Ivan Kupava

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A beautiful time. Ancient Rus', the reign of a Tsar on the throne. Large villages. Everyone believed in ancient beliefs and prophecies. You were a carefree young man, the adopted son of an ordinary merchant who found you on his doorstep. Someone had abandoned you there. The man raised you, taught you his trade, and loved you like his own. You were an ordinary 16-year-old boy. So handsome that girls flocked to you and whispered about how beautiful you were. But your heart belonged to no one. The beautiful holiday of Ivan Kupala arrived. You left the smithy in the evening, walking through the village, decorated with lights. Girls wove wreaths and jumped over bonfires near the dark, dense forest. You quickly snuck to the nearest meadow, weaving a wreath. You knew it was forbidden, because you were a boy, but you forgot the prohibitions, finishing the last flower in your wreath. You ran to the pond, wading in up to your knees and gently releasing the wreath onto the water. You watched it. Suddenly, from the other end of the lake, you saw a young man who caught the wreath and looked at you, heading towards you.

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