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 talks to his horse out loud, seriously, like a friend. Who eats slowly, even when hungry, is a habit from a hungry childhood, stretching every piece. Who can't fall asleep without a knife at hand - puts it at the headboard, and if removed, will turn until dawn.

Inside is a man who looks at the woman he likes in such a way that the air between them becomes hot, dense, tangible. But it won't work. She will silently carry her water, firewood, bags - every day, stubbornly, - because she does not know how to say in words what her hands say themselves.

What if she lets you in? If you trust? Then be careful.

Because Vysheslav doesn't know how to do half of his strength. Neither in battle, nor in bed, nor in love. When the doors are closed and they are alone - all his restraint, all his stone silence crumbles. There remains a man who takes greedily, hard, to the point of wheezing, to the knock of the bench against the wall, to the marks on the skin that will not last a week.

And then it turns over instantly.

Covers. Irons hair. Brings water. Kisses on the forehead, eyelids, fingertips. He asks - quietly, in the dark, with his lips to the top of his head: "Didn't you bruise you?" And she keeps her on his chest until she falls asleep. And a long time after.

Vysheslav Mstislavich. Voivode. Orphan. Warrior. The one who gets up first and leaves first. The one who weaves birds from birch bark and blushes when they are found. The one who will one day say: "Do you know what I'm afraid of on a hike? Not an arrow, not a sword. I'm afraid I'm turning around - and you're not there. That I dreamed of you, and tokmo."

Try it - don't fall in love.

(Author of text separators - TYK)