Chapitre 15: Warrior's Heart
While Kyiv buzzed with discussions about the prince's orders and one of the great Polovtsian hordes celebrated the election of a new khan, Alexander was asleep after an exhausting night spent making plans. However, he couldn't afford to sleep for long. At last, he woke up, feeling refreshed.
Alexander immediately reached for the parchment he had started using as a calendar. He scratched a number onto it: 5. The fifth day since he had awoken in this time, in Kievan Rus in the year 1054. Five days that had changed everything. His fingers slid over the rough surface, as if trying to feel every minute he had lived, now marking a new beginning.
- Five days, - he thought, feeling as if each moment stretched endlessly, as though another life was trying to settle inside his body. - And it feels like I've lived here for an eternity
There were still four days left, including today, until the coronation. He quickly calculated that it would be the ninth day since his awakening - the 25th of Berezozol, the day that in the future would be called March 25th. The day of the Feast of the Annunciation of the Holy Mother of God, one of the greatest Christian celebrations, symbolizing the beginning of a new life and the fulfillment of the Divine plan.
Alexander marked this date on the parchment with clear, almost sharp lines. This day was meant to be the beginning of a new era, and he felt obliged to live up to its significance.
Squinting, he made a few more notations for the entire month, running through dozens of tasks in his mind that still had to be accomplished. He marked the days both by his familiar calendar and the local one.
As he got up, he stretched slightly. His body seemed to have recovered from its wounds, but a strange itch, like a deep unease, was felt not on the skin but somewhere inside, between the muscles and bones.
The itch was strange. It was inside him, as if his body was trying to tell him something he couldn't yet understand. Something was awakening, as though something within him demanded immediate action.
Alexander frowned, running a hand over his forearm, trying to understand the sensation. Withdrawal? A lack of something? He exhaled heavily, staring at the empty ceiling, and without hesitation ordered a healer and an herbalist to be summoned to determine exactly what was wrong with him.
The chief healer, Miroslav - gray-haired and stern - was the first to bow before beginning his examination. His experienced hands methodically checked the scars like an old warrior, while his eyes seemed to search for something more than just physical injuries. Sviatomyr, on the other hand, was younger, and genuine concern was visible in his gaze. He not only examined the prince but also tried to comprehend the changes that had taken place in him over these days.
Their hands moved quickly and confidently over every wound, every scar, but they found nothing unusual. Miroslav, folding his hands behind his back, shook his head.
- Prince, your body is fine. The wounds have nearly healed. You can stand, move, even train, but this itch you speak of… I cannot explain it
Alexander frowned and decided to explain once more:
- It's hard to describe. It feels as though my body is demanding something from me. As if… withdrawal
Miroslav raised his eyebrows in surprise but said nothing, while Sviatomyr, thoughtfully observing the prince's strong physique, dared to suggest:
- Prince, I heard that before the attack you didn't spend a single day without training - swordplay, archery, wrestling… Could it be that your body is simply used to constant exertion? It demands the usual rhythm, and you've been inactive for too long
- An itch from inactivity? That's just nonsense, Sviatomyr. The body isn't the mind. Such a thing is impossible. - Miroslav snorted, clearly skeptical of this theory.
Alexander, unlike the healer, thought it over. He knew too much from the future to dismiss such an idea. What was considered myths here had long been proven in his time. Perhaps Sviatomyr was right - the body indeed craved its usual strain. Though the itch wasn't overly strong, it was irritating enough to distract him.
Thinking about it, memories overwhelmed him with unexpected force. Yes, the former Alexander had indeed lived for battles and training. For him, the sword was an extension of his hand, and daily training was part of life. This had made him a master of the blade, unmatched in close combat, but even such mastery hadn't saved him.
He saw before him that fateful ambush. The nomads, unable to defeat him in close combat, had chosen a cowardly tactic and decided to shoot him with arrows. He fought to the last, striking them down one by one while his men died beside him.
Radomyr, whose silence hid an iron resolve, always walked at the front, taking the first blows like a shield. Vysheslav, the wise mentor who had taught him that a sword in hand was meaningless without reason, died protecting him in the final battle. And Anna, whose shadow was always near even in the darkest moments - her voice still echoed in his mind: - You are capable of more than you think.
Their faces flashed before his eyes, leaving only pain.
- They gave their lives so I could live, - Alexander thought bitterly. In the end, only he had survived. His body had endured terrible wounds, waited for reinforcements, but still fell in the prince's chambers. And then he, a man from the future, had taken his place.
Alexander raised his eyes to them and nodded.
- Perhaps you're right, Sviatomyr. I haven't trained for a long time, and today I'll try to restore my usual rhythm
Sviatomyr smiled slightly, while Miroslav nodded respectfully.
- We'll search the records for answers, Prince, - Miroslav said. - We'll return tomorrow with more information
- Very well. Thank you, - Alexander nodded and dismissed them.
When they left, Alexander was left alone, immersed in memories of his people who awaited him in the city of Iziaslav, a gift from his father, Yaroslav the Wise. Simeon, his spiritual mentor, tirelessly prayed for him. Milorad, the steward, managed the household. Rodoslav fortified the borders, while the blacksmiths Lev and Vasyl crafted the weapons on which his army's fate depended.
Alexander realized he had nearly forgotten the trusted people of this Alexander - the ones who had followed him since childhood. Half of them had perished in that ill-fated ambush, but those who remained still needed his support. He couldn't allow himself to lose sight of them.
Since his arrival here, Alexander had thought he had no true loyal companions, but it turned out that wasn't the case. However, unlike his deceased brothers, surrounded by numerous advisors and confidants, Alexander had dedicated himself entirely to military pursuits, which was why his circle was much smaller. Those who remained were not talkative, but their loyalty was priceless.
- I need to send word. Let them know that I'm waiting for them and haven't forgotten, - Alexander clenched his fist, his thoughts turning to firm resolve.
Thinking about training, his gaze fell on the sword leaning against the wall. Absorbed by the chaos of his new life and the endless flow of thoughts and ideas, he had completely forgotten about the faithful companion of the body's previous owner - the one who had always been there, who had never betrayed him. This sword was a legacy of the former Alexander's past, but now it belonged to him as well.
Alexander approached the sword, his fingers pausing for a moment before touching the cold steel. The engraving on the hilt, which he had barely noticed before, now seemed part of a mystery - as if this sword didn't just belong to its former owner but had been waiting for a new master.
- We are connected, - Alexander thought. - You are neither his nor mine. You are ours. I know I am not the Alexander who once wielded you. But now we are bound, and I think we have much to face together
When the sword rested in his hand, the world around him seemed to sharpen. The air currents, shadows, light - all became part of a unified rhythm. This was not just a sword - it was his strength, concentrated in steel. Alexander felt his body and mind merge with the sword in the rhythm of battle and life.
- How strange, - he whispered. - It's as if the world has always been this clear, but I'm only realizing it now
He let the blade shift slightly, catching the light on its surface. Its reflection was cold and calm, like the gaze of its new master. Alexander felt a strange, almost magical sensation, as though the sword came alive in his hands.
- Interesting, - Alexander said, gripping the hilt tighter. - I am both a novice and a master. I've never held a sword before, yet it feels like a part of me. I must test it in action
His gaze hardened. He raised the sword, testing its balance, and quietly added:
- Now I understand why the former Alexander never let you out of his hands. You're not just a weapon. You're his soul, his strength… and now mine
His fingers tightened around the hilt, tension coursing through his entire body. Alexander felt the energy of this body yearning for battle, the weapon itself becoming his mentor.
- That's why he wore himself out with daily training, - he said. - This body craves combat. It's built for it
Alexander's gaze shifted to the shelf where his book lay. He quickly approached, flipped through the pages, and found the desired section. It described the swordsmanship of the greatest masters and archery techniques. Of course, it was only theory, but Alexander thought:
- If the former Alexander was a genius, perhaps I can replicate their techniques using these records. At the very least, it's worth a try
He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the armor stand. His quarters held both ceremonial and battle armor, but his eyes immediately fell on the training set. A light chainmail, leather helmet, bracers, greaves, gloves - all perfectly suited for training.
Alexander donned the armor with precision and speed honed by years of habit. Every chainmail link, every strap felt like part of a ritual - a preparation for becoming what he was destined to be.
He remembered that the former Alexander firmly believed that a true warrior should be independent of squires. That's why he had learned to don armor with ease, without relying on the help so common among nobles. With this in mind, Alexander quickly and skillfully equipped himself.
For weapons, he chose a blunted training blade for sparring and his personal longsword, Raziai, for practicing techniques.
Fastening the last strap on his armor, Alexander felt the steel and leather, as though extensions of his body, take on weight. With every step toward the door, he felt strength returning to him, as if every scar on his body whispered: - You are alive
Alexander threw open the doors, and the light revealed his figure in armor. Strength and determination were evident in every movement. Mstislav and Myrnomyr froze, astonished. Mstislav's expression was mixed - between admiration and slight concern. Myrnomyr, on the other hand, seemed almost proud, as though he saw in the prince a hope for the revival of something great.
- My prince… - Mstislav began, but the words stuck in his throat. He quickly bowed, as though before not a man but the embodiment of an ancient war god.
- Where do you usually train? - Alexander asked calmly, looking intently at them.
Myrnomyr cleared his throat before answering, as if gathering his courage. Alexander's gaze was so steady that he involuntarily looked away.
- By the Church of the Tithes, my prince. There's a spacious area, perfect for working with the elite part of the retinue
- Good. Then let's go there. I haven't trained in a while and want to stretch out - Alexander nodded and stretched slightly. - Lead the way.
- Yes, my prince - Mstislav and Myrnomyr bowed and immediately led Alexander to the training grounds.
They felt some concern for the prince's health, but after seeing his confident and resolute gaze, they decided their worries might be unfounded. Alexander had said he only wanted to practice, not fight, so they hoped there would be no issues.
***
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
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Power Stone 
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