I’ve been dividing my time between game design and translation.
I’ve undertaken a great task. Translating an obscure ven pillowbook called The Great and Tragic Life of Shara Yvarai. I first read about it in college when studying Plato’s Republic. My research on Atlantis lead me to the ven, and ever since then, I’ve been collecting scraps and bits from various translations.
I’ve been using Duncan’s to translate it. A slow and demanding process, but I think I can publish my translation next year.
I just finished translating the patona: a ven literary tradition of giving the reader a brief foreshadowing moment of the ending at the beginning of the book. I thought I’d share.
When her back hit the floor, the sword fell from her fingertips, scattering away.
He moved fast, his own blade plunging downward, powered by both hands on the hilt. She rolled, but not fast enough.
The tip of his sword pierced her belly, her blood splashing across her chest. She felt it reach through her flesh, cracking the stone under her. She screamed, grasping the blade with gloved hands.
“It is over,” he said, looking down at her, his hands still on the pommel.
She could not move, could not speak. Only look up at his face. His eyes. Those beautiful eyes.
Her fingers reached for her sword, but he leaned on his own, making her scream again, her voice echoing around the cold walls.
“You are dead, Shara,” he told her.
All around her, blood on the floor. The faces of Senators watching closely. Intently. Some eyes burning with fire, others wet with tears.
Then, she saw his injury. His hand, drenched in crimson, holding his side.
She shook her head, her sweat and hair in her eyes.
He smiled. The same smile he gave her before. “Very well,” he said. He twisted the sword.
Her scream was cut off by the blood in her mouth. Her voice made a wet sound as she choked. The tip still buried in the stone beneath her, he could not twist it all the way. Only enough to aggravate the wound.
“Enough!” a voice called out from the Senators. Shara recognized it. A woman’s voice. A young voice. Older than she remembered from two years ago.
He looked up and out at the face in the crowd. He nodded. “Agreed.” Then, he pulled on his sword, still trapped in the stone below her.
But her hands wrapped around it, holding on. Pulling against his strength. The strength of the stone and the strength of her hands, keeping the blade in her body.
He looked down at her, his eyes confused. “What are you doing?”
And through the blood, and through the pain, and through the memories of it all, she smiled.
She smiled and said his name through bloody lips.