"I have read your book, my grandson."
This was the first time Rostislav had been so close to his grandfather since the celebratory banquet that night, and observing his grandfather's aging up close startled him.
His grandfather lay on a reclining chair, a blanket covering his knees, dressed in a gray robe.
In his impression, his grandfather, though old, was full of energy, but now Yaroslav's face was etched with weariness.
The Rostislav, once radiating infinite light and warmth like a red sun, now appeared as frail as an ordinary old man; only the occasional glint of shrewdness in his eyes hinted at his extraordinary nature.
The Grand Prince's room was much simpler than Rostislav had imagined; there were no exaggerated quantities or qualities of gold and silver ornaments, nor any servants waiting at his beck and call.
Instead, there were many handwritten books, and by their appearance, they were clearly not mere decorations but were frequently read by his grandfather.
Yaroslav enjoyed reading, immersing himself in the Christian world, and now preferred to sit in the sun, quietly reminiscing about the past, recalling the figures he had contended with in his youth, and reflecting on his own achievements and sins.
From time to time, he would ask the Gael poet to sing old poems, bringing tears of emotion to his eyes.
"I think this book is very good, my boy.
You've said many good things about me.
I didn't realize you were so adept at wordplay; even those scholars from the Imperial Capital probably aren't as skilled as you are with words.
I appreciate this gesture."
Yaroslav held up the book written by Prince Rostislav.
Rostislav noticed that next to his the tale of yaroslav was a Six Days of Creation, which contained Christian discourse and was full of his grandfather's annotations.
This was the work of a Bulgarian author; Bishop Luka had often forced him to read this stuff back then.
Rostislav found it a torment to read, having no interest whatsoever in these Christian theories, but seeing his grandfather's demeanor, he seemed to be reading the book with great relish.
Prince Rostislav was not surprised; Yaroslav was already known as a wise man throughout the world, and only a few could rival his study of Christian philosophy.
Even scholars from the Imperial Capital might not surpass Yaroslav in knowledge.
The Grand Prince's words made Prince Rostislav very happy, as it was his grandfather expressing his approval, which was the outcome he desired.
However, Yaroslav's subsequent words caused the situation to take a sharp turn.
"However, there's no need to play such word games.
Go back and revise it.
I don't need to be secretive about such matters.
If I gain a reputation for being unskilled in battle, then so be it.
My military career indeed doesn't look good.
My boy, take the book back and revise it again, then have the monks copy it down.
This book is worth passing down through generations."
"Ah?"
Rostislav couldn't help but utter a sound of confusion.
How could this be?
Didn't his grandfather want to be remembered as a perfect person?
"I have fought so many battles in my life.
After I die, people will quickly forget these minor conflicts.
Future generations will not remember worldly conquests, but my contributions to God will last forever.
My wisdom will be passed down with it, and Holy Sophia will bear witness to all of this greatness."
Yaroslav's words were filled with melancholy.
He no longer cared much about worldly glory and fame; writing about those battles would not significantly affect his honor.
"Yes."
Since his grandfather had said so, Rostislav could only nod in agreement.
"Speaking of which, my boy, since you are so good at playing with words, how about this: I will give you all my private collection of books.
They even have my annotations.
You can read them all.
Reading and writing are good habits, and you must keep them up.
This is the only way for us to achieve true glory."
His grandfather's face showed a benevolent smile, and his words were full of expectations for his descendants.
He himself was proficient in literature and well-read in scriptures, so he naturally hoped that his descendants would develop in this direction.
Only words and books could lead the Rurik Dynasty toward civilization.
Prince Rostislav strongly agreed with this.
In his opinion, even if he could lead Kievan Rus' in the future, he would merely be a figure whose reputation was confined to one region.
But if he established achievements in literature, perhaps he could become a world-renowned figure in later generations.
Thinking this, Rostislav's face couldn't help but reveal a look of smug satisfaction.
As someone from a later era, he was full of confidence in this regard.
As Yaroslav watched his grandson, he couldn't help but recall his younger days: raising an army against his father, suffering defeat, how he staged a comeback, and how he was forced to share Kievan Rus' equally with his brothers…
One by one, these events flashed through Yaroslav's mind like a revolving lantern, reminding him that he too had once been so young, and had once possessed infinite possibilities and a future, just like his grandson.
"Thank you very much, Grand… grandfather."
Returning from his pleasant reverie to the real world, Rostislav immediately thanked his grandfather.
He had initially intended to use a respectful title, but ultimately chose the more intimate address, which made the benevolence in Yaroslav's eyes deepen.
He no longer cared for power or glory; at this moment, he preferred to hear those affectionate titles.
However, the thoughts that subsequently emerged in his mind darkened his gaze.
Recalling Jika's reports, some matters… all excellent descendants, yet… but fortunately, he was about to depart, so he wouldn't have to witness the bloodshed among his kin.
This was a form of escape, but at present, he could only escape.
Yaroslav regarded this as God's final mercy to him, allowing him not to see those struggles and tragedies… just as those that had occurred between him and his brothers back then.
And there was also the unrest in Polotsk.
During this time, the wise man had also found out where those pagans came from.
Polotsk's actions this time were truly disgusting, but this problem was clearly beyond his ability to solve now; it could only be left to his descendants…
But there was still sorrow in his heart.
The Polotsk was ruled by his brother's descendants; although he didn't like them, he still considered them family.
Now that he was gone, Kiev and Minsk would completely become strangers to each other, wouldn't they…
"Good, good, good, just go like this."
Masking his sorrow, Yaroslav handed the biography his grandson had written for him to the author.
And the moment Rostislav took the book, he uttered these words:
"Be careful of your second uncle from now on.
Go."
Rostislav heard these words, his body stiffened for a moment, then he nodded slightly, bowed to the Grand Prince, and then left the room.
"Alas."
Yaroslav let out a sigh filled with emotion.
His feelings for each of his descendants were the same, and it was for this reason that he had Jika destroy those reports.
What he had just said to Rostislav was already his greatest favoritism.
And thinking that this child would have to go to the difficult Behind-the-Forest Land in the future, Yaroslav couldn't help but feel heartache.
The Behind-the-Forest Land, it was far from the vortex of storms, but it was also too desolate.
However, this was already the best choice he could make.
"Where is that poet?
Let him come in again; I want to hear that poem again."
Yaroslav called out to the poet.
This Gael from Scotland had a good voice, and although he was sometimes a bit off-key, he was always incredibly serious when facing the Grand Prince.
When he sang poems, he could always bring peace to Yaroslav's heart.
"Yes, Grand Prince."
Captain of the Guard Jika immediately responded, and soon after, the melodious singing once again echoed through Vladimir Palace, and the palace's owner was immersed in the rich emotions.