(So we're gonna switch to a once-a-week update model for at least the next few weeks to see how that feels. Stay tuned for more chapters every Wednesday, at least until we're out of Limberry. quickascanbe dot com is still down for the time being)
The Tale of Beowulf: Legends Together
Beowulf Daravaon would become a legend, but he was not going to do it alone.
Two days after his crisis of confident in the Beoulve Manor, elite bands of Death Corps threatened the north of Igros, cutting through the threadbare Hokuten who had remained to guard Gallione's capital. Beowulf, still flush with embarrassment for how low his comrades (not to mention Zalbaag Beoulve) had seen him, set out with a vengeance.
He was always in the vanguard of the few Hokuten who still remained near Igros (much to Argus and Lambert's frustration). But beneath their frustration, he heard the whispers, and saw the looks of admiration and fear the soldiers gave him when he returned with his swords dripping blood, over and over and over again.
By the time the Hokuten reinforcements had returned to Igros, and the Corps bands that had threatened the city had been captured, killed, or driven into retreat, Beowulf Daravon had killed fifteen men. And was not alone in receiving looks of admiration from the older soldiers. Argus had proven himself a capable commander, beating the bands of Corps soldiers that outnumbered his own time and time again. Delita Heiral's endless insight and competence continued to earn the respect of everyone they fought with. And Ramza Beoulve, determined to fight without killing, had taken six captives, without slaying a single man.
"You haven't asked me why," Ramza said once, when the two of them had just finished sparring on the grounds of the Beoulve Manor. Ramza was barely standing, his face, pale, his breath an unsteady wheeze.
"Do you need to tell me?" Beowulf asked. His own arms ached from days of fighting, he felt rubbery and stretched thin as cloth about to tear, and he relished that feeling. Even in his exhaustion, he had discovered he was an unholy terror in a fight. Stay like this, to savor the danger of battle, and know that when he fought at his full strength, it might be the difference between a storm and a hurricane.
"I..." Ramza frowned. "I might."
"I don't think so," Beowulf said.
Ramza stared at him. "What do you..."
"Justice," Beowulf said. "Service. Those are the Beoulve swords, no?" He grinned at Ramza, held his blades in the makeshift pose he had taught himself: the one in front of him, the other behind him, and the rest instinct and intuition. "But more importantly, they're your words. You've struggled to live up to them as long as I've known you. Is this any different?"
Ramza's stared turned into a bemused, grateful smile. "Not at all."
"Then what is there to explain?" And Beowulf grinned at him in turn. "But of course, if you can't beat me, how will you keep fighting without killing?"
And he laughed in joyous surprise as Ramza rushed him at once.
Beowulf claimed another fifteen lives before he returned to his father's home, and stood behind a glass door leading to his father's balcony. Argus, Delita, and Ramza stood upon that balcony, framed by a night sky resplendent with glittering stars. Beowulf smiled at their strong backs. Young as they were, they had already done great things. Young as there were, they had already carved their mark upon history. How much deeper might that mark become? How long until their story was a history all its own, a tale told to inspire kings and entertain children?
But it was not the thought of the legend he was carving that made him smile so widely, nor even the sight of his admirable friends. It was his father, who had drank with them scant minutes past, and smiled impossibly wide at the sight of them.
"You've all done so well," his father had said.
"Even me?" Beowulf had managed.
"Even you," his father had replied, and kissed him on the forehead.
His father saw it, too. The legend they were becoming. Because together, there was nothing they could not do.