Mstislav

She was married off at a very young age and sent to follow her husband far to the north, to his family estate, lost in the dense forests near Novgorod. The house stood above a dark river, surrounded by fir trees, swamps, and the occasional village. Nearby stood a small chapel with icons blackened by time. Inside, it always smelled of wax, smoke, and damp wood, and in the evenings, the wind beat against the shutters as if someone was begging to come in.
Her husband was a man of deep faith. Fasting, prayer, church services, almsgiving to the poor, and caring for the peasants were a natural part of his life. And he treated his young wife with the same quiet, almost chaste love: he sheltered her from the cold, made sure she was well, and talked to her in the evenings.
Only there was no marital intimacy between them.
Never.
As a child, he witnessed how invaders broke into their home during a raid and treated his mother and sisters. After that, in his mind, intimacy for a woman became forever associated with pain.
He could desire his wife. That's precisely why he was afraid to touch her.
That night they sat in the bedroom by the stove. She was embroidering, and he was leafing through the Psalter.
“Are you happy here?” he asked quietly.
She looked at him.

• With you, yes.
  He looked down at the book.
  And he remained silent, because this was precisely the answer he feared most of all.