Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 19

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 19
The Winter Sword (19)

The next day, and the day after that, Yefnen did not sleep.
It was futile. His body grew progressively weaker, and even while awake, he suffered convulsions with increasing frequency.
The Winterer had already been given to Boris to keep. When Yefnen handed over the blade, he told his brother he could run him through if circumstances demanded it. Boris merely nodded for his brother’s sake. There was no way he could truly do such a thing.
Gradually, Yefnen felt gaps opening throughout his memory—the recollections of his mad episodes were vanishing.
He would think he had awakened in the morning, only to regain consciousness and find it was already noon; he would recall tending a campfire in the dead of night, then the next moment would be the rising of the dawn star.
Each time, he was grateful his brother was not before his eyes. Boris, who no longer slept beside his brother, would swiftly distance himself whenever troubling signs appeared. Yet he never ventured far.
That night, Yefnen removed the Snowguard and gave it to his brother.
“Keep it. I have no need for it anymore.”
“But that’s yours.”
Boris still refused to accept that his brother was a man soon to die. Yefnen smiled faintly.
“What use is armor to the dead?”
Yefnen forced the snow-bright, radiant armor onto his brother’s frame. After draping an outer garment over it, Yefnen felt something akin to joy for the first time in ages. It seemed he was pleased by the fact that he could protect his brother’s body with at least this one thing.
That night, Yefnen spoke of something slightly different than usual—it concerned Uncle.
“Yes, strictly speaking, Uncle did cause Father’s death. But in the end, it was the lake’s monsters and the phantom with crimson eyes that stole Father’s life. Of course, if Uncle had not wounded Father, he might not have fallen so easily. Perhaps Uncle would have been the one sacrificed instead. In any case, if we trace back responsibility, we could follow it endlessly. Boris, will you make one promise with me?”
“What?”
“Never seek revenge.”
It was obvious against whom revenge should not be sought. Boris opened his eyes wide in confusion.
“I cannot explain everything to you, but I… I hope you will never become entangled in this family’s grievances. It was not created in mere years. The factional disputes have torn through countless families of Trabaches over long ages. That is because they never forget. If either side had forgiven, such cycles would not repeat. Or if they had shown mercy.”
“But Father…”
Yefnen cut off Boris’s words.
“Had he lived, Father would not have spoken to you this way. In times like these, your youth feels like a blessing. As you grow and witness and endure many things, forget the events of childhood. No—forgive them. Otherwise, you too will be ensnared by that unbroken chain. And those who come after you will inherit this legacy of blood.”
Boris still did not fully understand, but he had no wish to oppose his already suffering brother on any other matter. All he desired now was for his brother’s heart to find peace.
When Boris nodded, Yefnen repeated his plea many times over, extracting the promise.
At that moment, Boris did not yet comprehend how much weight a promise made with a man soon to die would carry.

That night, too, Yefnen fought against sleep.
Remembering how the first seizure had struck while he was sleeping, he dreaded what horrors he might commit if he slept now, having deteriorated so far.
Boris slept near the campfire. With reddened eyes, I watched over my brother, striving to keep my mind intact. Yet after four nights without sleep, resisting drowsiness was far from easy. That I had endured this long was already a superhuman effort.
My consciousness grew increasingly hazy, until I could no longer distinguish dream from reality. In that state, I swayed and endured until the dead of night. But by then, I was no longer properly aware of anything.
As if in a dream, as if in waking life, a voice reached my ears. Warm breath felt pleasant against my skin.
“It’s alright, brother. Just sleep. You can rest. Be at peace….”
There had been a time when I lay on a sun-drenched hillside reading a book and fell asleep. A cool breeze blew…. I dreamed that people smiled and beckoned to me. Come here, they said.
But I woke before I could reach them. Opening my eyes, Boris was tickling my nose with a leaf. A memory from some spring day.
As if sinking into soft bedding, as if submerged in warm water, the world became peaceful. My heart melted away in an instant. At the same time, I understood the truth.
About sleep that painful reality could never touch.
Now I could vividly perceive my brother turning back to lie down, seeking sleep. My mind became clear and pure.
What I had to do became unmistakably apparent. The one task that remained—the last thing I could do for my brother.
This was that moment.

In his sleep, Boris saw a faintly luminous image.
One person was digging into the earth with nothing but a sword and bare hands. The sight was so strange that he thought it merely an odd dream. His muddled mind soon obscured the vision before his eyes.
Even though it was the last time, it happened that way.

When Boris awoke late in the morning, he saw not a dream but its end.
A short distance away lay the pit he had glimpsed in his dream. It was dug far wider than what he had seen in his sleep. The excavated earth was piled on one side like a small hill.
The weather was fair. A lark soared and sang its morning song. The sky was clear as a river alongside the risen sun, and the air held a pleasant chill.
The boy drew a deep breath. Then he looked around.
His brother was not there… and the Winterer was not there.
He started to rise abruptly, then stopped. And he thought.
Staring at the pit, I turned the thought over and over. About the reality I had to accept.
A thick, sharp needle pierced my heart with such pain that I could do nothing. Like a beast impaled on a spear, I suffered, and something rose in my throat that I swallowed down. My throat was so tight that not a single word could escape. Only a faint, ragged breath trickled out.
Forcing myself up, Boris slowly approached the pit.
My brother lay with his eyes closed, sleeping. He slept the sleep from which he would not wake, peaceful as I had whispered to him. His face was serene, as if he had fallen asleep listening to a lullaby.
A wound was visible below his chest, at the solar plexus. Dark bloodstains had dried around it.
But the sword was not lodged there. The Winterer lay abandoned forlornly to one side of the pit.
The Winterer, being a long blade, was not a good weapon for suicide. The scene played out before my eyes as if I could see it. He must have planted the sword in the ground or some such, then thrown himself upon it, and with his last strength, pulled it free again to spare his brother the sight.
My brother’s fingertips, raw from digging earth all night, were cracked and stained yellow. That effort to leave not even the smallest burden on the living… was, as one who survived, truly bitter to behold. Why, why could you not live your own life….
The boy sat before the pit in silence for a long time.
The sun climbed higher, and the midday wind brushed against his cheeks. Time flowed like the ages. Yet the boy did not move, as if he had turned to stone. No tears fell.
The sun that had reached its zenith began to decline. Soon after, the sunset stained the desolate landscape an even deeper red. A long-tailed wind swept across the Meadow and caressed the boy’s long hair as well. The wind came too to the pale-cheeked young man of twenty who would age no more, who had gained eternal youth. It passed, brushing the eyelids of one who would never grow old again.
Suddenly Boris moved.
He removed his outer garment and drew out the Snowguard he wore beneath. Then he descended into the pit.
He pulled his brother’s body upright and dressed him in the Snowguard. Sweating profusely despite his straining strength, he did not give up but persisted—his face almost resembling that of a madman. Yet even in the actions of a madman, there lay a resolute determination visible upon his features.
After his efforts, he succeeded at last. His brother’s body, now lying again, showed no wound. The white armor had become a white burial shroud.
When a voice, hoarse as if parched, escaped as a final whisper, stars were beginning to emerge one by one in the sky.

A grueling day had passed, and now it was time to sleep.
Even the shooting stars trailed their tails as they drifted toward their mother star to rest.
Don’t worry and sleep peacefully—I will protect you.
No one will be able to wake our little one.
The boy climbed out of the pit and pushed the accumulated soil down into it. Clods of earth mixed with gravel cascaded down onto the young man in white armor.

Even if the pitch-black night frightens you, morning will come soon.
Forget all the hardship of this world and shed no tears.
Sleep well, and I’ll give you a kiss—I’ll be by your side.
If you dream happy dreams, even the long night will pass in an instant.

A face I would never see again vanished beneath the earth, fleeting and gone.
The finished grave bore no mound. During the days the two had spent here, not a single traveler had passed through this desolate Meadow.
The boy looked around. Rather than marking the spot, he etched everything around him into his heart.
It was time to leave.
“Sleep well, brother.”
It was already the dead of night. But I lingered no longer. As Boris turned away without looking back, my heart was no longer that of a twelve-year-old child.
From that night onward, a long winter began—one without even moonlight.

“Good heavens! Why must I wear this dreadful thing that even servants wear!”
“But Miss, there are no other clothes available.”
The attendants fawned over the angry young lady, bowing and scraping incessantly. It had been unreasonable from the start to escort such a demanding young lady on a journey to a distant foreign land, but what could they do when their master had permitted it?
As a result, the journey had been plagued by some mishap every single day. The only consolation was that their business here was finished and they were now returning to their homeland.
“Bring me different clothes! I am a young lady of the Count’s House! If I go about dressed like this, my father’s honor will be tarnished!”
She wasn’t entirely wrong—if this were the Count’s House estate back in Anomarad, their homeland. But here they were in Trabaches, far removed from the estates of Anomarad, and there were no Anomarad nobles here to concern themselves with the Count’s House’s reputation.
“But Miss, no matter how you insist, this is the countryside—there’s nowhere to purchase new clothes.”
The answer was predictable.
“What kind of wretched country is this!”
Rosnis, the twelve-year-old young lady of the Count’s House, apparently believed that wherever she went should be lined with high-end boutiques like the bustling streets of Keltika. Though she had never actually visited Keltika, the capital itself.
For someone who would rather never leave her home than wear shabby clothes, to be stuck in such a predicament!

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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