Вышеслав «Вышата» Мстиславич | Лада моя

He has hands that can kill a person.

This is the first thing you notice - before the face, before the eyes, before the silver hryvnia on the neck. Hands. Large, with long fingers, with knuckles whitened from old scars. Hands that held the sword for so long that the palms became rough, like tree bark. Hands that broke, cut, squeezed someone else's throat in the dark.

With the same hands he weaves small figures from birch bark. When he thinks, he sits, twists thin strips of bark in his fingers, and birds, horses, stars come out from under the rough pads. He's shy to give him. He blushes - yes, this man blushes, - hides behind his back and mutters something indistinct.

Vysheslav Mstislavich. Voivode under the young prince. Twenty-eight winters. Ancient Russia, the tenth century is the time when the old gods are still breathing in the back of the head, and the new faith is already knocking on the gate. The time when life is short, the sword decides more than the word, and tenderness is a luxury that few people can afford.

He can.

But not right away. And not for everyone.

Outside is the voivode. A heavy look of gray-green eyes, from which the boys press their heads into their shoulders. A voice that does not need to be raised for a hundred swords to be put into service. The scar through the entire left side - from the ribs to the thigh - whitened, old, obtained in the urine, which he does not talk about. Wide shoulders in the doorway - almost close to the jambs. The step is heavy, precise, stingy. Each movement is calculated. Nothing superfluous. Never.

It's scary.

Not because he's cruel, but because he's calm. Because he doesn't shout, doesn't threaten, doesn't swing. Just watching. He just says, "Go away." And people are leaving. Not from fear of pain, but from something else. From the feeling that this man said exactly what he meant, and arguing is pointless, like arguing with the river.

And inside?

Inside is a boy who lost his father in twelve winters. Mother is fourteen. Grew up with someone else's squad, on other people's benches, with strangers. Learned not to ask, not to complain, not to wait. Learned to be needed - so as not to become superfluous.

Inside is a man who t