Tales of Destiny 2 Dark Recollections part 1
by Yashima Sara
ISBN 4-7577-1323-1

Table of Contents

Prolgue ------------------------  5
Chapter 1 Pierre de Chaltier --- 13
Chapter 2 Kyle Dynamis --------- 39
Chapter 3 Rutee Katret --------- 87
Chapter 4 Nanaly Fletch ------- 163
Afterword --------------------- 209

Prologue

"I said it before - this world must be saved at the hands of Stahn and the others."

Chaltier smiled faintly at his master's words.

With a long-lingering cry, the glittering blade was thrust downwards.

After a slight resistance, the blade edge drove through the surface of the "God's Eye", made contact with the interior, and went on to sink deeper.

At that instant, Chaltier felt a surge of energy that threatened to numb him surround his mind. This was the first time the core crystal which housed his consciousness had been exposed to such a sensation, but no doubt it was due to his being so near his fellows.

"Chaltier."

"Chaltier?"

Dymlos and Atwight's voices overlaped each other.

"Are you alright, son?" Old Clemente, facing Chaltier's back, expressed concern over him.

"Of course I am. After all, we're all here."

"Your master... seems to have gone." Even in the midst of the intensifying vibration, it seemed that Igtenos's ears were trained on his surroundings.

"Yes..." 

As Chaltier replied, he felt that his heart was full to excess - a feeling that his flesh and blood self had never once understood. Mulling this over, he soon broke into a bitter smile.

(Of course. Here I am, and I still haven't...)

A leutenant and division commander of the 2nd Surface Army - although he was selected as a member of the Swordian Team, he was never once openly acknowledged. To be frank there were times when he thought he wanted at least to outdo Atwight Eks, the lone woman, but given her broad-mindedness and heroism, he couldn't compare.

No one knew that he intentionally projected a cheery persona out of shame over retreating into misdirected self-loathing, thinking that since she was Dymlos's lover, there was nothing he could do. Because his psyche was transfered into the Swordian core crystal in that state, Pierre de Chaltier had been plagued by a sense of alienation until that very moment.

(At last... At long last, I feel like I am truely a member of the Swordian Team...)

Even while the out-of-control "God's Eye" was clearly on the verge of tearing him apart, he felt like breathing a sigh of relief.

(Young master...)

Had Leon Magnus escaped to a suficiently safe place? 

Even if little life remained to him, Chaltier wanted him to go on just a little further.

(Absurd... What am I thinking? This is the "God's Eye"! The aetherspere won't hold much longer... Since Reala is with him there shouldn't be cause for worry, but, nonetheless I want to stall it a little longer... even a moment... Young master!)

When the prayer-like thoughts passed though Chaltier's mind, the "God's Eye" approached threshold.

Dymlos and the others no longer spoke. Perhaps there was no time left for talk. Or perhaps, like Chaltier, they were all reflecting on thier own feelings.

The Swordians' energy synchronized. It was the moment when the critical point was breached.

A chillingly cold impact rang out - it was the sound of thier hearts, the centuries old essence of their being, shattering.

Their core crystals burst apart amid the ruined fragments of the "God's Eye".

(...Young master... This is what you wanted, isn't it?)

Chaltier was already past the point of hearing the thunderous roaring, and lingered in the open space, having been released from his crystal.

(You said, young master, that Stahn must save this world... and now all should go well. This was the proper flow of history from the start. I'm truely glad that I could...)

Chaltier's hazy form suddenly exhaled sharply in suprise.

Someone was laughing - it was a playful laugh, full of life.

(It's you... young master?!)

It was Leon, laughing happily; a sound which Chaltier had heard only a few times before.

No, that wasn't it. It was a sound he only heard when Leon went back to being Emilio Katret.

(How nostalgic, young master... Your hands when you first held me were so small and uncertain, who knows how much danger you were in?)

Memories came rushing back one after another to engulf Chaltier, causing him to smile.

The first explosion went off.

Chaltier was unaware that at that moment, the Draconis carrying Stahn Aileron, Rutee Katret and the others made a perilous escape through a hole that had opened in the aethersphere.

(How strange... I've lived hundreds of years, and yet the last thing I think of is not myself, but the young master...)

At what point had the days they spent together become more important to him than his flesh-and-blood life?

Chaltier simply followed the vanishing images of Leon that drifted through his mind.



"What are you doing, Chal? Let's go!" Leon's voice echoed again.

Chaltier felt himself being held and reassuringly lifted aloft, but he was no longer able to respond.



Chapter 1 Pierre de Chaltier


Emilio Katret.

Leon Magnus.

And, perhaps finally, Judas - these are the names by which my young master is called.

As I am going meet my own death soon, I am not exactly inclined to begin this such a story... and yet I have a premonition that my young master's life may not be so much longer than mine. 

Whether or not someone who truely understands him from the depths of his heart appears in the short time remaining before his end comes... that is my only remaining concern. But then, I doubt the young master's ever even wanted someone to understand him.

Emilio, Leon, Judas.

Besides myself, no one in this world has known all three of these people.

What does my young master feel, how does he hurt inside, whom does he love? What did he truely long for, in the depths of those cold eyes? He is terribly reticent, and on those occasions that he does open his mouth, he utters nothing but bitter sarcasm.

As a Swordian Master his capabitilies are more than sufficient, though I couldn't say that he is blessed with unmistakable genius.

And so, in his place, I shall tell everthing I know of him.

The truth of my young master, cruelly abused by fate, who, for the sake one he loved so dearly that his heart bled, did not begrudge himself even infamy.

***

Chaltier's sleep was was broken by a nearby sound.

"This is quite unusual isn't it? For Master Hugo to repair a sword himself..." 

Before, he had heard footsteps or voices conversing from behind closed doors, but today was different. He listened closely to sharp sound of boots negotiating the piles of books and other leavings in the storeroom to approach him.

"I will do quite alright without your pointless babble. Hurry, light a light."

"Yes. P, please excuse me, Master Rembrandt."

Before long, a lamp cast it's ring of light. Chaltier detected the silhouettes of the two men who looked down at him and held his breath.

The man called Rembrandt seemed to be fairly old. The other, younger man unrestrainedly reached out a hand and gripped Chaltier's hilt, muttering, "Wow, it's heavier than I expected".

"I shall bring it to Master Hugo. Ah, there's so much dust..."

Taking the sword from the younger one, Rembrandt went scowling out of the storeroom while blowing dust from the well crafted hilt.

If Chaltier had noticed the embroidered word "Oberon" on the shirt of the younger man, who was closing the door the the storeroom with an over-exaggerated lock, he may have found it familliar and searched his memories. And then, undoubtedly, promptly given up. This was because he had already gathered that he had been abandoned to a future far distant from his own time - that time of war, which had become known as the War of Heaven and Earth.

(When was the last time I opened my eyes...? Ah, yes, when Atwight was gone.)

Chaltier reviewed his memories as Rembrandt took him though the door to the laundry. He didn't know why he had been with Atwight and not the rest of the Swordians. But the sleepy, murmuring voice he heard, and the the presence he felt, unmistakably belonged to Awight Eks.

(I wonder how much time has passed... A year or two? No, probably longer. She hasn't been been returned since then, but...)

"Master Rembrandt?!" exclaimed a young woman's voice, "What brings you here?"

"Nothing really - I thought I would like to get a peice of cloth."

The woman, who was dressed in a maid's uniform, glanced briefly at the sword and realized right away that it belonged to the master of the house. "I understand, sir. Something soft would be best, correct? In that case, please use this."

Drawing a cloth out of a tidily folded stack of freshly washed laundry, she offered it to the older man with a brisk motion. It was one that the maids used to dust decorations. It was not white but rather had a hint of yellow about it, and it looked soft indeed.

"Ah, this will do nicely. You've been quite a help," Rembrandt smiled, eyes wrinkling, thanked her, and took the cloth. Then he recalled that the young maid had started there rather recently. 

(Quite capable help, that one - I'm glad I noticed her. The current chief maid is getting up in years. This girl might make a better replacement than I would've thought.)

He nodded to the primly smiling maid, and left the laundry.



"You're late."

Hugo Gilchrist's rooms were on the second floor.

Rembrandt bowed to his exacting master's turned back, apologizing, "Please forgive me. The sword was slightly dirty, you see."

"Ah."

Hugo, who had been gazing out a window, turned to take sword, but paused momentarily upon noticing the cloth wrapped around it's scabbard.

"Oh, I got that from a maid in the laundry in order to dust it off... Is there a problem?"

"...No, it doesn't matter."

Hugo took the sword impatiently, and for a long moment he gripped the scabbard with both hands as if testing the sword's weight.

In that moment, a frail voice escaped from an interior bed chamber. Rembrandt's eyes grew round with suprise, and he asked, "Did you bring little master Emilio here?!"

"Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, nothing. Of course not! He is your son, master Hugo, so of course there is nothing wrong... Only--"

"Only what?" Hugo glared at his steward, eyes glinting.

"Ah... I am glad, sir. I had heard that now that the lady of the house has passed away, we would see little of him... It pains the hearts of all of your servants, myself included, to think that you might be in pain."

(What's all this? There is a baby here?) Chaltier focused his attention on the adjacent room, listening intently. The thin, intermittent cries sounded terribly sad.

"Hmf. The leader of the Oberon Coropation cannot confine himself to his own home forever."

"A noble resolution, sir." Rembrandt lowered his head respectfully.

Yet, he lacked the courage to inquire into why his master had dismissed the wet nurses only few days before. With Hugo's wife, Chris Katret, deceased, who would raise the child? Of course there was already plenty of female help in the household, but...

Suddenly the infant's heretofore sparse, fleeting cries became loud.

"Master Hugo, the little master..."

"Hmf. I don't need you to tell me," Hugo declared coldly, drawing Chaltier from his scabbard.

"What?! What are you doing, master Hugo?!"

Hugo pushed his steward, who attempted to cling to his arm in alarm, away as if annoyed, and entered the bed chamber with loud, heavy steps.

(Is this some kind of joke? Surely he doesn't mean to use me to kill a baby...) In Hugo's firm grip, Chaltier held his breath as...

"Emilio!" Hugo called to his son in a heavy voice. "Stop crying, Emilio!"

(W, what is this...?!)

In the instant the baby became aware of the perilous atmosphere, Chaltier was rendered speechless by a sensation that he could hardly believe was real.

(This child... has the capability.)

He recalled Harold Belserius's explanation from long ago. "These Swordians are not mere "things" which anyone can use. It's only possible for those with the proper capabilities. Of course, you members of the Swordian Team were chosen because you have those capabilities."

(My flesh and blood self is long gone, but this baby should be able to put me to proper use.)

But, Chaltier thought, at any rate, it would take another 15 years before the child could become his master. He didn't know why he had sensed it so clearly, but he had never encountered a person with such strong capability before.

The baby stopped crying.

Hugo, back in his right mind, held Chaltier out over the tiny crib he'd had the maid carry up from the lower floor. "Look, Emilio. Isn't it beautiful?"

The baby opened tearstained eyes, taking interest in the glittering blade above his head.

"It's something I found in an ancient ruin long ago. I think I shall give it to you."

A sigh of relief slipped from Rembrandt's lips. Being on edge due to his master's unstable character was an constant thing, but had never grown used to it. Slowly smoothing his wild, white hair, he left the bed chamber.

"Originally I had two of these, but..."

He means Awight, Chaltier immediately realized. I remember that she and I were enshrined in some ruins, and we spent all the time since then in the storeroom of this mansion.

"It was nearly three years ago. A night with flurries of light snow. Your mother took the other one, without permission. She stole it. I had only ordered her to abandon our daughter, no more!"

(Abandon... their daughter?)

As Chaltier ruminated upon Hugo's words within his heart, he tried to remember the day he was separated from Atwight in confusion.

(Yes, I had kept sensing Atwight's presence for a long time. But, that night, someone entered the storeroom with quiet, stealthy steps... I had a feeling the person was trembling... though I'm not certain. At any rate, she had not fully awakened, in spite of the fact that I kept desperately calling out her name.)

It has been several years after all, Chaltier realized.

(Wait. A daughter... I suppose that means this baby's older sister. Could Atwight be with the daughter?)

Their being siblings did not mean that they both had capacity, but the possibility was there, he thought.

"Emilio," Hugo drew his mouth into a line while returning Chaltier to his scabbard. "Listen carefully. I have made a decision. Someday you will succeed me, and become an even greater president of Oberon than I. You must possess powers which I could never master. I shall pass all the wisdom I have on to you. And... you will master the sword!"

He quietly layed Chaltier next the infant, as if he had commanded them to sleep side by side.

Quite serious talk, Chaltier thought.

(I suppose there's little to be done but nap for the next few years and wait for the child to grow.) 

A chuckle escaped from deep in his throat. It seemed that he had been succesfully given to a child with great potential, and it put him in a good humor.

Then a tiny hand streched out, and he felt a soft, moist sensation press against him. Emilio was gazing up at him, babbling excitedly.

"...Young master... Emilio," Chaltier tested the baby's name in a soft voice. He was not afraid that Hugo would hear. He could yell at the top of his voice and the arrogant man wouldn't notice. "Young master... can you hear me? You can, can't you?" 

While Chaltier was trying to confirm a reaction from Emilio, Hugo lifted the sword from the crib.

(Ah! What are