Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
6-8 minutes 01.12.2022
Volume II
Chapter 2 – Part 1
Written By
Yoshihiko Mihama
Translated By
Vagrant
───────── ♰ ─────────
“Good to meet you, Mia.”
Glad was I to hear her name at last. And for such an occasion, common sense dictates that I return the favour in kind. Only…
“I hear you’re attuned to the covenantal magicks. And that, well, ‘ill’ awaits me should I tell you my own name. Though… I certainly would like to, truth be told.”
My words proved to be of little avail, for upon hearing them, Mia but shook her head fleetingly.
“…Master…” she murmured, “…your name… please don’t…”
Hmm… “Master”, is it now?
The ring of it sat rather unwell. Indeed, I much preferred to be called by name, but alas.
Well-known it was that a thrallspell could be thwarted by one capable with the covenants. But to a soul enslaved like Mia, there was also danger: were it discovered that she knew and spoke the name of her master freely, then she would surely be disposed of with all haste.
Not by my hands, of course, but by those clad in iron—namely, that of Londosius’ legislature. Thus, more so for her sake, I could not give her my name.
“Well, I’ll think on it, then,” I relented.
Yet indeed were our eyes met, and her name heard. There was light at the end of this tunnel, however faint, however far. But there was little hurry in reaching it. Softly now, one step at a time.
“Right. Let’s have supper, then,” I said, rising up to my feet. “Mia. How about you make yourself comfortable while I cook something up?”
I pointed to a chair at the dining table. Mia’s eyes followed. Only, her feet didn’t. Not for a while. During that lull, she stared at it, until at last, she slowly stepped forth and took her seat.
Satisfied at the sight, I stepped forth myself—into the kitchen I went.
It would be a dire lie to say that Mia was in good health. I knew not how long she’d been captive, but doubtless it must’ve been a most trying time, to say the least, during which none gave thought to her care and comfort.
Thus for her supper, a bowl of porridge, warm and gentle to the stomach.
Just the other day in the markets did I happen upon a pumpkin, sound in its size and scent. And there was milk available. On the daily, no less.
It’s settled, then. For Mia, a meal of mild sweetness: rice pudding, bedight of milk and pumpkin. With a bold knob of butter melted in, it was sure to be a delight.
Resolved, I set out a pot and went to work.
♰
Wisps of sweet steam swirled through the air as I brought the bowls to the table. One for Mia, set right before her, filled with rich rice pudding. Sure enough, it caught her attention, though her stare seemed empty as ever of emotion.
“Mia. Let’s eat,” I said, sitting myself down. Yet even then, I found her unmoved. “…Mia. A meal lifts the spirits just as well as it fills the belly, you know. Don’t be afraid. Have at it.”
‘Cheer up’ was the gist of what I wanted to say—brash overmuch of me, perhaps. Certainly her sullenness was not something to be solved with so little effort. But Mia needed to eat, and that was the simple truth of it. Only with a body healed can the heart itself start its mending.
Before long, Mia moved her eyes from the bowl and looked to me.
“…supper…” she began, vanishingly. “…Master’s suppertime…”
“…table… same table… why…?”
Words of doubt.
How could a master ever suffer a slave at the same table, and upon the same supper-hour, no less? For Mia, this was surely a situation most unthinkable. That any goodwill would ever come her way was evidently a hope long lost to her.
And yet…
‘…why…?’
…there was hope, to be found in that one word, verily uttered.
To ask ‘why’ is to express a need for knowledge; there yet remained in Mia a wisp of wonderment for the world. In other words, she still had the will to live. Buried beneath her bosom, it smouldered on, tiny and dim. And it would be my duty to seek it out and have her awaken to its warmth.
“Supping at the same table means we’re friends, Mia,” was my answer.
“…but I… I’m a slave…” she reasoned.
“And I’m the son of a noble house—disavowed, that is. And a soldier of a fort nearby, as well. Ah, and I live by the blade and like to indulge in books,” I told of myself at length. “What about you, Mia? What sparks your fancy?”
“…”
“Right. A topic for another day, then. Come. There’s your supper. Eat up.”
“…proper food… not scraps…” she observed. “…I can eat it…? …really…?”
“Of course you can, Mia,” answered I, with mildness. “Carefully now. It’s quite hot.”
Soon enough, she very gingerly took up her spoon, dipped it into the rice pudding, and brought the spoonful into her mouth. And—fates be gentle—she repeated it, at last partaking of the pudding, little by little.
I looked on intently, or perhaps in wonder. But as I did, a question crept up from within: why, exactly, did I buy her?
Mia is a war-slave.
By the throes of war, waged between Man and Nafílim, she was made to bear the manacle.
And myself?
What else am I but a kin of Man? A willful participant in that war, duty-bound to fight Mia’s own kin?
Indeed, within all that I’ve wrought may be found some inconspicuous deed, now the provenance of her pitiful plight.
Did I buy her, thinking to atone for it?
I very well should’ve known—always, even—that for as long as war was my livelihood, my actions would beget many others not unlike Mia: sufferers of fates most forlorn.
But knowing ill-amounts to beholding. Was the burden made unbearable only after I had seen for myself where led the long course of my deeds? If so, then I was but a wayward waif, a fool blind to his own folly.
Or…
Was this revenge?
A hateful strike against a hateful world, so willful as it is in rejecting my very being?
An act of vengeance, veiling itself as compassion for a little girl, who so suffers the same scorn that I do?
Should that be the way of it, then Mia, to me, would merely be a means to an end. Incorrigible, yes. Dreadfully so. And yet, I could not bring myself to wholly deny it.
On and on I set upon my soul these confounding questions. Moments mired in self-doubt as I watched over Mia taking a pudding-decked spoonful to her mouth, slowly on in silence.
♰
Chapter 61: Volume 2 - CH 2.1
Volume II
Chapter 2 – Part 1
Written By
Yoshihiko Mihama
Translated By
Vagrant
───────── ♰ ─────────
“Good to meet you, Mia.”
Glad was I to hear her name at last. And for such an occasion, common sense dictates that I return the favour in kind. Only…
“I hear you’re attuned to the covenantal magicks. And that, well, ‘ill’ awaits me should I tell you my own name. Though… I certainly would like to, truth be told.”
My words proved to be of little avail, for upon hearing them, Mia but shook her head fleetingly.
“…Master…” she murmured, “…your name… please don’t…”
Hmm… “Master”, is it now?
The ring of it sat rather unwell. Indeed, I much preferred to be called by name, but alas.
Well-known it was that a thrallspell could be thwarted by one capable with the covenants. But to a soul enslaved like Mia, there was also danger: were it discovered that she knew and spoke the name of her master freely, then she would surely be disposed of with all haste.
Not by my hands, of course, but by those clad in iron—namely, that of Londosius’ legislature. Thus, more so for her sake, I could not give her my name.
“Well, I’ll think on it, then,” I relented.
Yet indeed were our eyes met, and her name heard. There was light at the end of this tunnel, however faint, however far. But there was little hurry in reaching it. Softly now, one step at a time.
I pointed to a chair at the dining table. Mia’s eyes followed. Only, her feet didn’t. Not for a while. During that lull, she stared at it, until at last, she slowly stepped forth and took her seat.
Satisfied at the sight, I stepped forth myself—into the kitchen I went.
It would be a dire lie to say that Mia was in good health. I knew not how long she’d been captive, but doubtless it must’ve been a most trying time, to say the least, during which none gave thought to her care and comfort.
Thus for her supper, a bowl of porridge, warm and gentle to the stomach.
Just the other day in the markets did I happen upon a pumpkin, sound in its size and scent. And there was milk available. On the daily, no less.
It’s settled, then. For Mia, a meal of mild sweetness: rice pudding, bedight of milk and pumpkin. With a bold knob of butter melted in, it was sure to be a delight.
Resolved, I set out a pot and went to work.
♰
Wisps of sweet steam swirled through the air as I brought the bowls to the table. One for Mia, set right before her, filled with rich rice pudding. Sure enough, it caught her attention, though her stare seemed empty as ever of emotion.
“Mia. Let’s eat,” I said, sitting myself down. Yet even then, I found her unmoved. “…Mia. A meal lifts the spirits just as well as it fills the belly, you know. Don’t be afraid. Have at it.”
‘Cheer up’ was the gist of what I wanted to say—brash overmuch of me, perhaps. Certainly her sullenness was not something to be solved with so little effort. But Mia needed to eat, and that was the simple truth of it. Only with a body healed can the heart itself start its mending.
Before long, Mia moved her eyes from the bowl and looked to me.
“…supper…” she began, vanishingly. “…Master’s suppertime…”
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“Nay, Mia,” I shook my head. “It’s our suppertime. Yours and mine both.”“…table… same table… why…?”
Words of doubt.
How could a master ever suffer a slave at the same table, and upon the same supper-hour, no less? For Mia, this was surely a situation most unthinkable. That any goodwill would ever come her way was evidently a hope long lost to her.
‘…why…?’
…there was hope, to be found in that one word, verily uttered.
To ask ‘why’ is to express a need for knowledge; there yet remained in Mia a wisp of wonderment for the world. In other words, she still had the will to live. Buried beneath her bosom, it smouldered on, tiny and dim. And it would be my duty to seek it out and have her awaken to its warmth.
“Supping at the same table means we’re friends, Mia,” was my answer.
“…but I… I’m a slave…” she reasoned.
“And I’m the son of a noble house—disavowed, that is. And a soldier of a fort nearby, as well. Ah, and I live by the blade and like to indulge in books,” I told of myself at length. “What about you, Mia? What sparks your fancy?”
“…”
“Right. A topic for another day, then. Come. There’s your supper. Eat up.”
“…proper food… not scraps…” she observed. “…I can eat it…? …really…?”
“Of course you can, Mia,” answered I, with mildness. “Carefully now. It’s quite hot.”
Soon enough, she very gingerly took up her spoon, dipped it into the rice pudding, and brought the spoonful into her mouth. And—fates be gentle—she repeated it, at last partaking of the pudding, little by little.
I looked on intently, or perhaps in wonder. But as I did, a question crept up from within: why, exactly, did I buy her?
Mia is a war-slave.
By the throes of war, waged between Man and Nafílim, she was made to bear the manacle.
And myself?
What else am I but a kin of Man? A willful participant in that war, duty-bound to fight Mia’s own kin?
Indeed, within all that I’ve wrought may be found some inconspicuous deed, now the provenance of her pitiful plight.
Did I buy her, thinking to atone for it?
But knowing ill-amounts to beholding. Was the burden made unbearable only after I had seen for myself where led the long course of my deeds? If so, then I was but a wayward waif, a fool blind to his own folly.
Or…
Was this revenge?
A hateful strike against a hateful world, so willful as it is in rejecting my very being?
An act of vengeance, veiling itself as compassion for a little girl, who so suffers the same scorn that I do?
Should that be the way of it, then Mia, to me, would merely be a means to an end. Incorrigible, yes. Dreadfully so. And yet, I could not bring myself to wholly deny it.
On and on I set upon my soul these confounding questions. Moments mired in self-doubt as I watched over Mia taking a pudding-decked spoonful to her mouth, slowly on in silence.
♰
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