Shadow (kagedreams) wrote,
Shadow
kagedreams

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Ahahah! *choke*

Shadow doesn't even last a day in trying to stay away from spoilers... ^^;


Bits about vol 17...

Nothing happened on their first night together?!?


I've read two sites and they both say the same thing. ^^;


Apparently, their first 'night' ended up happening during the next afternoon. ^^; One person mentioned that Edgar and Lydia ended up fighting the night before and things ended there. But there was also a comment about Lydia planning on wearing the nightwear mentioned in one of the SSs. ^o^



Damn, how long until I get my hands on this thing?? >.<;; Oh well.

And to give some folks something of interest to read, here's a quicky translation of the next SSs preview. (From Mar 2009 Cobalt) :P You really haven't changed at all, have you Edgar... ^^;


Hakushaku to Yousei -- A Long Ago Day at Sylvanford
Until the Promise is Fulfilled

Blond hair and purple eyes; the boy was so beautiful, he looked like he came right out of the world of myths. To Paul, he looked like Adonis who was loved by the goddess of beauty. The boy was wearing a worn shirt with a vest thrown on overtop, and his high boots were scuffed and muddied. And yet, despite that, he didn't seem like just another child.

"What are you doing here in the middle of the forest?" the boy asked Paul as he drew closer.

By the time Paul had realised where he was, he was standing in the middle of the forest with no signs of any path, and he'd been at a complete loss.

"Did you perhaps go into the garden only to end up getting lost in the forest?"

"Ah...... yeah, that's right."

The boy looked like he was about 12 or 13 years old. To 16 year old Paul, he was definitely a child. And yet, the boy's manner of speech gave a sense of dependability.

"The White Lily Manor is this way."

Apparently, the boy knew the area well. Relieved, Paul followed him.

The White Lily Manor was the Duke of Sylvanford's residence. Those living on the grounds were most likely members of the servants' families. Paul wondered if the same was true of the boy.

"Do you live nearby?" he asked

"Well, yes. And you? You're an artist?"

Apparently, the boy noticed the paint stains on Paul's clothing.

"Ah...... no, my father's an artist and came here after receiving a request for a painting, but I'm just a lowly apprentice," Paul answered as bitter feelings came back to him. A short time earlier, he'd fled the studio thinking he despised art. The older apprentice Wally had reprimanded him because Paul was having problems with preparing the paints. For some reason, Paul couldn't seem to get along well with him. It seemed like he was looking down on Paul, criticizing his mistakes.

Despite Paul's having been cut on the forehead by the small dish that had been thrown at him, his father simply glanced at him when he came into the room next to the studio and told him what colours he wanted next.

Perhaps his father only saw Paul as another apprentice--not only was he making him help out with his work, but he only watched on regardless of how his son was treated. His father has always been quite taciturn, but when he starts working on a piece, he sees nothing else. And since he wasn't the type to consider his son's feelings in the first place, perhaps there was no helping matters.

That aside, Paul couldn't help feeling lost in uncertainty over everything as he didn't even know if he had the desire in him to become an artist and with it the willingness to put up with the pressures he would naturally face in that field.

"Just past here is the backside of the manor."

As the boy said, shortly thereafter a building could be seen beyond the trees.

"You're right! Thank you for all your help."

Paul smiled in relief, and the boy smiled back. His smile was very captivating.

The boy stood and stared at Paul's face then pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket.

"You have blood on your forehead."

The boy's kindness spread into Paul's sunken spirit, and Paul unthinkingly accepted the handkerchief. But when he looked at the handkerchief, he realised that not only was it a lady's, but it was also quite expensive-looking. Any way he looked at it, it didn't look like it was the boy's.

"But it wouldn't do for me to get this dirty."

"You can have it. I'll admit, it was a gift."

"......It was a gift?"

A woman's handkerchief? Women only give those to men whom they've given their hearts to.

Paul couldn't help thinking that since he regularly hunted down old poetry. But any way he looked at him, the boy was too young to be considered a man.

"From my girlfriend. But we broke up already."

Paul struggled to think of an appropriate reply as he wondered if such grown up jokes were popular among the children in the area.

"In which case, it's a memento, isn't it?"

"It's best to throw such mementos away. If my next girlfriend finds it, she'll go into a sulk after all."

As Paul wondered if that too was a joke, the boy turned his back and left.

* * *

That night, Paul had a dream.

The moon shone down on the lake at Sylvanford. The night was unusually bright as the moonlight reflected off the lake lighting up the shore.

A white horse walked along the shore of that lake. On its back was a knight; his streaming blond hair was even brighter than the moonlight. The young knight wore a white cloak, carried a golden shield, and bore a silver sword; Paul figured that it was the figure of the boy he'd met in the forest only grown. And when he directed his benevolent gaze towards the depths of the forest, the darkness receded from the path as though giving way.

The dense overgrown forest was a place beyond human understanding. The man boldly entered that place where a legendary monster was supposed to live and that people stayed away from. Ah, perhaps he's the master of something that lives in this place. Even devilish ones would prostrate themselves in awe.

Watching that scene, Paul couldn't help likening himself to the minstrels of old, and frantically sought the words to convey that image. He felt the words springing forth and felt like he would be able to write a wonderful poem.

I have to write it down while I still can.

Where's my notebook?

I think it's under my bed......

Reaching out with his hand, Paul fell out of his bed and woke up. Despite that, not wanting to forget the dream he'd just had, he crawled over to the window, and relying only on what little moonlight there was, he frantically scribbled everything down.

As he did so, he was certain as to who the boy he'd met the other day was. He'd heard that there was a young heir to the Duke of Sylvanford's house.

His dignified looks, and his smile that could enchant a person in an instant; there was no way he was just a young boy. The duke's house was said to carry royal blood of old, and like the minstrels of old had expressed in their poems, Paul felt his heart pound at the thought of having met the descendant of a noble knight.
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