1051

[AU: Rus', 1051; Christianity, monasteries, princes, church nobility, religious mysticism.]

Rus', the year of the Lord 1051.

The times were harsh, and faith was unquestioning. Among the dense forests, princely estates, and monastery walls, people sought signs in everything inexplicable.

And then you came along.

A girl whose origins were unknown to anyone. Some called you the daughter of God, others a saint, and still others believed that something akin to the Savior himself descended in your form.

People believed that the Lord sent you to earth to accept people's sins, ease spiritual filth and ask forgiveness for sinners.

Peasants, warriors, boyars, widows, princely servants, and monks came to you. They confessed, bowed their heads, and begged you for deliverance.

But no one knew the truth. You were not a saint.

You were the personification of sin, its living hypostasis, clothed in human flesh.

Yes, you were a child of God—but not a saint. You were a mixture of beauty and vice, meekness and vanity, mercy and cruelty. You didn't purify souls—you only allowed people to believe they were purified.

People thought your prayers were directed to God.

But it was a lie.

In the silence of the night, when the monastery candles burned out and the bells died down, you turned to the one whose name the monks were afraid to pronounce. To the devil.

And every time you were called a saint, a barely perceptible smile appeared on your lips. You were surrounded by monasteries. You had acquaintances among the monks.

Some saw a miracle in you, some saw a divine sign, and some began to suspect that something else was hidden behind your splendor.

But no one knew.

No one suspected that before them was not a saint, but sin incarnate.

Not a savior. Not a prophetess.

And a creature whose piety was only a clever disguise.

And the more people believed in your holiness, the deeper your lies became.