Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 62

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

Chapter 62.
The Island of the Survivors (4)
Dansen tilted his head in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
Isildor San’s voice grew steadily clearer.
“Yes. On the Island, there are plenty of those freshly bound like sheaves of barley, willing to serve as errand boys for life. Just as there were many young people who once sought to stand before him. I respect their endurance. I respect it deeply. But why? Why waste life in such a manner? What of life’s pleasures?”
His voice grew more heated.
“Why are there so many who wish to spend their lives tinkering with scraps of metal beside a man who neither teaches with full devotion nor guides them gently? I cannot fathom it. They are servile. For some cursed goal, they would gladly sacrifice each jewel-like day of their lives. And it is not one or two—the majority are like this. That… atmosphere disgusts me.”
Even Isildor San dared not speak the words “I hate the Island” aloud. His heart, though it had struggled to break free, remained not entirely liberated from that ancient yoke.
“But that child is different. I offer trust as a peer. Not blind trust, mind you. That child possesses a life of their own. Every choice—whom to believe, whom to aid, whom to accept—stems from their own judgment alone. There is no flattery to gain advantage, no deception to steal.”
Isildor San’s face twisted with frustration.
“Do you think I wish to teach that child? You are mistaken. If I am human, then that child is merely human as well. We respect one another and speak of ideals. Or rather… that is not quite it either. Truth be told, I envied that child. That freedom—unbound to any place, content even to withdraw into some distant cave. That freedom…”
Isildor San shook his head and fixed Dansen with a piercing gaze.
“That child seeks to become free. To become one who cannot be bound by gratitude or resentment. Perhaps not now, but someday they will achieve it. Why cannot I? Why can the children of the Island not do the same?”
Dansen furrowed his brow and spoke with force.
“Is that what you call speaking now, Elder Brother? Do you not understand why those children are as they are? We bear an ancient responsibility. A debt incurred because not all died when they should have—a debt so vast that sacrificing the happiness of one or two could never settle the account. It is an abyss unfathomably deep. We have yet to reach its bottom…”
“You think they do this out of consideration for that debt? Nonsense. That is not it at all. They care only for honor and authority. They covet my position blindly, without understanding the weight of responsibility it demands.”
Dansen did not immediately refute him. He too had lived in that place and had eyes to see.
Isildor San’s voice turned caustic.
“They wish to curry favor with me. So they would extract the very marrow from my bones. A few years, a few decades of serving me, of sacrifice—it means nothing to them, does it? Yes, truly nothing! After all, everyone knows that span of time will not be so very long!”
“Elder Brother!”
The elbow propped against the table crumbled away. The cup clinked softly and slid across the surface.
From the table rose the stale stench of cheap liquor accumulated over years. In a cup placed beside it, murky brown liquid sloshed in rhythm.
A lamp beside the stairs caught an unfamiliar shadow and danced with it like a shadow puppet show. Wind seemed to be seeping in from somewhere.
“But…”
Both knew well what answer would follow.
“We cannot take an outsider to the Island.”
Unlike Isildor San, who had wandered beyond for years, Dansen had never once left the Island without a mission. He was such a rigidly faithful “follower.”
Dansen’s earlier words were precisely what the Island’s “elders” always said. Yet Dansen had long regarded Isildor San as an elder brother.
Though their thoughts differed, his concern ran deep. And they had known each other too long to harbor anger over Isildor San’s irreverent words.
“The child is quite well-behaved, I must say. But the eyes seem unusually sunken—the child appeared darker than their years would suggest. How old is the child?”
Like a father asked his son’s age, a hint of pride flickered across Isildor San’s face.
“They will turn fourteen this July.”
“Ah, so still thirteen then? They hardly appeared so young. I would have guessed at least fifteen, perhaps more. To carry such a blade at that age speaks to considerable strength.”
“Their skill is considerable as well. They have already taken a life.”
Dansen’s eyes widened slightly as he spoke quietly.
“That is not welcome news.”
Isildor San let out a soft laugh.
“You mean that blood, no matter how dried, will soon be noticed? But what use is that? There will be no occasion for them to come before those who would recognize it.”
“There is one method, at least.”
Isildor San lifted his head and shot a piercing look at Dansen. Dansen’s expression remained grave.
“Initiate him as an apprentice Pilgrim.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Isildor San rose abruptly from his seat. He spoke quietly but with unmistakable firmness to his white-haired younger brother, who looked up at him from his chair.
“You want him to walk the same path that has tormented me so deeply that I cannot escape it? That is unthinkable. He is barely thirteen years old. At an age when his judgment is still forming, I cannot ask him to make an irreversible choice. How could he possibly understand what kind of path this is, no matter how I explain it? Won’t he resent me later when he grows older? It is far too grave a decision to recommend based solely on my own desires.”
Dansen shook his head firmly. A growing certainty crystallized within him.
“You are right, Elder Brother. Fortunately, the boy is still only thirteen. Had he reached fifteen, initiation would have been impossible. If you cannot bear to part with him, take him with you. Go, teach him our customs and swordsmanship, and spend your lives together—what is wrong with that? Just because you despise the path does not guarantee the boy will despise it as well.”
Dansen extended his hand and grasped Isildor San’s.
“If this is what it takes for you to return to The Island, I will gladly stand as the boy’s guarantor before the elders and witness his ceremony. If you wish, I will even serve as his godfather. Let us return to The Island together. All of us, together.”
Dansen’s words were a temptation difficult to refuse. Isildor San shook his head with visible strain.
“No. I cannot do this. To bind another’s feet because I cannot break the chains on my own—that is not friendship, that is sharing shackles. I was born on The Island; there is no help for me. But he bears no original sin, does he? Why must I burden an innocent with this weight?”
“Because I wish it.”
The answer came not from Dansen across the table, but from the direction of the stairs.
A shadow rose. It moved slowly toward the table.
“You—how did you…?”
“I apologize for eavesdropping.”
Boris bowed first toward Dansen.
“Thank you for offering to help me in so many ways. I accept your offer with gratitude.”
Boris had been sitting in the shadowed stairwell all along, chin resting on his hand, listening to every word.
He had heard Dansen’s incomprehensible story, Isildor San’s passionate objections, and everything about the mysterious yoke and the choice it demanded.
As he listened, he thought of the swaying lamp and the long shadow at the foot of the stairs, himself beyond that shadow, himself far smaller than the shadow itself, abandonment, separation, loss, things that never return.
He thought of the half-year he had spent with Isildor San.
Since losing Yefnen—no, even during the time he lived with Yefnen, the nightmares that never left had never grown so faint as this.
Through the summer, autumn, and winter that had passed, Boris had been protected by one person and had been his friend.
He still loved Yefnen, but now there was only one living person he could trust—Isildor San. He could not imagine trying to trust another after he left. Finding such a person again was impossible.
Of course, perhaps he did not need to trust anyone at all.
But he could not deny the seed-like longing deep within his heart, the yearning for genuine connection.
There was a time when he believed he could trust no one, and he had grown, become strong, and survived.
Yet looking back, he had been a devastatingly barren human being. The clumsiness of never obtaining even the heart of a boy who could have been a friend, the weakness of trembling and weeping with bloodstained hands, the envy he felt watching a boy live as his age should—he was infinitely distant from such a person, one sufficient unto himself without others. He was not that kind of person.
He wanted to be together. He wanted to eternally believe in the illusion that he could grow like a boy his age at Isildor San’s side.
Isildor San was the one who had accepted him as he was—a child who had lost his family, been betrayed by those he trusted, killed a person, and even deceived Isildor San himself.
Could he not begin again, a childhood scarred by wounds? There, where Isildor San was.
“Boris, you are mistaken. I do not know how much you heard, but that is not a pleasant place to live. You cannot easily escape from it. Once you enter, you cannot leave without permission, and in return, countless obligations bind you. I do not want you to wear such a yoke. Never. You—if you wish, you can be free. Do not walk in with your own feet. You will surely regret it.”
Dansen suddenly spoke.
“What Elder Brother says is true.”
Dansen cared little what became of Boris, so long as he could bring Isildor San back to The Island.
Yet seeing someone like an elder brother speak with such sincerity seemed to move his heart slightly. Dansen’s eyes were honest.
Boris turned his gaze to Isildor San. His eyes were quiet.
“You know that to be free, one must have the strength to protect oneself, don’t you? Even if you think I am following you because I lack the strength to live alone… you may think that. I will make my own decision, and I will bear my own regrets.”
“….”
While Isildor San remained silent, Boris muttered one last time.
“Do you dislike having me by your side?”
Isildor San looked down at the floor. The traces where liquor had spilled were visible. The half-dried marks seemed as deep and vast as seawater, cradling countless waves within them.

Ten days later, Isildor San, Boris, and Dansen stood aboard a ship circumnavigating Elbe Island.
The Saeulrip Strait—the reference point dividing Tibow Bay east and west—lay directly before them. It was a narrow passage where the Saeulrip Cape of the Continent faced the southern cape of Elbe Island.
Navigating through this strait required considerable skill in seamanship. The captains of ships that traveled around Elbe Island were masters of such passages.
At four in the afternoon, the Altan Sigmer—a vessel fourteen years of age—safely passed the Saeulrip Cape. At last, they had entered the eastern Tibow Bay from the western Tibow Bay.
Boris stood at the stern, gazing at the receding cape.
The Continent seemed to drift away from him. He felt like a stone cast and hurled away from the place where he had stood and lived.
He still had to traverse the eastern Tibow Bay, and only after crossing the Crystal Archipelago—composed of countless ice islands—would he emerge into the open sea, the North Sea.
Yet as the cape’s trace vanished, even the island peaks scattered across the sea appeared as pebbles unable to resist fate.
He would journey to a place far beyond those islands.
What manner of place could that island be?

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