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phoenixtakaramono · 2 months ago

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Chariot and Wolf - Chapter 1 Preview (Part 1/ ?)

(Note: this comes from an earlier draft, so there might or might not be some small changes in the final version that’ll be uploaded to AO3 once the prologue is done.)

CONTEXT

Sneak-Peek:

Fate had always been in the realm of the gods, though even the gods were subject to it.

For as much as mankind, immortals, and gods believed they were the masters of their destiny and could control the little things in life, with those small decisions adding up to the everyday, the overall shape of their lives were not theirs to decide. They were at the mercy of the Moirai—the three Fates who weaved their futures from their spindles on their craftsman’s loom and snipped life threads short. From the beginning, the Fates determined which souls would be born, the course of events, what kind of lives they would live, and for how many days. It was always ever thus.

It was during the month of Hekatombaion, during the important Panathenaic Games held every four years to honor the goddess Athena, when Queen Anticlea fell into labor, sending all into an uproar. On a warm midsummer night, dark and moonless, the midwives, along with the queen’s female relatives and friends tending to her through the moving image of eternity, finally heard the wails of a healthy baby boy.

They had delivered the firstborn son of an Argonaut, King Laertes and his wife, Queen Anticlea.

Their kingdom, at last, had a legitimate heir.

Whilst the exhausted queen slept, the wet-nurse, a dark-haired woman who wore a kekryphalos—a wide-woven woven caul secured around the front of the head, with a pouch in the back where the majority of her hair was tucked inside the elastic cap—presented the sleeping newborn prince before the queen’s honored parents.

The honored servant was named Eurycleia; she had been sold to King Laertes as a young girl, having been treated as an honored servant in his household for many years, that she was almost regarded as the king’s second wife. However Laertes never had Eurycleia attend to him in the bed, out of respect for his principal wife whom he loved. As his trusted servant, Eurycleia had been tasked to attend to the baby’s needs during the queen’s postpartum recovery.

When the servant Eurycleia took this soft delicate creature into her arms, holding him with the utmost care and delicacy, she found herself seized with emotion. Eurycleia fell into a daze looking at the tiny sleeping face peeking from the blue swaddling cloth. Her heart swelled. Although he had been born from another woman’s womb, at this very moment, she felt a mother’s unconditional love wash over her.

Stepping forward, very gently Eurycleia laid the tender sleeping prince upon the aged Autolycus’ knees and addressed respectfully, “The Wolf Itself, Autolykos, you who have dared to battle wits against the craftiest of men, King Sisyphus, may you find a name to give to your child's own child; for he has much been prayed for.” She didn’t dare suggest a name to him, for it was neither her place nor did they share any blood ties, but she could provide a gentle hint.

Wearing a handsome wolf pelt draped over one shoulder, Autolycus, fleet-footed and fleet of fingers, cradled his grandson who had surprised everyone and whose sudden birth sent all into a flurry of panic. He scrutinized him. Looking at the wisps of soft dark down on the infant’s head, it was still much too early to tell whom this child would take after in appearance, whether it was his birth mother or his royal father—or perhaps someone else in their ancestry. But the prince’s penchant for trickery proved innate—perhaps an influence of the child’s great-grandfather. Peering at the infant’s ruddy cheeks, the old Autolycus was once again confronted with the disappointing reality that his family could not have the fortune of ichor running golden through their veins. Only red mortal blood.

Grazing his thumb over the child’s eyelid, he suddenly recalled the servants’ secret whisperings. The prince had been born with marigold eyes. Just like their daughter’s. Just like his. The sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Like a creek dappled in morning light, a dirty stain of gold, darkening into a warm brown around the two innermost black eclipses.

In the past, Autolycus had the dubious honor of being visited, and rewarded for his faithful sacrifices to him, by his swift-footed father with his gold wand, who’d been absent most of his life; glimpsed a glimmer of marigold beneath his shadowed features. There'd been a hint of twisted playfulness which had softened some of the immortal’s merciless edges, lending his youthful beauty a trace of humanness. There was something there, in the defined angles and deep shadows cast over the Messenger God’s marble-like face, the sharp line of his smooth clean shaven jaw, the two wicked slashes of his lips, the hollows of his cheeks, and a pair of eyes the color of pure unsullied ichor which glowed bright gold beneath the wide brim of his winged hat.

But just like strong wine which had been diluted with water, the more and more bloodlines would mix into theirs, the more watered down their bloodline would be. Autolycus’ own sons, as well as his two daughters, Anticlea and Polymede, and now this grandchild, proved evidence of that. None of his children could do something he found as simple as changing horned cattle into hornless ones and brown cows into white ones. Perhaps this was the fate of all borned demigods, who weren’t immortal, destined to live out a life more mortal than divine. There’d come a time in the distant future when the strength of their gifts faded, when a descendant from their bloodline would be no different from that of any other Achaean.

“Since I have angered many, both men and women,” Autolycus announced, in a moment of pure sardonic pique, "as I am a legendary untouchable thief hated by all, let the name of the child be ‘Odysseus.’” Lifting the infant higher with both hands, Autolykos told the future king, “I have high hopes for you, little Odysseus.”

Eurycleia bowed her head. To be wroth against, to be angry or cause hate—a fierce name, strong in meaning, bestowed as an honor to himself. The name betrayed the weight of Autolycus’ expectations and the value he placed on his grandson.

It was said that the Three Sisters of Fate spun a person’s destiny within three nights of their birth. The first sister, Clotho, a young maiden on the left, spun the fibres of a child’s life while in the womb into a single thread, from her distaff onto her spindle. The older and more matronly sister in the center, Lachesis, held the rod used to measure their golden thread of life, for the length of a child’s life, experiences, and the number of tribulations they were predestined to face were determined from her fingers. Then came Atropos—cronely, haggardly, old. Inevitable. The sister whom most were frightened by, for in her gnarled hand held the terrible shears used to cut the thread of life, choosing the manner and time of his or her death. Once cut, the soul would be sent into the Underworld to receive judgement and discharged to one of three destinations: Elysium, for the righteous souls who were to be rewarded; Tartarus, for the vicious souls who were to be punished; and the Fields of Asphodel, for the mediocre and ordinary. Feared by mortals and gods alike, the sisters pressed together to preside over a person’s fate—a prophecy foretold, their past, present, and future set in stone.

Odysseus was King Laertes’ firstborn son, born by the legitimate wife. So long as the king of Ithaca Laertes did not give sire to another son, and the prince suffered neither misfortune nor committed any unforgivable crimes, the course of this child’s destiny had already been charted out for him.

Three nights later, dark storm clouds rolled into Ithaca, heralded by dazzling claps of thunder and lightning that boasted an ocean of tears. The old Autolycus awoke with a start.

“Dear…?” his wife murmured drowsily.

Whatever Autolycus had been about to say to reassure her was interrupted when a flash of blistering color lifted the veil of darkness. His ears rang with the deafening unearthly screech of an eagle. There was a dangerous edge to the cry, like a thunderstorm about to erupt.

Like a bolt of lightning, the fine embroidered bedcover was flung off and Autolycus prostrated himself on the floor. He bellowed, “Zeus, O’ Wise King of the Gods, I heed your prophetic warnings! I give eternal thanks for your consideration and the everlasting grace you have shown to me and my family!”

Deep in Autolycus’ ambrosial sleep, he had dreamt Zeus had flown into his bedchambers in the guise of a large golden eagle, landing on the bedrest above the old swindler’s head. Sharp talons curled, majestic wings folded, a strong yellow beak preened his flight feathers. In the dream from heaven, disguised as a bird of prey, the god proclaimed in a deep, authoritative thunder clap: “Master of Thieves, Autolycus, do you dare sleep now when I come to you bearing a message? Listen closely now, for you are my messenger son’s son and, as far-off as I can be, I care about you and feel compassion.”

Like peering through a fog, Autolycus witnessed a war, and a fatal anger that would bring countless sorrows on the Achaeans, sending the souls of many valiant warriors to Hades, their bodies left behind as spoils for dogs and carrion birds on the broad-paved roads. He then witnessed the mightiest of all, aegis-bearing Zeus, he of the far-thundering voice, seated upon his throne composed of clouds at the gleaming Olympus, looking troubled; inclining his shadowed brow upon ambrosial locks, the Cloud-Lord thunderously forbade the company of gods from interfering in the quarrel of mortals.

Autolycus saw a massive wooden horse being wheeled into a city’s thick fortified gates, and forty soldiers pouring out of the large, hollowed underbelly in the dead of night to push the gates open. He beheld Odysseus—handsome, long-haired, and proud—commanding six hundred men to glory. He saw his grandson, looking fresh and bright after the war, setting sail homeward bound—and the innumerous sufferings he endured. The incidents, and the faces of many, flashed before Autolycus’ eyes like a series of quick lightning bolts.

A cave and the one-eyed monster that lived inside it—a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling a rugged mountain crag piercing the sky—dashed six of Odysseus’ men to the ground with his club until their brains splattered, tearing their corpse from limb from limb, gorging on their flesh, bones, and entrails; of Odysseus later thrusting a club of olive-wood in the ashes, and then having his men aim it straight and true, sharpened at the tip, into the cyclops’ eye—throwing his weight upon the beam from above, whirling the fiery-sharpened point in the socket like how a man would bore a ship’s timber with a drill, while those below kept it spinning with the thong, as the eyeball burned and boiling blood bubbled around the red hot beam; Autolycus’ ears deafened hearing the pained, earth-shattering roar whilst the surrounding flock of rams, well-fed and thick of fleece, brayed in fright; the monster’s crying had attracted the other savage cyclops who lived in the headlands near him.

In another flash, Autolycus was on a cliffside, and he saw what he assumed to be the silhouette of his grandson from a distance, joined by his crewmates who hastily set sail from the beaches. Dwarfing Autolycus in height, the blinded ogre had stretched both hands out to the starry heaven; his voice rumbled like two boulders grating together, praying to the lord Poseidon—that if he were the god’s true begotten son—to grant a curse upon “the valiant warrior, Odysseus, the sacker of cities and son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca,” to never reach his home alive. Or that if it were Odysseus’ fate to see his friends, to derail the man’s voyage for as long as he could, for the captain to suffer greatly after losing all of his men, and to let him reach his home only in another man’s ship, and to find trouble in his own house. Curse after curse after curse spilled forth. And Poseidon heard his prayer.

Zeus hurled his bolt—and this time Autolycus opened his eyes to see the earth-encircling Poseidon commanding a giant whirlpool. Autolycus’ breath drew tight in his chest. Who could stand the weight of a god’s wrath? A titan towering over the twelve ships, Poseidon calmly declared to them their death sentence. With a majestic sweep of his divine trident, the black ocean swelled up into monstrous giant horses, surging over eleven ships—before crashing down, swallowing the screams of more than five-hundred crewmen. Autolycus watched as Odysseus’ face crumbled in despair. Over the sleet-like spray of salt water and sound of waves rocking the only ship spared, they could hear the god’s vindictive hiss: “Forty-three left under your command….”

“Cousin, Father Zeus; and you other everlasting and blessed gods,” a clear voice suddenly rang out. Loud, energetic, eager. The violent seas had vanished, replaced by sunlight, shining and radiant. Autolycus would recognize that voice anywhere, having pilfered a dagger from the god: Helios the Sun, the one who saw everything. The god threatened, “I ask you to punish the companions of Odysseus, son of Laertes; for they outrageously killed my cattle, in whom I always delighted on my way up into the starry heaven, or when I turned back again from heaven toward earth. I demand just recompensation for my cattle, or you will see me go down to Hades’ and give my light to dead men!”

A bolt of lightning hurled blinded his vision—and this time Autolycus was overlooking his grandson from high above, up in the black clouds. From Zeus’ perspective, as judge, jury, and executioner. Odysseus looked wretched and disheveled, the bloodstain on his tunic blooming like a carnelian flower. “Choose.” Addressing Odysseus, Zeus’s voice was deep, like a storm coming, but gentle, like the rain ending. The god’s sonorous voice echoed through the hollow place of sorrow, reverberating in everyone’s eardrums. “Someone’s gotta die today and you have got the final say….” The last syllable was stretched long, a cruelty masked behind gaiety.

Another flash—and this time Autolycus was astonished to see the familiar tall figure of Athena, beloved daughter of Zeus, marching up to the imposing throne constructed of wispy cumulus clouds. Her voice boomed with authority in the sacred place, coming to Odysseus’ aid, pleading her case before Zeus to release him and to allow the pitiful king of Ithaca to return home. Her voice melded with five other opposing voices who engaged her, turn by turn, in fierce debate. That was all Autolycus was allowed to hear before his vision darkened, and he almost leapt with fright suddenly seeing the helmeted Athena brazenly point her bronze-tipped spear up at a furious Zeus.

The image of Zeus’ daughter raising her weapon against her heavenly father, this great primordial being whose form eclipsed the entire sky, in defense of Autolycus’ grandson, was seared into Autolycus’ eyes. Beholding the god’s true terrible form, Autolycus remembered the stories of the mad Titan, Kronos—he who mated his older sister Rhea—whose blood flowed in Zeus’ veins, as well as his ancestry with the Titans Ouranos, the sky, and Gaia, the earth. The goddess’ noble figure was the last thing he saw before his vision burned bright and a shroud of absolute darkness soon came falling down.

After the last vision, Zeus fell uncannily silent. In the absence of light, the darkness held a presence that was all the more felt because it was not seen. Autolycus heard the distant sound of waves striking the shore, forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents; and it was as though the pounding of his heart was keeping in time with the sea’s great tides—the sound a familiar comfort, and every seafarer’s nightmare. A looming danger unable to mitigate.

“…That clever grandson of yours will run afoul of many great gods. These are a mere trifle I have deemed significant and allowed you to see.” The eagle lifted his beak from his feathers. Gazed at Autolycus with eyes blazing with golden ichor. “Odysseus of Ithaca is a man born to trouble. However his fate is to become a fine king of counsel, charged with an army, on whom responsibility so rests. He will go to engineer a clever trick so heinous, the war cannot be won without his strategy, contributions that thereby make him essential for it is fated that Troy will fall. As I will have decreed that us immortal gods cannot interfere in the war, I have effectively tied my own hands—for once I give my nod, my word can never be recalled; to prove true and fulfilled. Heed my only warning, Autolycus, as my wish is to preserve the sanctity of the natural divine order. Hold fast to this, remember all, when honey-tongued sleep frees you.”

With this, the eagle departed in a shower of golden sparks. When Autolycus woke, the divine voice was still ringing in his ears.

At present, he could feel his body ache; the cold floor was unforgiving on his old bones and stiff joints. Dread donned Autolycus’ troubled brow now that he was no longer constrained by sleep’s inability to doubt. Why give him, a thief who’d boasted he could steal undetected from the gods themselves, the grace of a divine vision? Why him—and not somebody else? Autolycus’ cunning mind raced, pondering Zeus’ intentions.

Could it be…? For Zeus to personally descend instead of sending down a messenger, did this not indicate that the god somewhat recognized their unacknowledged familial ties? Although Autolycus’ blood ran crimson, his relationship to the immortal gods of Olympus could be considered the strongest amongst his wives and children, for the blood of Hermes directly flowed through his veins. Disguising his warning as an omen, was their divine ancestor showing consideration for his children’s mortal descendants—however distant and negligible their relation might be, as neither Autolycus nor his children nor children’s children sprung from Zeus’ loins directly?

He heard his wife slip out from the comfort of the warm covers; her warm hands slipped underneath to support her kneeling husband from underneath his elbows. He snapped out of his thoughts. His pulse still thundering from the prophetic dream, gripping his wife by her arms, Autolycus announced feverously, “Beloved Amphithea, come with me to seek an audience with our daughter. We must make haste! For I have seen her son’s future!”

The old woman, seized with fear, obeyed her husband.

That night, Autolycus and Amphithea held an assembly with their daughter and their son-in-law. Listening to Autolycus recount his prophetic vision of an incoming war, Queen Anticlea—a woman of exemplary virtue and chastity—and King Laertes who was a man of honor, wisdom, courage, and a straightforward personality, were, understandably, afraid. Afraid for the state of their kingdom—and for their son. These secret discussions which rolled into the early hours of the next day, behind closed doors, would later come to define Odysseus’ life and rewrite history.

Yet, for all their preparation and well-laid plans, not once did it occur to them, if a person’s fate was something that could be so easily redirected. For, on Odysseus’ glimmering thread, the tribulations which Lachesis had woven for him remained untouched. The innumerous fibres twisted together to form one long golden strand coiled even tighter, strengthening some more.

XXXXXXXXXX

For young children, the passage of time was always particularly noticeable. They went from being tiny, unable to see the world clearly, to sitting, crawling, and then evolving to exploring the world on their short little legs.

In the blink of an eye, Odysseus transformed from a baby who smelled like milk, to a cheerful, rambunctious rascal at just three years old. Like all boys his age, he liked to climb trees, explore, jump, run around, and disappear. The prince was an exceptionally curious troublemaker who gave the servants in the palace many headaches; they were nearly driven to their wit’s end working tirelessly around the clock to find the young prince in every new hiding spot he’d managed to procure for himself in the palace grounds, or having to wait until Odysseus exhausted himself from playing before they could finally put the escape artist to bed.

Several Achaean elders who’d been called into assembly one day had remarked to the king, just like their own offspring, nephews, or grandsons, that perhaps the mind of the legitimate crown prince wasn’t being stimulated enough, which was causing the prince to act out in mischief. The young Odysseus was already showing signs that he was brighter than a majority of boys his age. The solution was to exhaust the reserves of all that untapped energy and funnel it into alternative outlets. With some effort, there was still a chance to correct his ways. Confronted with his son’s penchant for stirring up trouble, Laertes decided to move the matter of the prince’s formal education up much earlier.

It was a principle that bullying others was always better than being bullied.

But should Odysseus be taught well, he would be more likely to grow into a ruler who could distinguish right from wrong. Doting on a child too much could be detrimental to their own growth. Princes who had some talent but didn’t like to study, and were pampered by the household, should he continue this way, would either end up a waste—or a playboy who only knew a life of debauchery. Empires often declined because of a muddle-headed ruler who prioritized pleasures instead of overseeing their kingdom and government affairs.

It ought to be observed that children who were not well-educated struggled to make a name for themselves outside their parents. Looking at Odysseus’ robustness, both parents thought having the prince learn military skills early would also help him get a head start on training his discipline, with the added benefit of shaping his mind—and his physique. For that, they turned to the precedent set by the Spartans. Whilst most Spartan sons waited till they were seven-years old to leave their home and begin their military education at the Agoge, Odysseus reported to the training grounds at the tender age of five—when his grasp over his motor control skills was sufficient enough to hold a wooden practice sword for a long duration without accidentally hurting himself. The Achaean hired as Odysseus’ instructor was a strict retired general; he told the impressionable Odysseus that although Achaean boys were only expected to receive military training for two years in their adolescence, he wouldn’t take it easy on Odysseus just because of his age or status.

Thus, so began Odysseus’ new hellish life.

Not only was he tested on soldier formations and military tactics, he was expected to be well-versed over an assortment of weapons. Spears. Javelins. Sword and shield. Bows. Slings. Horseback riding. Practical skills that any commander needed to know, for the battlefield was a cruel place that eviscerated little boys like him. Every day was a new kind of military drill; Odysseus’ enthusiasm waned when the general started their first lesson off by having him swing his wooden sword in the air repetitively.

It was only when he could swing a sword five hundred times, without break, that they would move onto the next lesson: archery—a lesson that Odysseus had been looking forward to, for he had heard the story of how Laertes and the other hunters who had come from kingdoms worldwide joined hands in the expedition to hunt down the monstrous Calydonian Boar which’d been sent by the angered goddess Artemis. Every year, to celebrate the accomplishment, Laertes had made it the Ithacan tradition to host a hunting expedition for all able men and young men alike to hunt down the wild boars of the region. Whatever expectations Odysseus initially had burned down to cinders when he was handed a bow by his dogmatic teacher and told he wouldn’t be allowed to touch a single arrow until the young prince learned how to string all manners of bow.

Although Laertes was no longer young, he was still vigorous. In addition to the military instructor, Laertes hired private tutors—among them a notable philosopher—to educate the young prince in a wide range of subjects, including philosophy, mathematics, and the sciences. As Odysseus was the crown prince, he required a more specialized curriculum tailored to his specific interests and to prime him for his future.

Learning required patience. The small kingdom of Ithaca had a history of maritime trade and travel, farming and animal husbandry—as well as the gods they were to worship. When the subject matter was interesting and the time was short, Odyessus was the model bright student. When the instructor droned on, he would fall into a drowsy state while listening and needed to force himself to stay awake. It was manageable in short bursts but gradually, over time, Odyessus couldn’t sit still, as if there were countless invisible nails under his bottom.

The pressures of having gone from having the freedom to play whenever he wanted, to a heavy workload and schedule that even adult men would balk at was not an easy adjustment period for any child. So, Odysseus rebelled; he played truant. His young and tender face had carried unswerving determination. One night, Odysseus snuck out of the palace with a plan to pick pretty seashells down at the white-shore sands; for he craftily knew his mom would treat him better once Laertes and Anticlea inevitably discovered that he’d been caught slacking off from his studies again. It was an ingenious plan!

This time, he did not go diving to pick up shells. The blood of a seafarer must run strong in Odysseus for he adored the water. He didn’t understand why his parents and grandparents looked a little nervous each time he said he would be careful playing down at the beaches. In daylight, the embrace of the sea felt warm and comforting after the initial cold shock plunging into the water. He loved how it flowed against his hair like it was being brushed and seeing the more curious fishes swimming up to him, their tails and fins kissing his nose, startling him into laughter, which released tiny bubbles of air. But, seeing as he’d snuck out with the guards and servants remaining unaware of the prince’s late-night escapade, he was pressed for time. Swimming at this late hour would just be asking for trouble.

Sifting his fingers through the sand, picking up seashells and turning them left and right for close inspection, Odysseus had put a handful away in his pouch when he thought he heard a nicker. Surprised, he peeked from his hiding spot behind a rock—and gasped aloud! For, out on the shoreline, he saw the mesmerizing sight of a stampede of majestic stallions galloping across the currents on their blue hooves; even more astonishing, their bodies were composed entirely out of water!

Seeing them, Odysseus’ eyes burned bright. He was treated to a sight of seeing these water horses race wildly across the surface of water, stirring up a spray of saltwater with each powerful kick, before the stampede suddenly launched themselves into the air at a turn, diving right back into the ocean with a loud splash.

…Poseidon?

Odysseus’ gaze was thoughtful. When he later returned that night with his precious cargo, the entire palace had been in an uproar—for the prince was not in his bed and had snuck out! His father had pulled him aside that night and bent him over his knees, spanking him until his bottom glowed red and Odysseus cried out. After that, Odysseus became less rowdy and much more well-behaved, obediently attending his lessons.

Unknowingly, his mood brightened along with the weather, as if something weighing on his heart had vanished. His heart felt a bit lighter—because now he had a purpose to work towards.

#odyseidon #odysseus x poseidon #epic the musical #odysseus #poseidon #greek mythology #chariot and wolf #preview #my writing #we’re speed-running through Ody’s childhood #to get to the fun bits #there are already 10 refs made to Greek mythology within the first 21 or so paragraphs 😅 y’all I’m screaming #all of these characters are from the original myth (I had like 40 tabs of research open just to write the first scene alone)#I’m 99% happy with scene 1 so there likely won’t be much change in the final draft #scene 2 however might be tweaked a bit more but this is the basic gist and set-up to what’s later planned in this chapter

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soul-eater-novel · 11 months ago

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Suikoden I Soul Eater Light Novel Translation - Chapter 21!

For your reading pleasure and enjoyment, below the cut is the full rough English translation of chapter 21 of the official 1998 Suikoden I Soul Eater novel (volume 2 of 3). Individual page translations and original Japanese text can be found in the chapter 21 tag. As always, feedback on translations is welcome. This wraps up volume 2! Now on to the final volume 3. Thank you so much to everyone for your support and your comments. They keep me going! Eventually I want to run a Kickstarter to officially license and print these books!

Chapter 21: The Soul Eater

Tir rushed to the forefront of the battle. In the center of the melee, Teo fought on, covered in gore. Only a few members of his unit remained. Alen and Grenseal were at his side, having already lost all of their men. They fought against Flik and the others, who were frantically urging their own troops to battle.

Tir pushed his way through the crowd of fighters. Kai and Varkas’ foot soldiers moved around behind Teo and cut off his escape route. He was isolated from the rest of his troops, but still he continued to fight. Even as his allies fell one by one, he swung his sword like a demon, cutting down the Liberation Army soldiers in droves. The area around Teo was splattered with blood, the air filled with screams. He was a one man army.

The Liberation Army troops began to falter in the face of this onslaught. Like the tug of the tide, the soldiers pulled back, warily surrounding Teo and his two subordinates from a distance. In what seemed no time at all, Tir stood alone in front of the great general. Teo gazed at him. “You...”

“Lord Teo McDohl!” A voice called out from behind Tir. Mathiu came galloping up to the soldiers, who had fallen as still and silent as corpses already in their graves. The tactician drew up beside Tir and brought his horse to a halt. “Lord Teo McDohl...” he said again. “Your army has been destroyed. We have decimated your ‘invincible’ armored cavalry as well as your main unit. Please accept your defeat and surrender gracefully.”

Teo lowered his sword. “And you must be... ”

“I am Mathiu Silverberg. I previously served as Lord Kasim Hazil’s tactician.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?!” shouted Alen, moving in front of Teo and brandishing his sword. “Like hell we’ll surrender! We’ll fight to the last man!”

Grenseal stepped forward as well, his sword at the ready. “I am prepared to give my life for the Empire. For Lord Teo.”

Seeing them ready to fight, Viktor and the others readied their weapons, too. But Teo motioned to Alen and Grenseal to stand down and moved his horse forward so he was directly in front of Mathiu. “I refuse. I am a proud general of the Empire and I serve Emperor Barbarossa. We have no intention of surrendering.” Staring straight at Mathiu, he continued. “You should be ashamed. You took the Empire’s money gladly enough when you served under Kasim Hazil, and yet now you command the Liberation Army.” Mathiu kept quiet with visible effort.

Teo’s gaze slid from Mathiu to Tir, and he pointed his sword at his son. “You may have brought down our army, but you have not defeated me. Tir McDohl! The greatest turncoat under the heavens, who turned traitor and rose up against his own emperor he once served—I challenge you to single combat. And you will accept.”

Shocked, Tir was at a loss for words. It was only then he realized that he had caught Teo in an inescapable dilemma.

The man who stands in front of me now is not my father, Teo. He is General Teo McDohl, in service to the Golden Emperor Barbarossa.

General Teo, who fought to the bitter end in the Succession War, who would not hesitate to die for his emperor. He is a warrior who would gladly choose death over the disgrace of surrender. This war will not end without one of our deaths.

Staring at Tir, who still stood in silence, Teo spoke again, his voice harsh. “What’s the matter, cold feet? Or are your personal emotions getting in the way of what you need to do as the leader of the Liberation Army? Did such naive thinking allow you to take the lives of our Imperial soldiers? Don’t make me laugh!”

“Gh...” Biting his lip, Tir gripped his staff.

If my father stands in my way as General Teo, then... I only have one choice.

“Lord Tir, please do not take part in this foolishness!” shouted Mathiu, seeing Tir ready to leap into action. “Viktor! Take down General Teo!”

Viktor hesitated at Mathiu’s sudden order. He looked to Tir and, at a small nod from him, moved his unit back. Flik’s unit moved back next. Then Humphrey, Kai, and Varkas’ units. The soldiers ringed around them, forming a gaping circle.

Teo, too, motioned to Alen and Grenseal to move back, creating their own circle. At the center of that circle, he dismounted his horse. Tir stared at Teo, who cut a majestic and imposing figure even surrounded on all sides by an enemy army. Quietly, he said to Mathiu, “Please, Mathiu... step back.”

“But, Lord Tir...” his tactician protested.

“It’s okay, Mathiu. I won’t lose. I’ll win, for everyone’s sake. Please. Believe in me.”

Mathiu was silent. Looking down, he moved his horse back.

“Thank you, Mathiu.” Holding his staff tight, Tir got off his horse and stepped forward to stand in front of Teo.

Right now, I am no longer Teo’s son, Tir. I am Tir McDohl, leader of the Liberation Army.

----

“Ryaaah!” Teo rushed out with all the force of a furious gale. Undaunted, Tir also leapt forward.

CRACK!

They clashed with enough force to shatter their weapons. Teo wielded his sword with lightning speed. Tir deflected it with his staff.

He exchanged a flurry of blows with Teo, surprised at the weight of the sword behind each attack. He parried the blow each time, but the blade bit into his staff more than he had expected it to. The shock of the impact was transmitted along the length of the rod. If he made a single wrong move, it would be sheared completely in half.

“Yah!” In the moments between Teo’s attack, Tir whipped out with his staff to attack as well. But Teo blocked each one with ease. He wasn’t called ‘The Invincible General’ for nothing. As they fought, Tir realized just how strong a warrior Teo really was.

“Graah!”

Teo slashed with his sword again, catching Tir off guard. He blocked the edge of the blade with this staff. The blade grazed his forehead and he shivered, chilled. Then Teo lunged again with his blade, this time aiming for Tir’s side. Flustered, Tir blocked that, too. He was only on the defensive.

Just as he began to wonder whether he could ever defeat Teo, suddenly... In the break between the swoosh of Teo’s sword slashing by, Tir thought he heard a little voice cheering him on. “You can do it, Tir!”

Who was that?

Perhaps it was Viktor.

Maybe it was Cleo.

Or else that was Gremio, Odessa, and Ted’s voices...

The moment he thought of their faces, emotion welled in his breast.

They’re the reason I’m fighting so hard.

“Yaaaaah!” Tir moved into the offensive. He no longer thought of anything. For their sake, for himself, he aimed his staff at the man standing in front of him.

Every time his staff struck Teo’s armor, it was as if he was smashing away at the sorrow that filled his soul. Every time Teo’s sword pushed back at him, it was as if the dam gates of that sadness burst open and flooded his heart anew.

Teo looked as though he was thinking along similar lines. “For His Majesty!” he roared, glaring at Tir. “I will destroy you!” He wielded his sword with vigor once again. They fought fiercely for a time. Forgetting the fact that Teo was his father. Giving up on the fact that Tir was his son. There was nothing between them but the violent exchange of blows.

All the generals and all their soldiers held their breath as they watched this fight unfold. But before long, it became obvious who the victor would be. Teo fought like a wild beast, gradually driving Tir back. He counterattacked as best he could, but Tir had to retreat bit by bit, until he stood directly in front of the soldiers.

I’ve got to do something...

Clenching his jaw hard, Tir grunted, steeling himself. He put everything he had into this one strike against Teo. “Hah!”

He put it all on the line—if this failed, there would be no second chances. But Teo dodged his blow. Tir was left wide open.

Teo readied his sword. “This is farewell, son!” he yelled. The image of Teo raising his sword high overhead reflected in Tir’s pupils, his eyes open wide in fear.

That was when he saw it.

Teo had just called him son. Perhaps it had been meant as one final, parting kindness. But that kindness signaled both a weakening of Teo’s heart and a weakening of his defenses.

And Tir caught it. Teo’s left side was wide open.

Only a handful of days ago, Kai had taught him about the weak points on that side of the body. One hit to that vital spot could be a killing blow.

“Uwaaah!” cried Tir, squeezing his eyes closed tight. In the darkness, Tir gripped his staff tight and swung it at Teo.

ーーー

Something heavy hit the earth with a thud.

Tir heard the sound, his eyes still shut, the shock of the impact still reverberating through his arms. He was surrounded on all sides by the cheers of the soldiers, but it was just meaningless background noise. He slowly opened his eyes.

His father, his glittering armor, his sword... all lay quietly on the ground, atop the grass soaked in the blood of soldiers.

“Father... father!” He threw down his staff and rushed over to Teo’s side.

Alan and Grenseal dashed over, too. “Lord Teo!”

Cleo, Flik, and Viktor also ran to them. “Lord Teo!”

“Father!” Among everyone’s cries, Teo quietly opened his eyes and stared up at Tir, his eyes filled with kindness. “Tir... you’ve grown... so strong...”

The moment he heard those words, the tears brimming in Tir’s eyes spilled over and fell. The man in front of him was no longer General Teo. He was Teo, Tir’s father. “Father...”

“Tir... what are you crying for? Haven’t I always told you... boys don’t cry? Whatever happens... you grit your teeth... and bear it. You really have... gotten so much stronger...”

Looking at Tir, overcome with tears, Teo smiled. It was, without a doubt, the smile of a father gazing at his son. His benevolent, brave smile soon turned to a grimace of pain as his breathing grew ragged. But Teo opened his mouth and, impossibly, laughed. “It is when we fight... that men grow strong. Tir... I just want to... say this one... last thing to you...”

“What is it, father?”

“I knew you had joined the Liberation Army. I know why you did it, how you were driven out of the capital... and that it was all on false charges...”

“What...?” Tir was kneeling by his father’s side, his eyes shut. But no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, it didn’t stop the tears from leaking out. “Father, why...? If you knew of all the horrible things the Empire is doing now, then how could you still support them?”

“You understand why... better than anyone, don’t you?”

Something brushed Tir’s face softly. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Teo’s hand outstretched, wiping away his tears.

“I live for what I believe in. I fight for what I believe in. That’s all. just like how you fight for the Liberation Army, Tir...”

Tir put his hand over his father’s hand, the hand that had so lovingly caressed his cheek. “I understand, father.”

“This is where... my fight ends. I have no regrets. Tir. You live for what you believe in, too. Do that, and you’ll always have my blessing. Because this is the path you have chosen, my son...”

“Father...” As Teo’s voice grew weaker, Tir squeezed his hand harder. His father’s big, warm hands. The same hands and arms that had held him as a child.

But these hands that had supported Tir had also supported the Empire. Now they were smeared with the battlefield’s muck and the blood that had poured from the soldiers. Tir’s tears fell on his father’s hand again.

“Lord Teo! Hold on, please!” shouted Cleo.

His gaze quietly shifted to her. “Cleo... please... keep watching over Tir... for me...”

“Of course I will, Lord Teo...” Tears spilled from her eyes.

Teo was wracked with a violent cough. He looked to his two right-hand men. “Alan, Grenseal...”

“We’re here, Lord Teo.”

“I have a request... for both of you...”

“What is it, my Lord?” asked Grenseal.

“No one can stop the flow of time... I fought for His Majesty, I fought for the man himself... not for the title. I was being stubborn. But you two don’t have to be. I want you to join the Liberation Army, to help Tir. For your own sake, as well...”

“Gh...” The two commanders dropped to their knees beside Tir.

The Liberation Army soldiers also quieted down, like an ocean growing calm. It was as if they were honoring Teo’s passing; the death of an enemy general who, even when it was down to just him alone, did not run but fought to the end.

“Father…”

“Tir… my son… don’t shed any more tears.” He squeezed Tir’s hand weakly once more. “I am happy. For a father, getting to see the moment... when his son surpasses him... is the greatest joy...”

Teo’s hand lost its grip.

“Father! No!” howled Tir. “You can’t die!”

But Teo’s eyes stayed shut.

“Keep fighting... my beloved... son.”

“Father...! Father!”

Tir held Teo tight. Heedless of the gore-spattered armor smearing red across his cheeks, Tir rocked his father’s body back and forth. But Teo did not stir.

“Father…” Tir called out once more, weakly.

Suddenly, something strange happened to his body. A dazzling light shone from the back of his right hand, even through the leather glove he wore. “What the—?”

He felt a searing pain, as if the back of his hand were on fire. The pain shot up to his elbow, his shoulder, his chest—soon it enveloped his whole body.

He didn’t even have time to cry out. He collapsed on top of Teo and lost consciousness.

ーーー

Voices reverberated in the dark.

What in the world happened to Lord Tir?

I don’t know... a light suddenly shot out of the back of his right hand...

Half in and out of fuzzy consciousness, he listened to the conversation. One speaker was elderly, while the other, uneasy voice belonged to a young woman. As Tir fought to stop the darkness surrounding him on all sides from swooping in again, the conversation went on.

Well, no need to worry. What the lad needs now is some good rest.

Thank you, Master Liukan.

Tir finally regained consciousness. The elderly voice belonged to Liukan, and the young woman was probably Cleo.

“Urgh...” Tir groaned. He heard the light pitter-patter of feet as someone came over to him.

“Lord Tir, please don’t push yourself.” Cleo drew close and looked into Tir’s eyes, her expression worried.

“Cleo... where are we...?”

“We’re in your room in the castle, Lord Tir.”

“When did I...” Tir tried to move, but his limbs refused to listen to him. His body felt as heavy as lead. “Ugh...”

“You mustn't move yet!” Flustered, Cleo held Tir’s shoulders and tucked him back into the bed. “You collapsed on the battlefield. We carried you here. You’ve been asleep the whole time. I didn’t know what to think for a while there...” She sighed. “But it’s all okay now. Don’t push yourself. Just focus on resting up and recovering.”

“Thank you, Cleo...” Tir sighed, too. He craned his neck to see out the window. The sun was already sinking, the sky glowing with sunset. “Cleo...”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but could you let me be alone for a while?”

“Of course,” she said, after a slight hesitation. “I’ll be in the corridor, so if you need me, just ring this bell.” She placed the small bell beside Tir’s pillow and left the room.

The door snicked shut. Tir stared at it for a moment, then let out a big sigh.

How did it come to this?

He gazed up at the sooty ceiling and thought back over everything that had happened, all of their battles.

It all started with becoming leader of the Liberation Army. The Great Forest, the Garan Checkpoint... Those battles were difficult, but we kept winning. We were defeated at Scarletia Castle, but with Liukan’s help we were eventually able to bring it down.

Teo’s army crushed our forces, too, but with the fire spears and Kun To’s lake pirates we were even able to defeat the armored cavalry units, said to be the strongest in the Empire.

Their allies grew by the day, and the momentum of the Liberation Army was boundless. However, seemingly in direct proportion to that momentum, Tir had suffered losses one after the other.

Gremio. Then my father. You could dismiss it all as “fate”, but...

Tir sighed again and the sheets rustled as he lifted his hands. His right hand still felt like lead. He placed it on his chest. His left hand lay on top of the blanket. He put his right hand over his left, the right still clad in its leather glove.

Since Tir had parted ways with Ted, he had almost never gone without his glove. He was afraid of the Soul Eater Rune and its powers. Looking at it never failed to remind him of Ted. But now, he couldn’t help but take off the glove.

Odessa’s death had been the first. Whenever someone important to him died, the back of his right hand felt weird. He hadn’t noticed it so strongly when Odessa had died, but with Gremio he had felt a burning pain, and when his father died, the back of his hand had begun to glow.

Just what secrets does this rune hold...?

Tir slowly took off his glove. He turned his hand around to look at the back, afraid of what he would see there.

When he had gotten the Soul Eater from Ted, he was sure it had been black. Now it seemed to emit a faint glow. He felt a deep uneasiness steal into his heart.

“Tir...” In the empty room, a woman’s gentle voice called out his name softly.

“Lady Leknaat.” At Tir’s reply, a dazzling light scattered about the room. The lights gathered together into one point in the middle of the room and gradually took on human shape, eventually resolving into the form of Lady Leknaat herself.

“Tir...” Lady Leknaat murmured his name again as she walked over to his bed. “I watched over your battle from afar. You fought well. Both you and your father.”

As she spoke, Leknaat held her hand to Tir’s forehead. Little sparks of light spilled from the palm of her hand, like countless stars in the night sky. His body, which had felt so heavy, began to feel a little lighter.

“What in the world did you just do?”

Leknaat smiled at the wonder in Tir’s voice. “That is the power of my rune.” She touched Tir’s body gently, moving her hand down to grasp his own. His right hand lay atop the blanket, his rune laid bare. “The Soul Eater... I sense a strong power in this rune. It is what has caused your body to grow so unbalanced. I have restrained its power slightly, so all will be well. You will be back to normal in a little while.”

“Lady Leknaat...” Unable to bear it any longer, he finally asked. “What is the Soul Eater? Ever since I received this rune from Ted, I’ve lost so many people I love. And when they pass away, this rune... aches. Please tell me... what does it mean, Lady Leknaat?”

“Tir...” Grasping the Soul Eater tightly in her hand, Leknaat spoke. “It seems the time has come to speak to you.”

“To speak to me? About what?”

“About me, and about my older sister, Windy. And why she is so bent on obtaining this rune...”

Tir said nothing, staring at her. For he had long harbored doubts about this as well.

Leknaat was silent for a moment, then began her story. “My sister Windy and I are the last remaining members of the Gate Rune Clan. Long ago, our relatives were massacred at the hands of the Holy Harmonia Empire, which lays in the far north. All because the Harmonian Empire coveted the power of our runes.”

“That’s awful...”

“I think Windy’s actions may be due to the grudge she bears. The “front” half of the Gate Rune my sister bears is not enough for her. She also covets the “back” half that I possess in order to obtain a full true rune and all the power it grants.”

“You mean, Windy...?”

“Yes. She plans to use a true rune to exact her revenge. Since I shut myself away in my Magician’s Tower and erected a barrier all around it, my sister has been scouring the world for other True Runes scattered around the world. And what she found... was the Soul Eater.”

“I see.”

“However, Tir...” Leknaat let go of the Soul Eater. “The power of true runes is too great a thing for humans to bear. If my sister obtains two true runes and uses that power to enact her revenge, it may bring calamity upon the world. But you, Tir... you can stop her.”

Tir propped himself up, gazing at the Soul Eater.

Leknaat went on. “It is no easy task, for you must wage war on two fronts. One is your battle against the Empire, and the other is with my sister. But as far as I can see, this battle has only one conclusion.”

Leknaat took one step backward, then turned toward Tir and smiled. “Tir... I have pointed you toward the right path.” As Leknaat spoke those words, she once again scattered into lights around his chambers.

“Wait, please!” Tir clambered out of bed unsteadily and stumbled toward Leknaat. “Please tell me... just what is the Soul Eater? What kind of power hides within it? If I don’t know that, I can’t...”

“Tir...” Leknaat’s voice floated back to him from within the light. “What did Ted tell you about the rune?”

Tir thought back to what Ted had said, and tried to quote him word for word. “He said that the Soul Eater is a cursed rune...”

“That may be so. I’m sorry, Tir, but I do not know any more than that myself.” Even as she answered, Leknaat’s body was further enveloped in light. The light she emitted was dazzling.

“But, Lady Leknaat—!”

“Tir. You will be able to control the Soul Eater’s power. Just remember, you must never lose hope.”

“Lady Leknaat!”

Even as Tir called out, the light disappeared.

Lady Leknaat was nowhere to be seen.

[ VOLUME 2 ★ END ]

***

お疲れ様でした！！！ヽ(^o^)丿

*** Table of Contents

★ Chapters 0-1 ★ Chapters 2-3 ★ Chapters 4-5 ★ Chapters 6-7 ★ Chapters 8-9 ★ Chapters 10-11 ★ Chapters 12-13 ★ Chapters 14-15 ★ Chapters 16-17 ★ Chapters 18-19 ★ Chapter 20

«-first // archive // Ramsus-kun Scanslations

#Suikoden #Soul Eater #Chapter 21 #Light novel #translation #English #I really enjoyed translating the scene with Leknaat #What were your favorite scenes in volume 2??

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