Translations

Ne pas mal - Not bad

Maman - Mom

Ça va? - Are you all right?

C’est la vie - That’s life

Je suis desolee - I’m sorry

Il est dans la lune - He’s insane

Adieu - Goodbye

Oui - Yes

Balthermi Rambert grasped the hilt of the massive sword he was holding more tightly. He looked at his father, who was gazing at him, his eyes hard and cold in their disapproval. They were the same as Balthermi’s, a rich shade of jade, and the same hue of green as his hair. He regretted he looked so much like his father.

When Balthermi’s gaze met his father’s, he immediately averted his eyes.

He thinks I’m too feeble to do it!

Balthermi flushed crimson in both anger and humiliation and he silently cursed himself for being such a weakling. Just now, he had made up his mind. He would be a magnificent fighter, grander than any of his ancestors or his own father himself. He would show his father how good a warrior he could be, too.

Confidently, he planted his armored feet squarely beneath him and concentrated deeply. Soon he could feel the power build inside of him. When he felt he couldn’t take anymore of the mystic power, he unleashed it. It seemed to propel him forward while he levitated about an inch above the arena-floor, a trail of blue sparks following him. Suddenly he landed, his boots made a loud ‘clang’ noise. Balthermi moved his full weight backward to prevent him from falling and moved the power to the tip of his sword with his mind. Then he performed a magnificent forward flip, the lucid blue sparks surrounding him like an angel’s halo. "Southern Cross!" he screamed, words that came from his soul rather than his mouth. Balthermi landed on both of his feet, something that his ankles seemed to disagree with. Even though the pain was killing him, it couldn’t keep him from smirking.

Perfect. he thought.

His father was standing right behind him. "Ne pas mal..."

Balthermi’s smirk disappeared from his face. Ne pas mal? He wanted to scream at his father, but decided to keep his dignity and say nothing instead. There will come a day when I will defeat you, father... He waited until his father left and then slashed away at any thing of his liking, filled with dark rage.

Duke B. Rambert remembered it all so vividly, like it was only yesterday that he performed his "Southern Cross" the very first time. It could’ve been special, but his father ruined everything for him.

Was it really such a long time ago? I’ve gotten old...

He knew his father didn’t want to teach him the Rambert family’s style of broadsword fighting, but he had no choice, Duke was his only son. Probably a miserable one too, judging by the way his father had always treated him. He had tried, though. He trained hard, but nothing seemed to impress his father... The first time he performed the "Southern Cross" had turned out to be a disappointment. It was the first time he realized his father despised him and also the first time he found out he hated his father equally.

Duke felt tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to cry, cry for the love he so wanted but never got.

Nothing to cry about, he told himself, at least I had Maman.

Balthermi came home late in the afternoon, back to the majestic "Chateau de Rambert" in which his family had lived for ages. He was tired and sweating all over. He was also cold, for it was Autumn and the sweat had cooled him down at a fast pace during the short walk home (as far as he could call it home). He went straight for the Knight’s Hall. There was always someone there, that was all he could care about at that moment, cold seemed to have dug its roots deep into his heart. He desired human warmth to drive away his inner numbness.

He walked into the room, the metallic sound of his armored feet clearly audible. His mother was sitting in one of the lavishly decorated chairs, reading a book. She looked up at him and seemed shocked by the sight of him. She rushed at Balthermi and embraced him.

"You look terrible!", she exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Balthermi couldn’t answer that question. He remained silent, surprised by the radiating love of his mother. He felt the ice inside melt, but now he had to take care of some redundant water.

When he commenced sobbing his mother looked at him with a concerned look in her eyes. With a soft voice, she tried to comfort him.

"Everything is going to be all right. Don’t worry..."

"No, it’s not...", he told her, his words smothered by tears.

"Tell me what happened."

"He is a useless weakling."

Balthermi turned and looked at his father. Red with embarrassment, he tried to wipe the tears off his face.

"Look at him", his father continued, "weeping like a little girl. He’s a disgrace to this family."

"No, he’s not.", his mother replied. "He’s just not what you want him to be. Can’t you see that he’s not like you at all, that he doesn’t want to be like you?"

Balthermi noticed the sound of anger in his mother’s voice, a complete opposite to her usual shyness.

"Why can’t you just leave Balthermi be?!", his mother hissed furiously.

His father smiled darkly in reply for a moment, then raised his hand and slapped his wife in the face, her timidity returned and once again she was quiet. Having won this short quarrel, Balthermi’s father contently left the room, leaving Balthermi stunned over his cruel act. After a while Balthermi regained his voice.

"Maman... Are you hurt? This is all my fault..."

His mother replied with a muffled voice:"Ça va, Balthermi. This is the way it’s always been. The way it’ll probably always be... C’est la vie."

"You...never loved him, did you?"

"The marriage was arranged by our families, your father and I...we hardly knew each other..."

"Je suis desolee."

His mother smiled at him. "I know. Don’t listen to him, you’re a good person. I know that, I want you to know that too."

"Why does Father treat me that way? I can’t stand it, it... hurts... I want him to be proud at me, but I can’t do anything right... I’m hopeless."

"Your father is afraid you’ll surpass him one day. You’re not hopeless, you’re talented, I know you’ll be a master swordsman one day, as long as you train hard.

And she had been right. After that day, she was his inspiration. He was doing it, both for himself and for her, the one that had blessed him with life. Duke thought of his mother often, how his life would have been if it wasn’t for her. Three years later, he got invited to his first tournament. He never would have attended if he knew how this would influence his life. Now he was 19 years older and wiser, and again he was holding that cursed invitation. He read it carefully, aware that there might more to this harmless-looking invitation than met the eye. He looked at the signature which ornamented the bottom of the piece of paper. It was quite a long name and Duke found trying to decipher was a very difficult task.

What handwriting! This looks like it’s been written by a madman!

Then he noticed, the first letter of the signature was clearly a ‘V’. It didn’t take Duke long to figure out what the word was.

"Vermilion?"

He noted he had spoken that word out loud and decided to rant on in his mind.

How can that... giggling psycho run something as powerful as this?! Il est dans le lune! But he IS an exellent marksman, of course.

Duke decided that it was fear that kept the people under Vermilion’s control. He had scared the living daylights out of him anyway. He probably didn’t hesitate to put a bullet in the brain of any deserter.

No matter who their leader is, I can’t let them go about their evil deeds... Once again it is time to go.

He called for his squire and let her fetch him his armor and Dernier Vancour. When he told her he was leaving for a Tournament, she looked almost worried.

"While I’m gone you’ll listen to Sebastien and you will do as he says." he told here sternly.

"Yes, your Lordship" she softly replied.

"Well then, adieu."

"Adieu. And... your Lordship?"

"Oui?"

"Be... careful, OK?"

He nodded in reply.

He left for the Tournament worried about the horror that may lay ahead of him.

Author’s Notes

Well, hope I didn’t insult anyone with all of this. It’s just my personal view of Duke’s childhood (Duke’s about twelve here). There are some Toshinden Next (which ISN’T coming after all) bits in it, the Tournament Duke attended three years after this bit is the Toshinden Next Tournament. But since it’s not coming and I have no idea what the hell went on back there I won’t write that much about it.