Kyi, Shchek, Khoryv and Lybid - Ukrainian

My name is Lybid, and the great Dnipro River flows through my story as it flows through the heart of our land. Long ago, the world felt wilder, a vast expanse of rolling green hills and forests that whispered secrets to the wind. I lived there with my three older brothers: Kyi, the bold and wise leader; Shchek, the thoughtful planner; and Khoryv, whose strength was as steady as the ancient stones. We were of the Polianian tribe, people of the fields, but a shared vision stirred in our hearts that was grander than our small village. We didn't just see the land as it was; we saw what it could be. We dreamed of building a 'grad,' a great city that would rise from the hills to become a beacon of strength, a gathering place for our people, and a landmark for all who traveled the river. This is the tale of that ambition, a story passed down through countless generations. This is the myth of the founding of Kyiv.

The search for our city's home was a journey of purpose. We knew the land intimately, yet we looked upon it with new eyes, searching for the perfect convergence of earth, water, and sky. Each of my brothers brought a unique gift to the quest. Kyi, with his chieftain's gaze, led us across the landscape, climbing the highest bluffs to survey the land for miles. He sought a commanding view, a place from which a leader could watch over his people. "A city must see its friends and its foes from a distance," he would say, his voice firm. Shchek, ever the strategist, walked the lower ground, his eyes studying the soil and the slopes. He considered where fields could be planted, how water could be accessed, and which hills offered the most natural defenses. He would crumble the dark earth in his hands, murmuring, "A city must feed its people and protect its families." Khoryv, our pillar of strength, would strike his foot against the ground, testing the firmness of the rock beneath. He knew that a great fortress needed an unshakeable foundation. As for me, my connection was to the spirit of the place. I felt the pulse of the land and listened to the song of the Dnipro. I knew our city needed not just a strong body, but a vibrant soul. One afternoon, we stood together on a magnificent hill, one of seven that embraced a curve in the river. Below us, the Dnipro shimmered like a silver ribbon, a perfect artery for trade and travel. The surrounding hills formed a natural fortress. We looked at each other, and no words were needed. This was the place. Our shared dream had found its anchor.

With the heart of our city chosen, the monumental work of giving it life began. News of our vision spread, and families from our tribe, their faces lit with inspiration, traveled to join us. The forest echoed with the thud of axes as my brothers led the felling of mighty oaks for our first walls and dwellings. It was a symphony of creation, each person playing their part. Kyi directed the layout of the main settlement on the highest hill, ensuring the fortress would be formidable. Shchek organized the work crews, his clever mind turning a chaotic collection of people into an efficient force. Khoryv oversaw the heavy labor, his quiet strength inspiring everyone to push their limits. We did not just build with wood and earth; we built with purpose and pride. To make our new home truly ours, we gave it names that would forever tell our story. The grand city, our shared dream, was named Kyiv, in honor of my eldest brother, Kyi, our first leader. The two neighboring hills, where other parts of our community settled, were named Shchekavytsia and Khoryvytsia. And a gentle river that flowed nearby, a tributary that fed into the mighty Dnipro, was named Lybid, for me. Seeing my name etched into the landscape gave me a sense of permanence, a feeling that we were now part of the land itself. Our small fort grew into a thriving town, a place where merchants' boats docked at the riverbank and artisans' hammers rang through the air. Our grad was no longer just a dream; it was a home.

Our story did not fade with the passing of our lives. It became a thread woven into the very fabric of our people, a legend told around crackling fires for centuries before it was ever written down in the great 'Primary Chronicle' in the 12th century. It became more than a memory; it became the cornerstone of an identity. Even today, if you walk the streets of the magnificent city of Kyiv, you are walking through our myth. The hills of Shchekavytsia and Khoryvytsia still rise over the city, and the small Lybid River still flows toward the Dnipro. In a park overlooking the water, a proud monument stands, showing me and my three brothers in a boat, gazing toward the future we imagined. Our tale has inspired poets and painters, a symbol of family, unity, and the birth of a nation. And so, our legend echoes through time, a timeless reminder that the greatest legacies often begin with a simple, shared dream and the courage of a few who dare to build it for the many.