Chains, Scars, And Pride

"Bring with you three things: The sword, the purse, and your life. The sword for money, the purse for whores, and your life for both."

~Invocation of the Sword and Purse, also known as every sellsword's rite of passage

Source

)0(

"Hey wake up, Aera!"

It was her again… Ji'Yeon’s annoying sister. It has been three days since Aeravor agreed to Ji'Yeon’s request. As a sellsword, the world was his home. As an individual, he was never one to owe a debt. Even though that stupid girl promised not to write it down, the Vánagandr still felt terribly annoyed. Annoyed at her for being such a busybody and annoyed at himself for being so easily persuaded. Yet, he acknowledged there was something in her which attracted him. It wasn’t her beauty, for he paid before whores more attractive than her and blessed with experience. It wasn’t her inner fire, for Ineis displayed it before.

For the first time in his life, the wolf was cornered. Facing the known has never been a problem, for his years were spent laughing at death itself. It was the unknown which unsettled him, something in her that could not be seen. It was both a feeling of dread and one of hope, a contradiction unto itself. Aeravor was no stranger to paradox. He himself was one, every mortal likewise the same. Yet, this was a monster totally different.

)0(

The village of Enosh is one used to peace and quiet. Yet, every man and boy has to take up arms. Tranquillity to every manner of bandits is an excuse. It is a reason to loot and burn, a justification to kill, rape, and enslave. No one in the Empire has ever tried counting how many attacks have been launched, neither does anyone ever attempt to fathom a guess how many settlements were sacked or successfully defended. The authorities never say anything, the only notable move made is to ensure rebuilding is never to be stopped. Then there are the mounties, specially trained forces to counter such raids. At the same time, military troops are also required to help if deployment becomes a problem deemed unsolvable. Rebuilding requires money and there is a saying: "A wise man builds bridges, but a successful one chooses wisely his bet".

"Thanks, looney old man."

Before a statement of gratitude rudely put, Hannya gives a grin. He remembers the first question Lars asked him, days after he took in a boy with neither kin nor a home. As a Cinha, he was brutally disfigured over a crime he did not commit. Treason may be tempting, but the punishment is never pretty. Half of his face has been burnt, his right arm severed at the shoulder. Countless years have passed, the one who framed him most likely resting six feet under a whitewashed tomb instead of at some commoners’ graveyard. So much for justice.

"Are we born like that?"

He wasn’t interested in the repulsive, but rather the destructive. A power which wiped out both demons and victims alike, a violent force taking away more than just countless lives. This was also the first question Hannya asked his teacher when he claimed his first kill. The second one was, "Why always me?"

Demon hunters are doomed to be cursed, the source of their anguish lying in their blood. Hannya never knew what his father was thinking when he had sex with a female Vánagandr, a mother whose face he has never seen. His own people call them the Jinroh, but he prefers calling them the Wolf Brigade, the same term Kalarans use for a race both elven and not.

"You’re welcomed, brat. I’ve convinced Flaive not to make noise and try killing you."

"Only because you hypnotised that guy," smirks Lars Alterfate as he sips his tea, "I hope you never use that on anyone to tend your garden."

"You’re never one to commit rape, Lars. Whoremonger, yes. Rapist, no. I’ve seen you grow up from a boy to a man. And that includes being a lad in between."

Lars can only afford to laugh at his teacher’s words. This is the only person whom he regards as a father, the rest be damned. He recalls that disapproving frown from the local parish, his displeasure always finding joy in comparing a struggler’s worth with that of the rest. Those of his age looked down on him, those of senior age faked themselves as people of wisdom and truth. Lars never knew his real parents. Even until now, he doesn’t know a thing about them. He chose not to hate anyone. Even until now, he chooses not to. They didn’t do anything for him, they never gave him a reason to warrant forgiveness. However, Ji'Yeon managed to convince the demon hunter to take another path, a choice which he wasn't strong enough to make until those words arrived.

"If it’s never possible to forget, then a day will surely come where you need to decide whether or not to forgive. You can’t run away, Lars. Because no one can."

Ji'Yeon never forced her beliefs down anyone’s throat, yet there was something drawing Lars to her inner world. An inner world where the unattainable was the conqueror and the flawed became the conquered. It was an inner world which felt so cold and warm at the same time, the greatest contradiction of all. An inner world of ice and fire.

The Circle of Fire… what if Tae was indeed responsible for Aera going insane? Chaotic shit, how wonderful…

"You pulled that off again?" interrupting Lars on the spot, Hannya’s hazel brown eyes never strayed once from his student’s golden irises.

"You mean pulling a rabbit off my arse? I doubt so."

"Don’t give me your bullshit and that shrug, Lars Alterfate," sighs the Cinha demon hunter, the act of mentioning Lars’ full name a show of exasperation, "If not for that rabbit you're talking about, Tanee would have ended up in the worst possible state. And that’s me putting it in a nice way. I don’t want to imagine what stupid things Flaive would have done if she actually survived the ordeal."

"What if I say yes? What if I say I pushed the Chains of Judgement past its rightful limit again?"

"You alter a person’s fate, you’re playing with your life. Others may say it's the most powerful aspect of what you have, but I call it the real deal rather than the biggest deal. Thankfully, it is not so bad if you choose to feed. By the way, when was the last time you've had a decent meal?"

"When I saved fair lady Tan. No choice but to use my scythe. Too many demons plus one dangerous son of a wolf out to gut me."

"Alright, I assume things are not that bad," nods Hannya, "I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you always refuse to feed on the demons you reaped. Any other demon hunter would have died. Even myself."

"I hate that taste. Ever tried cannibalism?"

"Demons are demons, people are people. Damn it, Lars. Just damn it. And besides, we're not eating them like eating meat."

"No, you’re wrong. You’re only correct on the last part, looney old man. Demons don’t kill, people do."

"So you’re going to settle for herbs and vegetables just because cows and sheep bleed like you and me?"

"I know it’s hypocrisy… but do I smell a pot of gyunabu cooking somewhere?"

"Okay, you win. I give up," laughs Hannya with both hands up, his resigned look akin to a teacher surrendering to a problematic student, "Seriously though, Lars, stop your whoring. Just settle down with a decent girl and maybe have a couple of kids. You really need a decent life to set yourself right, I dare swear this in the name of the Mikoto."

The heavily burdened demon hunter stays his tongue, but he knows the humour behind his mentor’s reply. Half of him wonders with regret what if Ji'Yeon had never died. The other half recalls with amusement that dusky girl all flustered over his athletic frame. For some reason, the living invokes inside him fond memories of the dead.

)0(

Utnapishtim, a city built underground. It is a kingdom of splendour with no one knowing the boundaries of its reach. When the Holy Quintet faith first began, it was anything but that. A catastrophic sequence of events changed for good the fortunes of the faithful, a part of history mocking the existence of gods. In a twisted tale of how the good should be rewarded, demons beset Causacea shortly after the Accord of Wyrms was signed and ratified. The Causaceans turned on those who brokered peace in the first place, none giving heed to explanations. The demons targeted all before their inhumane gaze, no cause was pleaded on behalf of those not guilty. If not for a company of sellswords led by an elf whose name is now forgotten, all would have been lost and all would surely fade. Kings and people were saved due to exploits of the brave, priests and clergy were given a new lease of life due to gold, gems, and craftsmen. None of them came from those who wronged the innocent, however. Instead, the gifts came from the Homm’Nua. A people, who by right and every reason, had no cause to do this.

Aeravor wakes up to a peculiar sight. His room is lit with a chandelier bearing lights of various colours. Yellow, orange, and soothing red, they induce a calm which he has never known for countless years. He gets up from his bed only to realise he is stark naked. Clucking his tongue, he starts rummaging for his belongings, a mess soon replacing an otherwise tidy room.

"How impressive."

The ranger ignores the speaker. Sarel Aphros closes onto the Vánagandr, her nudity displaying in full view before Aeravor’s narrowed eyes of blue. Fire flares up inside him, the source hailing from his loins. Yet, he has lived a life where resolve alone matters. For a moment, he is reminded of what Ineis said about him after their first night of passion.

My Steelborn… Aeravor Steelborn.

Steelborn… indeed a resolve of steel is what prevented Aeravor from snapping Sarel’s neck or raping her on the spot. That is whichever comes first. His brethren called him the result of a miscarriage, someone who should have been dead in his mother’s womb. They soon realised what kind of monster he’s meant to be, for no Vánagandr or any other entity for that matter can command more than one deum. Let alone all four. Aeravor isn’t a genius, but a monster and a force of nature in every sense. An existence rejected by the world, he knows the meaning of Contra Mundum beyond mere words.

Sarel gently grabs Aeravor’s crotch, eyes of crimson red daring the wolf to ravage her. His answer is a low growl and a snarling face, his stinging slap spurning her goading hand. No one has changed apart from Nanaya no Tae'Jin. Lars has never changed a single bit, the same goes for Aeravor. As for her beloved sister…

"Where are my things?"

Wistful thoughts interrupted by a disruptive man, Sarel nevertheless gives a cunning smile. There is no point in acceding to Aeravor’s request. At the same time, there is no reason for her not to play the pandering whore. This is a murderer and whoremonger, a sellsword in every sense of the identity. She has seen many men, some like him and others not so much. She finds it interesting that despite his moral flaws and a lack of shame, Aeravor remains a more righteous man than the rest. For to her, righteousness always starts from honesty. And no man is more honest than the wolf in front of her. The saying is right after all, that a wolf knows best every man. Not to mention every woman as well.

"I got rid of them. So utterly worn out…"

With nary a consideration, Aeravor slams Sarel against the wall, his iron grip pinned against her throat. He is not going to give a single damn about her Circle of Fire. If triggering the Circle of Ice is the only way, so be it. This was the final gift from Kagetsu no Ji'Yeon, the last song she gave to the only man she loved. It matters not to him whether he is worthy, for the only thing matters most to Aeravor is to respect her freedom of choice. Such is the only act of reciprocation a brutal sellsword can do for that kindest soul.

"So utterly worn out, I have actually found for you replacements of better quality. Don’t worry, I never touched the Edge of Answerer. There’s no way I will survive whatever rejection coming from it."

If Sarel has hoped for Aeravor to display any show of surprise over her words, she chooses to mask her disappointment. Never once does the ranger loosen his grip. But at least he chooses not to tighten further a noose that is his hand. The Grand Damsel of Utnapishtim is suddenly amused, her mirth never showing its hand. She is reminded of how a berserk knight had held her in the same way, a knight named Kain Lamrec and Arondight. Then a crashing sound is heard.

There before the two is a young girl, her trembling frame and wide eyed shock an indication of trouble. In a single flash, Sarel appears in front of her, an eruption of crimson sparks scorching Aeravor’s hand.

"What is your name?"

The girl is definitely no older than fifteen. Sarel Aphros has a decent idea of what might be happening behind her back, for she does not recall having this servant girl. Going down on a knee, Sarel caresses the terrified girl who is now on the verge of tears.

"Sha… Sharry…"

"Sharry… good. Please tell me why you’re here since I don’t remember having a servant girl by this name."

"Will you kill me?"

"You’re quite calm for someone waiting to be killed, little girl," quips Aeravor as he starts getting dressed before an opened wardrobe, "That mad bitch Brynhilda would have you in her ranks under different circumstances."

"No, I am not going to kill you. You have my word, Sharry. And besides, I won’t be surprised if you prefer having me as your mistress instead of… well, some morally upright man who can’t keep his lower body covered."

"Legalis Paelos… of…"

"The Legalis of Anglsax. A well-known man of the gods whom I’ve seen caressing whores," smirks Aeravor as he faces Sharry, his grin ever so wide. He has already fastened his pants and his boots as well. However, his lean torso of well-sculpted bronze remains bared much to Sarel’s amusement and Sharry’s blushes.

"Get yourself totally dressed first."

Ignoring Sarel’s words, Aeravor’s visage turns sombre. His gaze hardened like stone and iron, nary an emotion can be seen. Brief silence ensues for Aeravor and Sarel, yet it feels like an eternity of suffocation for young Sharry.

"Let me give you an advice, little girl. Whether you take it or leave it is not my problem. The world is a merciless foe. It won’t wait for any straggler and it won’t remember the strugglers. People die and the world doesn't give a shit. Advice over."

With his words finished, Aeravor takes the remainder of his belongings and walks out of the door. With his torso naked still.

)0(

It is a land of winter, the blizzard assaulting me from all directions. I feel the chill seeping into my bones, yet I am able to stand firm in spite of it. There is no life to be seen, everything in this realm speaks of death. Death… yes, I believe that was how death should look like when my mother left a world where the living is remembered and the dead forgotten. Mayhap this is my inner world ever since people mourned for Eirlanna Ulst-Eliaden, the only one whom I still call mother.

Knowing not how long I have trekked or the distance covered, all I want is to find a place. A refuge for the wanderer, a house or a cave. The surroundings are oddly clear despite the blizzard. I can see a frozen lake to my right while a pack of wolves prowl the tundra at my left. It is a beautiful sight nevertheless, a fanciful portrait of something unattainable. What that something is I know not, just that it feels far more real than the many things in my life. Perhaps Karen was right, that 'tis really true a woman's instinct is like an unerring arrow finding its mark.

Then the wolves start surrounding me, their eyes of azure blue reminding me of him. I have never forgotten even once that man. He who stood under an azure moon, he whom I knew to bear scars unseen and aplenty. How is he now? Is he healed? Or are the scars still there? Despite their wary gaze, the wolves neither snarl nor make a single growl. It feels as if… no, it cannot be. How can it be? How can a mere girl like me command respect from a pack of beasts?

Then they start moving forward, a march going ahead of me. Are they leading me to somewhere? Is there something in their den which I must see? A truth that I must know, no matter what? I give in to that nagging feeling of curiosity, a trait my mother instilled in me much to my father’s displeasure.

Their steps are quick, but I am able to keep up with them. From the tundra to a rocky slope I enter a forest, a place which should never have existed here in the first place. A forest populated by pine and spruce, a silent realm gifting me the greatest peace I have ever experienced. The wolves travel like a meandering stream and I am like a boat carried by the currents. Finding my way around the trunks and through the shrubs, I arrive before a cave. Then I realise one thing: The pack is nowhere to be seen.

A rumbling growl abruptly greets my ears, tremors reaching deep down inside my heart. A monster is inside, but something in me says I must play the intruder. If not, I will surely then wake up from this dream full of regrets. Joenne has always complimented my bravery while Karen’s attitude is always a mixture of envy and worry. As for myself, to the Seven Hells with pragmatism. I may be a Cinha, but I don’t think like one if rumours of my kindred are even half as true.

The cave is dimly lit with torches lining the side. Despite the difference between a burning stick and the hearth in my room, the warmth feels real. Too real to be dismissed as a dream. I do not know the interior of the monster’s den, but there seems to be only one path available. A single path which I do not know is leading up or down, left or right. Then I reach the end. It is not a dead end as I half-expected. It is a door not made from wood, but of iron hard and cold. And behind it, the monster is there. I hear its snarl shaking me unto the very core, the growling now supplanted by a sound more akin to a lion’s roar. My senses are numbed, my hand extending towards a door with neither handle nor a knocker. Then it suddenly opens by itself. Like panels forced open by a sudden gale, the door opened just like that.

The cold is surely not an illusion, my bones chilled to the marrow. For a moment, I lose my senses. I can only stumble forward like a blind girl trying to find her way through the harshest snowstorm. Then I behold that most awesome sight. The pack of wolves are already there surrounding one of their own. It is a lone wolf bound with chains, the ends fastened by a sword embedded into the ground. There is no way it can break free, the blade serving as both the lock and key. Unlike its fellow brethren whose fur is of silvery grey, the prisoner wears a coat of black. Like them, its eyes are of azure blue. Its physique is larger than any of them. On all fours, even the greatest of their own can only reach its shoulders.

Alas, the pack do not regard it as one of their own. They nip their target in a seemingly playful manner, yet I know a taunt when I see one. Words of mockery in the guise of jest have been my lot, a cloak of compliments hiding the knife of lust is something I have to endure lest my father’s honour is challenged. Unlike the life I have lived thus far, the prisoner’s pride still runs free.

Without thinking, I allow the rage to seize hold of me. Why should I, a daughter of House Eliaden, allow such injustice to prevail? I grab the nearest wolf by its tail and give my hardest pull. I don’t care what will happen next, to the Seven Hells with the outcome. A loud yelp warms my heart, then it skips a beat. My mother always had this to say about the Vánagandr: Anger the least of the pack and they will tear you apart.

Then the black beast chained let out that roar I heard earlier, the foundation of the den shaken unto its very core. Thrown off-balance and totally disoriented, I find myself landed on my behind. As for its tormentors, they have fled by the time I regain my composure. Compassion takes hold of me, an impulse that would get anyone killed. I foolishly extend a hand towards that prisoner anchored to its own cell. With a low growl, the wolf snaps forward. If not for the chains holding it back, surely my right hand would have been gone and eaten.

"How impulsive."

Turning around, I see a maiden around my age. Her features and complexion are unmistakable. Like me, she’s a Cinha. Her smile is both of joy and sorrow, a contradiction. Unlike me who is dressed in a chemise of linen, she is wearing some sort of full-bodied dress I have never seen before. It is a sleek dress with loose sleeves and fastened with a sash, its colour wholly red with flowery prints of light pink.

She steps forth towards the wolf, my heart freezing on the spot. To my amazement, the captive allows itself to be caressed. Giving me a bemused look while scratching its ears, my fellow Cinha never changes her expression. For some reason, jealousy starts raging inside me. Why? Why such a feeling for no cause at all?

"His name is Aeravor. You’ll do well not to forget this."

"Aeravor? Wait, if that wolf is called Aeravor, then what about you?"

Walking past me, the maiden starts singing a song. A song full of sadness, the lyrics stirring up a fire inside me.

The wolf, the lion, a maiden fair.

A dirge for those alive.

A child deprived of warmth and love.

His laughter against death.

The wolf, the lion, a maiden fair.

A dirge for those alive.

A boy who dreams to be a man.

A life saved, yet no more.

The wolf, the lion, a maiden fair.

A dirge for those alive.

The dragons gone, yet one still lives.

Her life, her love, her path.

)0(

Alestrial wakes up. Night has yet to bid farewell, her gentle eyes of brown looking at the dark sky liberally sprinkled with stars and illuminated by the crescent moon. She desires to see him again, a yearning heart reminiscing that starless night adorned with a full moon of azure blue.

Aeravor… is that your name? And that sword embedded behind you… what is it to you?

)0(

Glossary:

Gyunabu: A simple Cinha meat stew inspired by the real-life sukiyaki and nabe.

Circle: For the lack of a better way to put, it refers to any semblance of a spiritual realm. If the concept sounds familiar to you, good. Otherwise, try googling Dante Alighieri.

Anglsax: The capital city of Teutonia. The name is basically all about me hashing together the words Anglo and Saxony.


Additional notes:
1. The village of Enosh is basically me being uncreative. In Berserk, there's a village called Enoch. So I just decided to mess around and use the name Enosh. Like Enoch, Enosh is also a name recorded in the Book of Genesis. More specifically, Enosh was the son of Seth (Warning: Berserk was banned 17 years ago in my homeland of Singapore for a very good reason).

2. Ineis von Stormhearth is inspired by an actual elven queen who happened NOT to be Galadriel.

Honestly speaking, I don't know who was responsible for this artwork of Francesca Findabair.

Hence, I can only link it back to here.

3. The part where Lars commented on cannibalism may seem shocking to you. After I pulled it off, however, I realised someone actually did that before.

Alucard facing off against the white hoods and Nazis actually reminded me of the conflict between Stalin and Hitler. After all, Wallachia was considered Slavic in every sense of the word.

4. Hannya is actually a legit term in Japanese culture. If there is anyone I know whose name sounds even remotely like Hannya, no matter whether it's Hanyang, Hanya, or whatever Han, I apologise in advance.

5. The decision to add in Ji'Yeon's song was inspired by the anime Trigun where a character named Rem actually... well, sang a song.

Lyrics

6. The dress Ji'Yeon was wearing is... well, a kimono of sorts.

7. The concept of the Edge of Answerer killing anyone apart from its rightful owner was something J.R.R Tolkien did for Anduril if I remember correctly.

)0(

Source

P.S: Nearly forgot to mention that Lars calling Hannya a looney old man was something taken from Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Not the recent Emma Watson-Dan Stevens version, but rather the actual animation N years ago. Unfortunately, I can't find that scene where Gaston sang something about "that looney old man".