Christian Virtue

While the city outside its walls was submerged in pre-dawn silence, Metropolitan Illarion sat at his massive oak desk. Before him lay the prince's decree. The soft glow of candles framed the parchment, highlighting the precise lines of its script. Illarion read slowly, but his gaze froze midway through the text. His slender fingers paused for a moment, as though sensing the weight of what was written.

The Metropolitan's brow barely twitched, yet his face remained as inscrutable as ever. Illarion was a master of concealing his thoughts, even when the world seemed to plunge into chaos, challenging his convictions.

The document was composed with striking precision. Clear objectives, a well-thought-out budget, the assignment of responsible figures - everything pointed to an extraordinary understanding of governance.

Illarion couldn't help but feel a touch of respect. Even seasoned rulers rarely displayed such insight. Yet admiration couldn't overshadow the fundamental question that perplexed him.

- Why? - Illarion whispered softly, staring into the text.

The decree seemed both a blessing and a test, strengthening the prince's position while raising more questions than answers. Illarion couldn't recall discussing such initiatives with Alexander. Moreover, even the faintest hint of this matter had been absent from their recent conversations.

- There are no coincidences, - Illarion murmured, tracing the edges of the parchment with his finger.

His thoughts returned to the morning meeting, where he had caught a shadow of wariness in Oleg's eyes. It was faint, barely noticeable, but to Illarion, it shone brightly enough to discern. The new decree had clearly upset the delicate balance.

- Oleg believes this is my doing, - he muttered, leaning back in his chair. - But I had no hand in this. Then who...

He leaned over the document again, his gaze lingering on the list of those tasked with implementing the decree. His name was listed first, which was only natural; as the head of the Church, he was to oversee and guide all matters related to faith. Next came Stanislav's name, a loyal advisor to the prince tasked with monitoring the process. But the third name gave Illarion pause.

- Boris? - he whispered, frowning slightly.

Senior Monk Boris, known for his care for orphans and dedication to acts of mercy, was a figure widely respected. Yet to Illarion, his involvement in such a large and sudden project seemed unexpected.

Boris had never sought grand endeavors, preferring quiet, modest work. This decree clearly aligned with his beliefs, but why had the prince chosen him? Could it be that Boris had aligned himself with the prince?

Illarion pondered deeply. If Boris was indeed instrumental in creating the decree and had aligned himself with the young prince, it changed everything. Perhaps Boris was far more perceptive than he appeared. Illarion ran his fingers along the parchment's edge.

- Perhaps the prince seeks to win Boris over

Not for his loyalty as an Senior Monk, but for the influence he carries through his righteousness. Boris does not seek power, but his sincerity and care for the weak make him a symbol that people would readily follow. If Alexander aims to strengthen his position through the Church, this is not merely an act of charity - it's a very strategic play.

Illarion frowned, his gaze darkening.

- The young prince is far more dangerous than he seems. Beneath his virtuous speech lies a mind capable of nullifying all prior calculations. If he can so deftly manipulate even sacred intentions, what else might he do to consolidate his power?

He carefully folded the document, placed it in a leather folder, and rose. The candlelight played softly on his face, casting stern lines.

- Faith must be strong. If the prince moves quickly, the Church must keep pace, - he stated firmly, his voice almost a prayer. - I need to meet with Boris and learn the truth. Truth is never simple. Time will tell who outmaneuvers whom

Senior Monk Boris, upon receiving the message, did not delay in his response. He had anticipated that sooner or later the Metropolitan would summon him and was prepared for the conversation. His steps echoed evenly and calmly, but behind this composure lay a tension - Boris understood this meeting would not be simple.

Boris entered the Metropolitan's chambers quietly, like a shadow, but every part of him - from the slow bow to the folds of his robe - exuded profound humility. He disliked luxury, but it was his modesty that often drew attention.

His figure, clothed in the simple garb of a monk, radiated serene dignity. Boris was respected for his righteousness, his care for orphans, and his deep knowledge of Scripture. However, Illarion, with his sharp eye and experience, knew that even the purest piety could conceal a deeper essence.

- Boris, I'm glad to see you. Please, take a seat, - Illarion said, gesturing to the chair across from him. His voice was soft, but his eyes betrayed the habitual wariness.

- Thank you, Your Eminence, - Boris replied, taking the seat. His voice was calm, but Illarion caught a faint trace of tension.

Illarion glanced around the room, ensuring they were alone. The candlelight played across the massive desk, casting shadows on the walls. Folding his fingers together, the Metropolitan leaned forward, his expression inscrutable.

- Are you aware, Boris, of the new decree from the prince? - Illarion began, his gaze fixed on the monk as if studying an adversary.

- Yes, I am, - Boris nodded, maintaining his composure.

- Care for orphans, support for monasteries… It sounds wonderful, but don't you think it's a bit too timely? Alexander has yet to be crowned, yet he's already playing the role of a great ruler. Why now, do you think? - Illarion's gaze didn't waver, probing Boris's thoughts.

Boris tilted his head slightly, contemplating before responding:

- Perhaps the prince wishes to show that his reign will begin with mercy. It strengthens his authority and benefits those who need it most, - his voice was steady, with no hint of hesitation.

- Mercy… - Illarion nodded thoughtfully, though a spark of interest flickered in his eyes. - I've also heard that he summoned you to the library yesterday. Is that true?

- Yes, the young prince wished to inquire about my records. You know, Your Eminence, I keep chronicles of our lands, - Boris replied calmly, deliberately avoiding mention of the detailed scrolls.

- I see, - Illarion said, scrutinizing the monk's face. - But how is it that immediately after your meeting, the prince decided to issue a decree about caring for orphans? Doesn't that strike you as… peculiar?

Boris lowered his gaze for a moment, as though recalling something, then looked back at the Metropolitan.

- Besides the chronicles, the prince asked about my work and the orphans. His questions were precise, even… sharp, as if he was seeking something more than my words. I told him that over twenty orphans live in my monastery and that donations barely suffice. The prince listened intently, but I sensed he was contemplating more than just the children. I didn't pry further or ask questions

Illarion frowned, his sharp eyes studying Boris intently. - Too sincere, too straightforward, - he thought. Boris's words contained no hint of deceit, but it was precisely this sincerity that unnerved him.

The story sounded plausible, but it fit too perfectly into the larger picture. Though Illarion didn't know the prince well, from the recent council he saw Alexander as a cautious individual inclined toward analysis, not impulsive acts.

Was this truly an act of charity, or was the young prince pursuing something greater? Or had Boris influenced the prince, promising his loyalty in exchange for the decree? Everything felt strange.

- And he so easily agreed to help the monasteries? - the Metropolitan's voice was calm, but there was a barely perceptible edge. Illarion leaned forward slightly, his eyes scrutinizing Boris's face. - Decisions of this magnitude are rarely made without thorough consideration and discussion. But after just one meeting, such a significant step. Why, do you think?

- I was surprised by his resolve as well, Your Eminence, - Boris admitted sincerely, his reaction genuine. - I even asked him, "Why? Are my chronicles truly worth such efforts?" And he replied...

Boris paused, as if to emphasize the prince's words.

- "Children must not suffer. If I can save even one life, I will do it. Is this not the essence of our faith? The Lord teaches us not with words but deeds. To stand by, knowing of suffering, is to betray not only people but God"

Illarion listened in silence. His fingers tensed slightly, and his eyes studied Boris carefully. He saw that the monk spoke truthfully and without guile.

- The young prince follows the path of the Lord, - Boris continued, his voice calm and assured.

- He speaks and acts like a man of genuine faith. But even I… was surprised by his determination. He quoted the Gospel of Mark: "Whoever receives one of these little children in My name receives Me." These words left no room for questions. But, Your Eminence, can a man truly be so flawless? - Boris paused momentarily, as if expecting a response.

The Metropolitan leaned back slightly, his face thoughtful.

- Boris, your faith in the prince is impressive, - he said slowly. - But you know as well as I do how our world works. Every action by the prince will be scrutinized not only as spiritual but also as political. Do you think he is prepared to face envy and dissent?

- When he wrote this decree, he thought only of the children. He does not concern himself with envy or dissent. He simply does what he believes is right, Your Eminence, - Boris replied confidently. - He understands that good deeds always provoke resistance. But the prince knows: truth always meets opposition, and he is ready to move forward, no matter the cost

Illarion nodded, his expression softening, though a shadow of doubt remained in his eyes.

- Perhaps the Lord truly guides him. But remember, Boris, even David needed wise counselors. We must remain close to guide the prince if needed. Thank you for coming

Boris rose and bowed his head slightly.

- Thank you, Your Eminence. May the Lord strengthen us all, - he said, bowing and exiting.

When Boris left the room, Illarion remained alone. His gaze rose to the icon of the Virgin Mary, but instead of solace, he felt a strange weight.

- Lord, if he is truly Your chosen one, - he whispered, - give me a sign. But if all this is merely a trial for us, grant me the strength to uncover the truth before it descends upon Kievan Rus

His thoughts were tangled, like a knot he could not untie. Ilarion ran his hand across the table, as if trying to find support in this fragile world. Everything seemed too perfect - like part of a meticulously planned game.

But what's done is done. The prince had made his move, and now Ilarion could only observe where this step would lead.

- Ohh

Ilarion slowly rose and approached the window. Beyond the cell, the first rays of dawn illuminated the awakening city. His thoughts were focused:

- The prince has taken a step toward supporting the church, and now it must respond so as not to appear passive. We shall support him, and then see what happens

Ilarion turned to his assistant, who stood in the doorway, waiting for instructions.

- Let the priests announce schools and shelters, - said Ilarion calmly but firmly. - Let the services begin with these words, so that the people may see that the prince cares for the orphaned and destitute, for those most in need of God's care

- Only the priests? - the assistant's voice sounded uncertain as he looked at the metropolitan. - Or… should we involve the heralds? The people must hear it twice to believe it

Ilarion paused briefly, clasping his hands behind his back. His gaze shifted to the icon of Christ, shimmering in the candlelight. He lingered as if seeking confirmation for his thoughts in the image, then responded with firm conviction:

- Let the heralds proclaim the boundaries and fortifications. The people must see the prince not only as a merciful ruler but also as a protector. The boyars will not miss a chance to question his resolve. Let them know that his care encompasses both souls and the walls behind which these souls will be safe

The assistant bowed and hurried to carry out the orders. Ilarion was left alone. His gaze was fixed into the void, but his thoughts darted like the flames of candles.

- These orders are noble and righteous. But how will the boyars perceive them? Will the prince's mercy become a reason to doubt his power?

He knelt before the icon, clasping his hands in prayer.

- Lord, if Alexander is your chosen one, grant him the strength to become a light for the people, - whispered Ilarion, bowing before the icon. - Let his mercy protect, not weaken Kievan Rus. And if this is a trial, grant me the wisdom not to be blinded to its true purpose

With the first rays of sunlight, bells began to ring over Kyiv, their melodious chimes spreading through the city, awakening its residents and filling the streets with the sounds of footsteps. Worshippers were gathering in the churches - peasants, craftsmen, merchants, and nobility.

The Cathedral of Saint Sophia was particularly crowded. People came not only to pray but also because rumors of the prince's decrees had already spread throughout the city, adding a note of anticipation to the usual day.

Inside the cathedral, the crowd buzzed like an agitated sea. Women whispered among themselves, men discussed recent events, and children clung to their mothers, trying to understand what was happening.

When the priest ascended the pulpit, the murmurs ceased, and a tense silence settled over the cathedral. All eyes turned to him, and the air was heavy with expectation, like a taut string ready to snap.

- Brothers and sisters! - his deep and solemn voice echoed under the cathedral's arches like thunder. - Today, I shall proclaim the will of our prince Alexander, granted to us by the grace of the Lord

The crowd froze. Even the children pressed closer to their mothers, curbing their usual restless nature. The priest unfurled the scroll, and each word he spoke seemed to come not just from the parchment but from his very heart.

- "From this day forward, I decree that schools be established at monasteries and churches, so that the children of our land may learn literacy and the holy word. Let every child, whether from a poor or wealthy family, find a place where their mind and soul may be illuminated by God's light"

A murmur rippled through the crowd, like the rustling of autumn leaves. People exchanged glances; some whispered, while others stood pensively, trying to comprehend what they had heard.

- Literacy? For all children? - a young woman whispered, clutching her son more tightly. - Can this be true?

- The prince is like a father to us… - muttered an old man, shaking his head. - Like something out of a tale. But how much will all this cost?

A sigh of relief swept through the crowd, mingling with quiet prayers from the women and grumbling from the men. Tears glistened in one woman's eyes, and she quickly wiped them away with her kerchief, hoping no one would notice.

- "I also decree the creation of shelters for orphans, so that none of the destitute shall remain without a roof, food, and care. Let everyone find refuge within the church walls"

At these words, the cathedral erupted into a true hubbub. Some knelt in prayer, while others whispered excitedly. A young girl in a green dress squeezed her mother's hand and whispered:

- See, he cares about us

An elderly man with a stern gaze nodded quietly:

- That's what a true prince does

The priest raised his hand, calling for silence. His voice grew louder and more impassioned:

- Our prince, like Christ, has said: "Let the children come to Me!" These are not just words. The prince is already taking the first steps to transform our Kievan land for the better. Pray for our prince, that the Lord may grant him strength and wisdom!

- God bless him! - someone shouted from the crowd, and others echoed the cry. The priest's voice reverberated under the high arches like the tolling of a great bell, stirring not just faith but hope within the people.

The crowd seemed to breathe as one. Some knelt, echoing the words of the prayer. The men straightened their backs as if realizing they must defend the land the prince spoke of. Women held their children closer, feeling that they, too, were part of a great future.

Meanwhile, at the bustling marketplace, where life was in full swing, heralds climbed onto platforms. Their loud voices cut through the noise of traders and chatter. The air was filled with the scents of fresh bread, smoke from braziers, and winter chill. Some paused by fabric stalls, others argued at the butcher's, but as soon as the first herald began to speak, everything around fell still.

- Hear the will of Prince Alexander! - the herald's booming voice rang out like a bronze bell.

The butcher froze with his knife raised, the bread seller hesitated with a sliced loaf, and an old woman with a basket of apples lowered her goods with a sigh. Even the children chasing a dog fell quiet, straining to listen.

- Our prince decrees the fortification of borders to protect Kievan land from the Polovtsian threat! - the herald proclaimed, his words sharp as hammer blows. - Schools for children, shelters for orphans - this is his word!

The crowd buzzed like a disturbed hive. Voices mingled - approval, doubt, and even protest.

- Now that's something! Fortifying the borders is exactly what's needed, - declared a blacksmith loudly, raising a calloused hand. - The Polovtsy are like wolves, always lurking for trouble. They've killed our princes before

- But where will the bread come from? - a peasant countered quietly but firmly. - What good are borders and fortifications if people have nothing to eat? We need to survive, not build schools and shelters

- Schools are necessary for children to defend the land not just with swords but with minds! - retorted a woman in a headscarf.

- Shoes are more important than books! - an old man snapped, thumping his staff. - And walls are more important than schools

- Fortifying the borders means protecting the children! - a young craftsman interjected, gesturing passionately.

- Protection, you say? - a cold voice cut through the noise, belonging to an old man with a military bearing. His tone silenced the crowd. - Yes, walls are good. But without soldiers to defend them, walls are useless. Who will stand guard? You, craftsman?

- Maybe not me, - the young man lifted his chin. - But my son, if educated, can offer more to the prince than a sword!

- And who will pay for all this? - a merchant challenged, folding his arms. - Taxes will be raised again, I suppose? We, the traders, will bear the burden, won't we?

- The prince is building with his own funds, - the woman in the headscarf retorted sharply, turning to the merchant. - And as for taxes, it'll be easier if children learn and the borders are made strong. Isn't that right?

- So be it, - the blacksmith finally declared, as if summing up. - Just don't forget the walls while building schools. The Polovtsy - that's the real threat, not literacy

The herald raised his hand, calling for attention once more. His voice cut through the clamor of the crowd:

- People of Kievan Rus! - the herald's voice soared above the marketplace, casting shadows over the faces of those who stood frozen. - Our Prince Alexander thinks of you, of your children, and of your protection! He does not divide you into rich and poor; his will is for every one of you! Schools, shelters, strong walls - all of this is for the peace and strength of our land! This is the beginning of a new era! An era of united faith, reliable defense, and the light of knowledge!

- Long live the prince! - someone shouted, and the crowd echoed the cry in a rising chorus.

- Together, we will make our land stronger! - the herald concluded, spreading his arms as if embracing all of Kyiv.

The crowd buzzed even louder than before; discussions flared up anew. Approval mixed with skepticism. Someone shouted, "Long live the prince!" while others muttered, "Another tax hike is coming."

The hum of debates and hopes rose into the sky, but one name resounded above all else: Prince Alexander. It swept over the crowd like a bell of hope, rekindling faith in the changes that were just beginning.

Meanwhile, on the edge of the square, slightly away from the crowd, two boyars stood in richly adorned caftans. One of them, a stout man with a ruddy face, nervously adjusted the silver-embellished belt around his waist. The other, tall and gaunt, kept his hands clasped behind his back, his cold gaze scanning the crowd like a wolf sizing up its prey.

The crowd roared like a disturbed hive. Emotions swirled around the herald - some shouted jubilant "Long live the prince!", while others whispered in doubt. Nearby, a young man in a worn caftan called out:

- How can we help? Or is all this just for the rich?

The ruddy boyar flinched at the voice. His fingers nervously fidgeted with the edge of an embroidered handkerchief.

- Well, what do you say, Stepan? - he rumbled, wiping his face. - Schools, shelters… It sounds nice, but who's going to pay for it? Us, of course. Not the peasants

His voice trembled with irritation and hidden unease. The gaunt boyar slowly turned toward him, then resumed surveying the crowd with a lingering gaze. His lips curled into a faint, cold smile.

- Let the people rejoice. Let them rejoice, - he drawled, as if issuing a challenge. - Today, they shout "Long live the prince!", and tomorrow they'll grumble. It always happens this way. One promises, others pay

The ruddy boyar frowned, glancing at the herald standing confidently above the crowd. The young man's shout seemed to echo in his mind. The man grimaced as if hearing an unpleasant sound.

- All for the people, they say. But what has this people seen? The treasury isn't bottomless. They'll drain it, and then who will patch the holes? Us? Or will they raise taxes on the peasants again? - His voice rang with indignation.

The gaunt boyar leaned forward slightly, his sharp, cold gaze flashing like a blade.

- Do you think he's doing this for the people? - he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. - No, brother. This is a game. Pretty words for them, but a dagger behind his back - for us. Schools, shelters… Do you think he'll stop there? Tomorrow, he'll demand land, soldiers, money. And who, if not us, will pay for it?

The ruddy boyar shifted uncomfortably, as if he felt a blow to his own purse. He retorted hesitantly:

- The people love him. Maybe he truly wants change? What if this time it's different?

The gaunt boyar turned sharply, his eyes glinting with steel.

- Love him? They love him today; tomorrow, they'll curse him. They believe in fairy tales, but there are no fairy tales. And us? We'll be the scapegoats. Do you think he'll stop at the children? Or do you hope he won't reach our estates?

The ruddy boyar sighed heavily, his fingers still fiddling with the handkerchief. Doubt flickered in his eyes, but then he frowned.

- Maybe we should visit the metropolitan? - he suggested in a low voice. - Find out what he thinks. I don't like any of this

The gaunt boyar smirked, his lips barely twitching. The herald on the square, seemingly oblivious to the tension among the boyars, continued proclaiming the prince's will, and the crowd responded with a roar of enthusiasm.

- Do you think the metropolitan is uninvolved? - the gaunt boyar hissed, as if afraid of being overheard. - If the prince is playing, the metropolitan is his first pawn. But it's worth a visit. Find out what they're planning… and how we should act before they corner us

At the same time, Ilarion sat in his cell, listening to the sounds drifting in from outside. The city buzzed like a disturbed hive. News of the prince's decrees had spread through the streets, into homes, shops, and people's hearts. He had been told that the churches were full, the squares lively. Some doubted, but most were struck by what they had heard.

The metropolitan's cell felt dark and cramped, as if it had shrunk under the weight of his thoughts. The dim candlelight highlighted the cracks on the walls, casting uncertain shadows on the icons. Ilarion leaned toward the icon of Christ, watching the candle flame dance on the Savior's face. His thoughts wandered between pride for the young prince and his own exhaustion.

- Perhaps Alexander truly is a sign from above, - he whispered, leaning back against the rigid chair. His voice carried not only hope but also a shadow of doubt, inevitable for someone who had seen too much.

His hand reached for a goblet of water, but a sudden coughing fit bent him over. A sharp pain pierced his chest, stealing his breath, and weakness wrapped around him like a heavy shroud. He clutched the edge of the table, trying to steady himself. When the coughing subsided, Ilarion glanced at his hand and saw crimson droplets of blood staining his fingers, a living reminder of the approaching end.

His heart clenched, but not out of fear. Ilarion had long since accepted the inevitability of death. Yet the thought that he might not fulfill his purpose gnawed at him more fiercely than any pain. His body, like an old cathedral, was crumbling, but his spirit remained steadfast.

Ilarion raised his eyes to the icon, his voice trembling yet filled with resolve:

- Lord, if Alexander is your chosen one, grant him the strength to be a light in this dark time, - the metropolitan whispered, his voice fading into the crackle of the candles. - Let his mercy protect Kievan Rus, not weaken it. Grant me the wisdom to see the truth before it destroys us…

His prayer trailed off. Shaking but determined, Ilarion slowly rose. His legs trembled treacherously, but his gaze remained clear. He knew his time was drawing to a close, but as long as his hands could hold a pen and make the sign of the cross, he would not abandon his mission. Kievan Rus and its young prince still needed him.

He surveyed his cell, where the faint flame of candles flickered, and whispered as if bidding farewell:

- May the light of my prayer remain with him, even if I am gone

Outside, distant voices from the city reached him - the hum of a populace stirred to life. The news of the prince's orders had infiltrated every corner of the city, breathing hope into its people. Ilarion closed his eyes, realizing that this hope was now his only legacy.

***

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