not going for a conversation - he was going to a threshold. Not between words. Between those who have the right to speak them.
He entered - not as a man. As silence in which the question is already audible.
But every gesture - from the bow to the fold at his hip - spoke: he was not empty. He had come not with an opinion. With weight.
Clothes - grey, plain. Not poverty. A choice. In this grey - the habit of being near the truth, without replacing it with himself.
Boris was respected: for his care, for his clarity, for not seeking power.
But Illarion knew: that very image - is the most reliable shield. If you know how to hold it steady.
- Boris, - the voice was soft, but not light. - Sit
- Thank you, master
He sat. Precisely. Without fuss. His voice - even. But too even.
Illarion glanced around the metropolitan chamber.
The silence was clean. No rustle behind the door. No one listening.
The candlelight trembled on the table. The flame - like a boundary. Between the word and what lies behind it.
Here, in this chamber, it was decided which of the prince's words would become law, and which - would vanish unspoken.
But today he did not rule. He weighed.
The metropolitan leaned forward. Fingers interlocked. Face - stone.
- You know of the prince's decree?
- Yes
- Orphanages. Monasteries. Gentle words - but not humble ones. He is not yet crowned, yet he already speaks like an archon in Constantinople, with a patriarch and legion behind him
Boris held the pause. Not long - measured.
- To begin with mercy - is not weakness. It is like laying down bread before raising a sword
Even reply. Without emotion. Without fracture. Illarion did not smile - but within, he made a mark.
- Mercy… - a nod. - Is it true he summoned you yesterday? To the library?
- Yes. He was interested in my notes. You know, master - I keep chronicles
- Yes, I know. But after that meeting - the decree. Almost immediately. And you - on the list
His tone had not changed. But Illarion's voice now was like a string - taut. The words came not from reason. From instinct.
- What is it you wish to know, master?
- I want to understand what exactly you told him. Not about the records. About the living
Boris lowered his gaze slightly. Not from fear. In search.
- Beyond the chronicles, the prince asked about my work and the children. He listened. Did not interrupt. But I saw - he was not only thinking about the orphans
As if trying to understand how it all fits into a single frame. Like a stone - in a vault.
Illarion froze. Did not blink.
- And you - told him?
- As it is. That twenty children live in the monastery. That funds are scarce. He was silent. Then he said...
A pause. Not theatrical. Meaningful.
- "If I can save even one - I will do it. Faith is not words. It is choice. To betray knowledge - is to betray God."
Illarion did not reply. But his fingers clenched.
He heard no lie. But that was worse.
He heard - a hand. Steady. Already writing.
- He speaks in the words of Scripture, - quietly. - But writes them as his own
- He believes. Truly, master
- That's what frightens me, Boris. One who believes - does not ask. He already hears. But the question is - whom
Illarion leaned back, not withdrawing - bracing.
- He quoted Mark, - said Boris. - "Whosoever shall receive one of such children in My name, receiveth Me." He did not read. He knew
- Words like that leave no move, - said Illarion. - Neither for objection. Nor correction
He looked at Boris not as a conversationalist. As at a light, behind which one cannot see who holds the torch.
- Do you believe he said that himself? - asked the metropolitan.
- Yes. The voice was not of books. He was not repeating. He lived what he spoke
- And you didn't try to stop him?
Boris shook his head.
- How can one stop a man who is not doing evil?
- Very simply, - Illarion said quietly. - Evil does not begin with a blow. It begins with the pride that you strike in the name of good
He stood, slowly approached the icon. He looked - but did not pray.
- You know, - he said without turning. - Even David needed Nathan. Even Samuel did not believe at once
The silence behind him was not silence. It was a form of assent.
- We are not in a cell, Boris. We are in the city. And in the city - every word of the prince rings to the bell tower
Boris did not answer. But his eyes did not avert.
- And if the word is crooked - it bends not only the neck. It bends the will
A pause. Illarion looked at the icon - but was already speaking to the wall.
- If he leads - will you follow?
- I do not follow the prince, master, - Boris replied calmly. - I follow the one who speaks in him
- And if it is not the Lord?
- Then I will hear it
And in his voice - something too human. Not faith. Hope that he will not have to.
Illarion took a step closer. His face was like stone, but within - it trembled.
He is not lying. And that - is the danger. If he begins to believe in the false - no one will stop him. Not himself. Not this one.
He nodded.
- If the Lord speaks through him - we must not rejoice. We must listen closely. And be near when the voice becomes a whisper
He fell silent. Then briefly, without a trace of excess:
- Thank you, Boris
The elder monk rose. Bowed. And left.
The door closed soundlessly. But in its wake remained a weight - like after a prayer without an answer.
Illarion remained alone.
He stood. Walked to the window.
Dawn was slowly creeping toward the city.
The light slid across rooftops, not illuminating, but advancing. As if it too wanted to see who was being crowned - a child, or a verdict.
Illarion stood, but no longer saw the city.
The light slipped along the wall - and caught the flame of the candle.
He looked at the fire.
And suddenly understood:
- If this boy truly is Yours - then I am no longer the first. But if not Yours...
who then will stop him?
We - are not merely faith.
We - are what holds back.
If he falls - it is not the throne that will fall.
The people will.
And we will be blamed.
For blessing the sword that will later cut us down.
He closed his eyes.
As if for a moment he wished not to see.
He opened them.
- He is walking toward the Church, - said Illarion. Without joy. Without exaltation. Like one who hears a step behind him. - Then the Church must speak. But not bow
He turned slowly and said quietly:
- Akim
He appeared almost instantly, as if he had been waiting.
- Let the priests begin their services with these words. Let them speak of schools, orphanages, care.Let the people hear not only the prince. Let them hear that the Church - is near.
Akim hesitated, looking down.
- Only the priests, master? Or… shall we call the heralds too? So it beats into their ears, not just their hearts?
- The people must hear it twice to believe it. Let them hear from the mouth of the Church - as mercy. And from the heralds - as power
Illarion stepped forward. His tone shifted slightly.
- Let the heralds proclaim the fortifications. The borders. Let them know: the prince is not only merciful. He builds walls. And those who live within them - he will not forget
The assistant bowed. Vanished.
Illarion sat down.
He did not read. Did not write. He listened.
The cell pressed in. As though the walls knew what he himself had not yet spoken.
The flame of the candle flickered. The image of Christ did not gaze - it reflected. The cracks in the wall seemed to run through Him too.
He leaned closer - as to an ear, not an icon.
- Maybe he truly is... - he exhaled.
Not like faith. Like the attempt to believe in it.
He reached for the water - and then bent over. The cough tore from within.
Sharp, muffled, not the first. He doubled over, fingers clutching the table's edge. When it passed - he looked at his palm.
Blood. Hot. Alive. Strange - as if no longer his.
But there was no fear.
Death had lived with him a long time. Like a dog beneath the bench: silent - but warm beside him. He knew - not long now. He wasn't afraid. He had simply not yet finished.
He looked into the face of the Savior. Quietly.
- If he is Yours… make it so I do not hinder. But also do not let me stay silent, if the voice - is not Yours
His fingers trembled, but his eyes - did not.
He rose. Slowly, as if the weight of the world had settled in his lower back. The table, the icon, the candle - all seemed farther than they were.
- I am already leaving, - he said, not aloud, but as if to someone. - But Rus' - is not
He looked around the cell. The flame of the candle was nearly out, but still resisted. Just like he did.As long as the hand can write, and the finger can cross the brow - he would live. Even if cracking from within.
- Let the light of my prayer remain, - he whispered.
And outside, Kyiv was speaking. Voices. A hum. The prince's word wandering across the rooftops.
He closed his eyes. Listened.
The prince's voice - was already sounding in the streets.
- My voice - will burn within it, - Illarion whispered. - Or burn it down completely
He was not afraid. He simply knew:
If this is light - it will illuminate all.
And if not - it will burn us first.
- The Church will not become a shield, - he exhaled. - It will become a blade. But only if he strikes first
He gazed into the flame. Not as into light. As into a trial.
And at that very hour - with the first light - Kyiv rang out.
Not just morning. Not the awakening of a day - of a city. Bells passed over rooftops, down steps, through souls.
In the streets, everything mixed: faces, smells, breath.
Some walked to church. Some - to see who would walk to church.
In Saint Sophia's Cathedral, it was crowded. People moved as on a fast day: silent, faces taut. But the silence was not from humility. From hearing. The word came ahead of the blessing.
A whisper murmured through the crowd - not prayerful, but human: "I heard he said…" Men furrowed brows, some crossed themselves, others clicked their teeth. And children - like smoke in a corner: impossible to catch, impossible to still.
When the priest stepped onto the ambo - the silence folded in. Not froze - tightened.
- Brothers and sisters, - he said, and under the vaults, it became crowded with a single sound. - The prince commands
He unrolled the scroll. The paper rustled like a leaf at the bottom of a dry well. And he spoke - not fast, but clearly.
- This day, Prince Alexander has declared: let schools be opened at churches and monasteries - for every child, to learn letters, the Word of God - and earthly skills
The crowd did not respond immediately. Only a rustle. Only heads turning.
- For everyone? - a woman whispered. - Will ours be allowed?
- Just like a father, - muttered an old man. - But who'll pay for it?
- Ask the prince, - another snapped. - He didn't write about payment
The priest continued. His voice lowered, as though descending into the depths of the church:
- And more: by the prince's will… it is ordered that places be made - for the orphaned. For those with neither bread nor roof. That the church… not only pray. But shelter
In the cathedral - silence. But strange. Not bright. Tense.
Someone whispered:
- Does that mean… everyone into the church? - and fell silent.
A woman pulled her son closer - not from tenderness. From uncertainty.
- Shelter? - the old man echoed. - We've never had that…
The priest bowed his head. For a moment. As if in sign - he knew: this had never happened before.
- The Lord said: "Suffer the little children to come unto Me." And the prince - did not pass by. He ordered: build homes. At monasteries. For the orphaned. For the abandoned. That a child, left by misfortune, not be left in the snow
He paused for breath. As if he himself had not expected to say it aloud.
- That mercy be not a word. But bread. A wall. A teaching
In the crowd - movement. Not a flare. A ripple. Like water in a bowl: not spilled, but stirred.
- He cares… - murmured a young woman. Not a statement - a guess
- A prince ought to, - someone said hoarsely. And crossed himself. Not in agreement. In marking a boundary
The priest raised his hand.
- Then pray. For the prince. For the path he leads. That it be - not a vow, but a support
- May the Lord strengthen him, - voices answered from the depths
The pause was no longer silence. It was foreboding.
And then - a voice:
- Mama, is the prince God?
It was not said boldly. Not foolishly. Not even aloud.
But the whole cathedral tightened, like a heart before the first strike of pain.
Because everyone heard it.
Because no one - knew what to say.
Someone tried to hush it - but did not dare.
- Shh, be quiet… - hissed a bearded man, but his voice faltered. Too alone.
- Blasphemer, - someone breathed beside him. Quietly. And recoiled from his own word, as if afraid it would strike him.
The priest stood - not like a guardian, but like a man who had been left behind.
He looked not at the boy. Not at the heavens. At the floor. As if searching for a crack to fall into - and not be here.
And in the corner, by a column, another boy repeated - slightly louder, slightly more surely:
- Is the prince like God?
And no one stopped him.
Someone scoffed. Someone - lowered their eyes.
And in that silence was already agreement.
Not in faith. In inertia.
A woman held her child close - but not to her chest. To herself.
As if hiding him - not from the words, but from the meaning.
As if she understood: this had already escaped.
An old man crossed himself - not toward an icon.
Toward the door.
As if it - was now the altar.
One woman whispered a prayer, but her eyes were dry.
And another - looked at the priest.
Like at a man who has been silent too long.
And he understood - he was too late.
The crowd did not murmur. Did not rise.
But it did not ask.
And that was worse.
Someone knelt.
But not in faith - in waiting.
As one kneels before one who cannot be disobeyed.
The cathedral breathed. But no longer like a temple.
Like a throne hall.
And that breath - was not God's.
It was the breath of power.
And at that very hour - beyond the walls, under the same sun - the city still lived. As a body might live, though its heart has already been replaced.
In the marketplace, life still boiled. Braziers smoked, the bread smelled fresh, the frost bit at faces. But the moment the herald climbed the platform - the noise vanished, as if by hand.
- Hear the will of Prince Alexander! - he roared, as though a bell had been torn from the belfry.
The butcher froze with his knife. The baker - with half a loaf. An old woman with apples stood still - as if expecting thunder to fall, not a word. Even the dogs - fell silent.
- From this day forth: the monasteries shall receive the orphaned. Not for a day - forever. Children with no bread, no roof, no kin - shall have a home
The crowd did not roar. The sound was lower. Like embers left in a stove.
- Live in a monastery? Always? - a woman whispered. - That's never… happened, has it?
- Orphans - they have no name, - the carpenter muttered. - Who'd take them into a family?
- The prince says: not into a family - into an abbey, - a woman replied. - Beneath the cross - there is roof, and teaching
- Today orphans, - the old man grumbled. - Tomorrow widows. Then you won't hold even your own home - they'll say: it's a sacrifice, give it up
- Better a roof than a blizzard, - someone said quietly.
The herald paused. Then raised the scroll:
- And more: hold the borders. That Rus' be not prey, but stronghold. And to the living - schools. By churches. By courts
Now the crowd murmured louder - tighter, like a drawn harness.
- That's work, - barked the blacksmith. - The Polovtsians are close. A book won't stop them
- I'd rather have a wall on the barn than the border, - a peasant grumbled. - Bread lasts a day. Kids - three to a bed. What good is literacy?
- Letters are a shield too, - said a woman. - One who doesn't read - is easy to sell, easy to break
- I need bast shoes more, - the old man snapped. - You can't throw a word into the pot
- Who'll stand behind the wall? - scoffed a soldier. - You, tailor?
- My son will go. But with mind. Not axe - pen, - a young man's voice rose.
- And the tolls? - slyly - a merchant. - They'll take from the stall. From the cart. Not with force - with levy
- For now, he pays himself, - a woman called. - After that - we'll see. But better to teach than to bury
Just then, the baker approached his stall. He didn't lay out. He gathered.
He wrapped the loaves in cloth, held them to his chest. Silent.
- Hey, Svyatomir? What's the matter?
- Home, - he muttered. - To teach my son
And he left. Not like a merchant. Like a man who had already chosen where he would stand.
- So be it, - the blacksmith grunted. - Just don't forget the sword while chasing books. The Polovets waits. Does not sleep
By the cabbage stall, a boy raised his head and asked:
- Is he the chief now? Like… over everyone?
Said plainly. Like about snow. Like about God.
The mother wanted to hush him - but didn't. Just clenched her hand. Not his - her own.
The merchant coughed. One man scoffed. Another spat.
No one answered.
And that made it quieter than it ought to have been.
The herald looked upward. Not at the sky. As if waiting: will they tell him from above - be silent.
But from above - silence. So, he could speak.
The herald raised his hand. Spoke loudly, as in a church:
- People of Rus'! Your prince divides not - neither by stall nor by blood. He builds: for all.School, shelter, protection - not mercy. Deed. Will. The time has come
- Long live the prince! - someone shouted.
And it spread. A roar. Not ordered, not unified - but alive.
Like a call. Like hope. Like an echo reaching places where none expected it.
But by the southern wall of the monastery - no one shouted.
There, where heralds were not heard, children huddled to warmth. Some to the stove. Some to one another.
Elder monk Boris was still in the Cathedral, but his pupil Ignat, a young novice with a face like fresh dough, was handing out bread and speaking.
- Do not be afraid. The prince said - there will be a home. Warm. With a roof. With letters on the walls. So each will know: not orphan - child of Rus'.
He did not smile. He spoke - like praying. Without question. Without doubt.
- And if someone asks: whose are you? - you'll say: the prince's. And that will be enough not to be struck. Enough to be received
A girl with a braid down to her waist lifted her eyes.
- What if the prince dies?
Novice Ignat hesitated. Then - quietly, but firmly:
- Then someone will become the same
The children froze. In that answer there was no fear.
There was a kind of oath, which no one had asked them to make. Only - accepted.
And in that silence, where bread meant more than words,
Rus' already sounded - new, not yet grown. But ready.
And meanwhile, at the edge of the square, where the noise faded but the heat of words had not yet dispersed, two men stood.
Boyars.
One - ruddy-faced, with a belly pressing into his belt, fidgeted with a silver rivet, as if hoping it might tell him the truth. The other - tall, lean, gaze like the tip of a spear: seeking not a target, but a weakness.
The herald proclaimed the prince's word, and the crowd buzzed. Some with joy, some with fear. Some prayed, some haggled.
- Schools, shelters, borders… - the ruddy one murmured, wiping his brow. - Sounds good. But who's going to patch the treasury?
- We are, - the lean one snapped. - Not him
- Maybe he's serious? Huh? For the people, for the children…
- For the children - that's the wrapping. For us - the knife. First - schools. Then - grain levy. Then - army. And watch - soon he'll ask for land "in the name of the common good."
- The people love him, - the ruddy one said dully. - They're shouting, "Long live the prince."
- People love while it's warm. Once the frost hits - they look for who's to blame. That'll be us
A third, younger boyar, standing a bit apart, said nothing. He wasn't weighing words - he was counting.
He had three sons.
One - in Kyiv, running a shop. One - already under the prince's banner. One - still home, small, hiding beneath the stove.
He understood: he no longer chose. All that was left - was not power. Responsibility. Who to pay for. The prince - or his own.
He knew who they'd ask first, when the collectors came. Not the prince. Him. The one with a shop, a son, and a roofed house.
- What if he's right? - burst out the fourth young boyar, barely more than a boy himself, face still marked by the tutor's bench. - Maybe, for the first time in a hundred years, someone is doing this not for himself?
Silence. No one supported him. But one did not turn away.
And the one who didn't turn - didn't even know why he had done it. But he had. And that was already a step.
And that was enough for a chill to creep along the edge.
One of the boyars - not the one who was silent, nor the one who argued - suddenly stepped aside. Not toward the church. Not toward the market.
Toward the metropolitan's aide, Akim.
Akim inclined his head ever so slightly, uncertain - was this a question, or a threat? But the boyar was already speaking, not loudly, but enough to be heard:
- Tell His Grace: the people murmur. But a murmur is not power. Power is the one who first says whom to listen to
Akim said nothing. But his eyes changed.
And the boyar walked away. Unhurried. But as if a council had already begun in his mind.
And those who remained - understood. Not who was right. But who had begun counting.
Nearby, five steps away, stood a merchant. Thick-necked like a bull, eyes like a mouse caught in a chest. He spoke to his assistant:
- See how the prince speaks. Not like a lord - like a priest. Trading through God's word. And if tomorrow they replace the customs man with a priest - goods'll pass through a cassock. And you won't haggle the price down
Lower, nearer the tents selling iron, stood the forge master. His son beside him, wearing a fur vest, listened.
- Walls are good work, - said the blacksmith. - But if my boys are taken into the army, and the plows rot - I'll go to the wall myself. Just not outside. On this side. With a hammer
- And what of the metropolitan? - someone asked the herald.
- He hasn't cursed him yet, - the herald replied, voice steady. - So he's listening
- If he gets the church, - someone threw out, - he gets the sword too. We can argue with the prince. With God - no
- If the Church is with him - that's it, - said the lean boyar quietly. - Then the prince is no longer a man
- Then what? - rasped another.
- A symbol. And arguing with a symbol - is already heresy
A pause hung like an axe. No one moved. But in their faces - something shifted.
And then, as if summing up all that had been said, someone in the crowd called out:
- If the sacred becomes power - power becomes fear
Power - can be overthrown.
Fear - only endured.
And what people endure together - becomes a nation.
At that moment, on the edge of the square, someone climbed a stall.
Not a herald. Not a priest. A young man. From the crowd. In a shirt, but with a face - as if already beneath a helmet.
- I don't know what he'll become. But if he's not lying - I'm with him
Silence. Not fear. Weighing.
- And if he is? - asked an old man. Not as an enemy. As fear.
- Then let him fall with us. But not alone
These words were no oath. No vow.
It was a breath. Not for song. For a step.
And Kyiv - took it.