Chapter 35 - Translation

Chapter 35: Burial The rain beat down upon the fort. Wind buffeted the trees in the forest and the walls creaked incessantly. Lightning flashed across the sky and its thunder was heard far and wide. But Leon barely acknowledged any of it. He still sat slumped against the obelisk, not caring about the rain that soaked his clothes or the wind that howled in his ears. His father had died. Leon didn’t need to see him to know; he could feel it. He didn’t cry or curse his enemies. He just sat there, unmoving. The storm eventually passed, Leon didn’t notice when. He must’ve fallen asleep at some point because suddenly the sun was shining down on his face. He was still holding the heartwood seeds. The golden seed pulsed with light and heat, while the black seed felt cold and icy. Leon gripped the seeds tighter, turned his eyes towards the door to Artorias’ house, and steeled himself for what he now had to do. He began moving his stiff body, struggled to his feet, and shook his limbs awake. He slowly walked to Artorias’ house, stopping just before the door. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open, then walked inside. Unlike Leon’s house, Artorias’ bedroom and living room weren’t separated, so Leon saw his father immediately. Artorias was still lying in bed, looking almost like he was peacefully sleeping if it weren’t for the grayish tone his skin had taken on. Leon knew he was gone, but just to be sure, he checked Artorias’ pulse and made sure he wasn’t breathing. Then, he carefully removed the fur blanket covering him and gingerly picked his father up, hooking his arm around Artorias’ cold back and legs. Leon carried Artorias back outside and laid him down on the stone slab that Artorias used to cook on. Leon had no intention of ever using the slab for cooking again, so he didn’t much care about keeping it clean. He retrieved his hunting knife from his house and came back outside, looking like he was sharpening it on a whetstone. He walked back to the slab and continued to sharpen his knife. Leon’s face was stony and detached, but the irregular clinking of the knife against the stone betrayed his agitation; he was going through the motions of sharpening the knife, but his hands were shaking. He stood there, pretending to sharpen his knife for several more minutes, but he couldn’t stall forever. Eventually, he put the whetstone down and took a deep breath. Leon had no experience cutting open a person, but he had skinned many an animal in his years of hunting, so he had some confidence he could do this. He placed the blade of his knife against Artorias’ abdomen, just under the sternum, bit the inside of his cheek to banish the last of his reluctance, and put pressure down on the knife. The blade slowly sank into Artorias’ skin and Leon carefully sliced downward, until he had enough room to reach his hand in. As Leon began reaching his knife hand into Artorias’ chest, slowly moving organs and cutting through muscle, he didn’t realize he was being watched. Deep within his soul realm, his ancestor observed everything. The Thunderbird seethed and stewed in its anger, flying in tight circles around that tiny island in the mist. It had been watching the decline of its clan for years beyond counting and seeing one of the last of its descendants fall destroyed its usually aloof nature. Lightning arced throughout Leon’s soul realm as the Thunderbird watched Leon prepare Artorias for burial. After a few more laps around the island and watching Leon fumble uncertainly with his knife, the Thunderbird finally lost its last tiny reserve of patience and landed on top of the throne. It stared down at the figure of Leon sitting on the throne with his eyes closed, and lightning began surging out from its feathers and into the young man. Outside of his soul realm, Leon grew momentarily nauseous and he stumbled back a little. Then, his eyes glazed over and the shaking in his hands stopped. Just as reached back towards Artorias, he heard a voice. [Don’t remove his heart. Cut it open and place the heartwood seed within.] The voice was incredibly deep and inhumanely resonant. Leon was sure without a shadow of a doubt that he’d never heard it before. But, he implicitly trusted it. He could feel that it meant him no harm and that it knew far more about this matter than he did. But, the Thunderbird would take measures to ensure Leon forgot the voice once he was done. It had a reputation to maintain, after all. Leon hadn’t created a magic body yet; the type of artificial magic body he currently possessed was just a weak thing many ancestors would often create for their descendants, so they could access their soul realms during bloodline awakenings. Only an exceptionally powerful soul residing within a weaker soul realm can create something like this, and it allows the one who made it certain advantages. For instance, the Thunderbird was currently using this direct connection between it and Leon’s mind to suppress Leon’s emotions, allowing the young mage to work without the sorrow and anger he felt affecting him. This connection also allowed it to speak to Leon. The old legends Leon was familiar with had changed throughout the millennia, and the information presented within wasn’t quite accurate. The Thunderbird corrected Leon, as the heart should never be removed when burying someone with a heartwood seed. The proper ceremony was for the seed to take root within the heart, not replace it. With the help of his ancestor, Leon’s work rapidly sped up. He quickly located Artorias’ heart and made a small incision with his knife. Then, he removed his hand, put down the knife, and grabbed the golden heartwood seed. He supposed that the black seed would’ve worked, too, but he wouldn’t feel right using it. The golden seed was for more appropriate for a burial worthy of divinity. With the utmost care, Leon slid the heartwood seed into the hole he’d cut into Artorias’ heart and removed his hand for the final time. With that, the most uncomfortable part was over. Leon went back into Artorias’ house, grabbed a shirt, and pulled it over his father. For a brief moment, Leon contemplated making a casket with some of the scrap wood, but then he heard that deep voice from within again. [The aura of the seed will surround him. He will be untouched by decay.] So, without a need for a casket, Leon moved on to the last item on the agenda: where to lay Artorias to rest. And he knew exactly where. He walked right up to the obelisk and located a runic circle near the bottom that was on the opposite side from the others that controlled the obelisk’s functions. Leon placed his hand within and began channeling his magic into it, causing it to activate. There was a slight delay of about five seconds, enough to make sure that the activation wasn’t by accident, and then Leon removed his hand. The circle glowed a dark red, and after a few seconds, cracks rapidly spread out from it and spiderwebbed all over the obelisk, shattering it into countless pieces. The heightened magic density in the air due to the obelisk immediately rushed outwards now that the obelisk was gone, and Leon could sense that the aura chasing away the forest monsters was now coming solely from the wards in the walls. Leon began kicking and throwing away the shards and chunks of the obelisk, and after grabbing a shovel from the remnants of the storage shed plus ten minutes of digging, he found a large wooden box beneath the remains of the obelisk’s stone base. He pulled the box out of the seven-foot-deep hole he was in and set it aside for the moment. This was it, right in the center of the fort was where he would bury his father. Leon cleared away a few more bits of stone, making enough room for Artorias, and he respectfully placed his father within. Half an hour with a shovel got him enough dirt to cover the grave, and for a finishing touch, Leon used the loose rocks and broken stones from the obelisk to construct a small cairn above the grave. With the deed done, Leon finally internalized that it had happened. Since the day before, there had been a large part of him that wasn’t quite accepting the events of the past couple of days, but now he was coming to terms with reality. Within his soul realm, the Thunderbird stopped suppressing Leon’s emotions, but it wasn’t done exerting its influence over its descendant. The bright mists surrounding the island darkened in an instant, causing rain to fall and wind to pick up. But, most startling of all was that lightning began to strike the throne, and more importantly, Leon. The young man himself didn’t realize it in the state he was in, barely registering anything outside of staring at the cairn, but his body became flooded with magic power, far more than when the obelisk was increasing magic density in the area. This magic spread throughout his body, fusing with his blood and coursing through his veins. It was absorbed by his internal organs and much of it was even stored in his heart. But, most critically, it was seeping into his bones. After the ritual, Leon was well on his way to becoming a third-tier mage, he just needed a bit more time to allow his bones to adapt to his magic. But now, with the help of the Thunderbird, his body was overflowing with magic and a great deal of that magic was being consciously directed by the Thunderbird into Leon’s bones. The Thunderbird had taken off and was flying around the island again, but it was still very easily controlling its magic, using it to benefit its descendant. But, for the briefest of moments, a reddish-orange light pierced through the storm clouds, bathing the island in light, then disappeared as fast as it had come. The Thunderbird lazily turned its head in the direction the light had come from, but nothing could be seen. The dark clouds were thick, and no more light was shining through. But, the Thunderbird could still vaguely sense it, the other in the mists. [Finally feel like joining us?] the Thunderbird asked, its voice casually booming and echoing throughout Leon’s soul realm, but its question was met with silence. [I guess not. Does it truly mar your pride so much that our descendants actually produced such a miracle? How many childless marriages have our lines had?] The Thunderbird waited for an answer it knew wasn’t going to come before continuing. [Shall I take this as you not knowing? Well, well, well, look who isn’t so infallible now.] It chuckled to itself, though its avian face couldn’t smile or make anything resembling human emotion. [Well I know how rare such a child is. And he needs some help. I will show him my favor and promote him to the third-tier of the magic realm.] The Thunderbird once again glanced out into the distance, towards the eyes it knew were closed. [You should do something, as well. He awakened his blood, that you now deny him his own power actually sickens me a little. Ah, well. Not like I can force you to do anything. But I will continue watching over this growing lion. I must do this, he is my last descendant. Or the last with awakened blood and thus the only one that matters, anyway. All my other branches have seen too many dormant generations to awaken their power, now…] It morbidly laughed to itself at the capriciousness of the universe and calmly watched the lightning fall upon Leon. [My last true descendant. And to think, my clan was once one of the mightiest in existence, ruling great swathes of the Nexus and had subjugated entire planes! They even outnumbered your clan at their peak. And now this young man is all that’s left.] As the Thunderbird immersed itself in memories of a more glorious time, the lightning stopped crashing down upon the throne, the rain stopped pouring, and the wind died down. The Thunderbird had stopped flooding Leon’s body with magic. It no longer needed to, given what it could sense coming from Leon’s bones. It took one last look in the direction that light had come from, but after seeing nothing, the Thunderbird flew back out into the mists.

**Chapitre 35 : L'inhumation** La pluie fouettait les remparts du fort avec violence. Le vent cognait contre les troncs des arbres environnants tandis que les murailles gémissaient sous l’assaut des rafales. Des éclairs zébraient le ciel en une danse chaotique, accompagnés par le grondement sourd du tonnerre au lointain. Pourtant, Leon semblait à peine conscient de cette tempête. Affalé contre l’obélisque, il demeurait indifférent à l’eau glacée qui imbibait ses vêtements et au hurlement du vent lui cinglant les oreilles. Son père était mort. Il n’avait nul besoin de le constater pour en être certain—il le sentait, viscéralement. Ni larmes ni imprécations contre ses ennemis ne lui venaient. Il restait là, immobile, comme pétrifié. La tempête finit par s’apaiser sans qu’il ne s’en rende compte. Il avait dû sombrer dans le sommeil à un moment donné, car lorsqu’il rouvrit les yeux, la lumière dorée du soleil caressait son visage. Les graines de Cœurbois étaient toujours serrées dans sa paume. La première irradiait d’une chaleur lumineuse, tandis que la seconde exhalait un froid mordant. Les doigts de Leon se resserrèrent sur elles avant qu’il ne tourne son regard vers la porte de la maison d’Artorias. Il inhala profondément, s’armant mentalement pour l’épreuve à venir. D’un mouvement lent, il étira son corps ankylosé, se redressant avec peine. Après avoir secoué ses membres engourdis, il avança d’un pas mesuré vers la demeure paternelle. Arrivé devant l’entrée, il marqua une pause, puis poussa la porte d’un geste résolu. Contrairement à sa propre maison, celle d’Artorias ne comportait pas de séparation entre la chambre et le salon. Ainsi, le corps de son père apparut immédiatement dans son champ de vision. Allongé sur le lit, Artorias semblait plongé dans un sommeil paisible, si ce n’était la pâleur cadavérique qui avait remplacé les teints chauds de sa peau. Bien que convaincu de sa mort, Leon vérifia néanmoins son pouls et l’absence de respiration. Puis, avec une douceur infinie, il retira la couverture en fourrure qui l’enveloppait et glissa un bras sous son dos, un autre sous ses jambes, le soulevant avec précaution. Il le transporta jusqu’à l’extérieur et le déposa sur la dalle de pierre qu’Artorias utilisait autrefois pour cuisiner. Peu lui importait de la souiller désormais—elle ne servirait plus à cet usage. Retournant chez lui, Leon saisit son couteau de chasse avant de revenir près de la dalle. Il simula l’aiguisage de la lame contre une pierre à affûter, le cliquetis irrégulier du métal trahissant son agitation intérieure. Ses gestes étaient mécaniques, mais ses mains tremblaient malgré lui. Il prolongea cette feinte pendant de longues minutes, sachant pertinemment qu’il ne pourrait repousser l’inévitable indéfiniment. Finalement, il déposa la pierre et inspira à fond. S’il n’avait jamais pratiqué de dissection humaine, ses années de chasse lui avaient enseigné l’art de dépecer les bêtes. Il plaça la pointe du couteau contre l’abdomen d’Artorias, juste sous le sternum, mordit l’intérieur de sa joue pour affermir sa résolution, et enfonça la lame. Elle pénétra lentement dans la chair, et Leon entailla avec une précision méthodique, jusqu’à pouvoir y glisser la main. Alors qu’il commençait à explorer la cavité thoracique, déplaçant les organes et sectionnant les muscles, il ignorait qu’il était observé. Au plus profond de son royaume spirituel, son ancêtre surveillait chaque geste. L’Oiseau-Tonnerre tournoyait, empli d’une rage sourde, ses cercles de plus en plus serrés autour de l’île embrumée. Des siècles durant, il avait assisté au déclin de son lignage, mais voir l’un de ses derniers héritiers succomber avait ébranlé sa froideur habituelle. Des éclairs zébraient l’espace spirituel tandis qu’il observait Leon préparer Artorias pour l’inhumation. Après quelques révolutions supplémentaires, voyant son descendant hésiter maladroitement, l’Oiseau-Tonnerre perdit patience. Il se posa sur le trône, fixant la silhouette de Leon, et libéra des éclairs qui jaillirent de ses plumes pour s’infuser en lui. Dehors, Leon vacilla sous une vague de nausée, puis son regard s’éclaircit. Ses mains cessèrent de trembler. Alors qu’il se penchait à nouveau vers Artorias, une voix retentit. [Ne retire pas son cœur. Ouvre-le et place la graine de Cœurbois à l’intérieur.] La voix était d’une profondeur abyssale, presque surhumaine. Leon ne l’avait jamais entendue auparavant, pourtant une certitude instinctive lui disait de s’y fier. Il savait qu’elle ne lui voulait aucun mal et détenait une sagesse supérieure. Mais l’Oiseau-Tonnerre veillerait à ce qu’il l’oublie une fois l’acte accompli—il avait une réputation à préserver, après tout. Leon n’avait pas encore forgé de corps magique ; celui qu’il possédait n’était qu’une création rudimentaire, façonnée par ses ancêtres pour permettre l’accès au royaume spirituel lors des éveils de lignage. Seule une âme exceptionnellement puissante pouvait façonner une telle passerelle dans un royaume aussi faible, conférant des avantages uniques à son créateur. En l’occurrence, l’Oiseau-Tonnerre exploitait ce lien pour étouffer les émotions de Leon, permettant au jeune mage d’agir sans être paralysé par le chagrin ou la colère. Ce même canal lui permettait aussi de lui parler. Les légendes que connaissait Leon avaient été déformées par les millénaires—l’Oiseau-Tonnerre rectifia : lors d’une inhumation avec une graine de Cœurbois, il fallait l’implanter dans le cœur, jamais le remplacer. Guidé par son ancêtre, Leon accéléra. Il localisa le cœur d’Artorias, y pratiqua une incision précise, puis saisit la graine dorée. La noire aurait pu fonctionner, mais il n’aurait pu s’y résoudre. La dorée convenait mieux à une inhumation digne d’un demi-dieu. Avec une délicatesse infinie, il inséra la graine dans le cœur et se retira. L’épreuve la plus ardue était passée. Leon retourna dans la maison, prit une chemise et en recouvrit son père. Un instant, il envisagea de construire un cercueil, mais la voix résonna à nouveau : [L’aura de la graine le protégera. La décomposition l’épargnera.] N’ayant plus besoin de cercueil, il passa à l’ultime étape : le lieu de repos. Et il savait exactement où. Il s’approcha de l’obélisque, repérant un cercle runique dissimulé à sa base, distinct de ceux contrôlant ses fonctions. Il y apposa sa main, y canalisant sa magie. Un délai de cinq secondes s’écoula—mesure de sécurité contre les activations accidentelles—puis il retira sa paume. Le cercle s’embrasa d’un rouge sombre. Des fissures se propagèrent en toile d’araignée, fracturant l’obélisque en une myriade d’éclats. La densité magique environnante se dissipa aussitôt, et Leon sentit que l’aura repoussant les monstres ne provenait désormais que des murs. Il écarta les débris à coups de pied, dégagea une pelle dans les ruines du hangar et creusa pendant dix minutes avant de découvrir un coffre de bois sous les vestiges de la base. Il l’extirpa du trou de deux mètres et le mit de côté. C’est ici, au cœur même du fort, qu’il enterrerait son père. Il déblaya les pierres restantes, y déposa Artorias avec révérence, puis passa une demi-heure à combler la tombe. Enfin, il érigea un cairn avec les fragments de l’obélisque. L’acte accompli, la réalité le frappa de plein fouet. Depuis la veille, une part de lui refusait d’admettre les événements, mais plus maintenant. Dans son royaume spirituel, l’Oiseau-Tonnerre cessa de supprimer ses émotions, mais son influence persistait. Les brumes lumineuses s’obscurcirent instantanément, déclenchant une pluie battante et un vent furieux. Surtout, des éclairs se mirent à frapper le trône—et Leon lui-même. Absorbé par sa contemplation du cairn, le jeune homme ne perçut pas immédiatement le flot de magie qui inondait son corps, surpassant de loin celui de l’obélisque. Cette énergie fusionna avec son sang, imprégna ses organes, s’accumula dans son cœur—et surtout, s’infiltra dans ses os. Avant le rituel, Leon était sur le point d’atteindre le troisième niveau magique. Désormais, sous l’égide de l’Oiseau-Tonnerre, son corps en regorgeait, et son ancêtre en canalisait une part cruciale vers sa structure osseuse. L’Oiseau-Tonnerre planait toujours, dirigeant la magie à son profit. Soudain, une lueur rouge-orange perça les nuages, baignant l’île d’une clarté fugace avant de s’évanouir. L’ancêtre tourna la tête vers son origine, mais ne vit rien. Les nuées étaient trop épaisses. Pourtant, il percevait encore cette présence lointaine dans les brumes. [Enfin décidé à nous rejoindre ?] Sa voix résonna avec désinvolture, mais aucune réponse ne vint. [Ton orgueil est-il si blessé que nos lignées aient engendré un tel prodige ? Combien de mariages stériles avons-nous endurés ?] Silence. [Ignorerais-tu cela ? Voilà qui ternit ta réputation d’infaillibilité.] Un ricanement intérieur—son visage d’oiseau ne pouvait sourire. [Je sais la rareté d’un tel héritier. Il a besoin d’aide. Je lui accorderai ma faveur et le mènerai au troisième niveau.] Son regard se porta à nouveau vers l’invisible. [Agis, toi aussi. Il a éveillé son sang. Lui refuser son dû me dégoûte. Mais je ne peux te forcer. Je veillerai sur ce lion en devenir. Il est mon dernier vrai descendant—le seul dont le sang s’est éveillé. Les autres branches sont trop affaiblies.] Un rire amer face aux caprices du destin. [Mon clan régnait jadis sur des plans entiers, surpassant même le tien à son apogée. Et aujourd’hui, il ne reste que ce garçon.] Alors qu’il s’abîmait dans ses souvenirs, les éclairs s’estompèrent, la pluie cessa, le vent tomba. L’ancêtre avait fini d’inonder Leon de magie—ses os avaient suffisamment absorbé. Un dernier regard vers les brumes, puis l’Oiseau-Tonnerre s’éleva à nouveau, disparaissant dans les nuées.