By: Aphex Twin
From: Selected Ambient Works Volume II (1994)
353Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvGcJIoTJH7
353Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVzM5OK0Uaa
June 1782
...
By the age of five, Freya got a splinter by the tip of her finger.
It was an unpleasant experience. She would never dare to climb a tree again, even if it was the best way to see others around. And to throw rocks, spit, or piss at them, like her brother did. The green of his clothes blended with the tree's leaves hindered his sight away from the public. Trees... good places for kids to show, or hide their pain, which can't be said by words. Whenever someone feels hurt, they yell, which ain't the case of Freya. Awfully quiet at the corner, staring to a wall had not been for the blurred window, to show figures moving outside, a few tripping in the sidewalk.
It is funny with others but not me, thought Freya, with a splinter in hand. Showed it to her mother, who knew how to treat wounds, no matter the size. Took that splinter out, bleeded a little, the young burmecian felt better. She wondered if her whole body could be covered as a whole by blood pouring out a tiny wound, to which her mother replied with a soft kiss on the injured finger, as well with a kind of coldness in sight. Why haven't you told me, Freya? She asked, heard no reply out his daughter. Only that look, of a frightened child, same belonging to the day father went home beaten, worm out, face covered in filth, but when he went to his bedroom, took out that red coat, stinking with someone else's blood... still, the wounds were all his, though made by someone else's knives, or the dentations of dragon's teeth, as Freya used to believe.
Father never went away from home. He never got injured by monsters. Perhaps... If those scars on father's back were all gone by mom's kisses, then everything could be different.
...
September 1797
...
Flowers.
They can sprout at the driest of the deserts, the coldests of the poles.
And wherever there are flowers, there are also birds.
No birds, no flowers; no flowers, no honey for bees.
No bees... no flowers.
I feel like a sunflower in the middle of the rain. I miss the rain, though. Whenever I see cirrus in the skies, any clouds, no matter the colors... they all remind me of home. When I had nothing else to do, I stared at the celling. Out the bed, I stared at the clouds. It was funny to imagine which shape they had by myself, and even funnier with someone else at my side. Look, it's a chocobo, so I pointed to the sky, and nobody near other than the tree. Stay out the trees during storms, mother used to say. She said a lot of 'don'ts' and a few 'does' I agreed to. It ain't fair, I said, as if I had the knowledge of what was fair and what isn't by the tip of tongue. I only learned to make my bed when I became a Dragoon, even thought I always had the strenght within me. I just didn't felt motivated enough.
Motivation... what guides me to these open roads? It ain't only him, it never was. Oh, really? Could you please stop self-sabotaging yourself? It ain't you. Me... What do I really want? Fratley and I... We said goodbye to each other. I refuse to believe he's dead. I'll meet him again, and prove they're all wrong. Why? I don't know. Maybe I know, no one other than I know myself better. Is that true? What is the truth in a world of lies? No, I'm feeling fine, you said, after you broke a rib on training. It wasn't the first time you fell out a building. Taller than home's stairs... this ridge is pretty tall as well. How long had I been walking today? Well, unless it snows, I can't see my footprints. I can't tell how faraway I am from home, and still I can't tell why am I doing it all. Maybe I can, but that will hurt. A lot.
Huh... pant... pant... you don't know a slice of pain, Crescent. You only carry a feather on the back, thinking it's the whole world. You left your world, your people, the ones you should protect, all for a man... why? Don't you remember his last words? Fratley wanted you to stay at Burmecia, because he would have a reason to come back. Said I should fight for something, instead of fighting against something. What I am fighting for? What I am fighting against? Only the living fight, while the dead... they stay dead. Why? We all die. I am asking for it by stepping on rough and crumbling terrains. The view is beautiful, but without someone else to comment, it's just me and the clouds again. As for the rain, you can happen to be either said or happy when it does. It always rain at Burmecia, land of eternal happiness, or eternal sorrow.
Nothing lasts forever, I know. We are told by people who do not last, but what they leave behind... footprints, food remains, traces of chalk on the walls, awful or nice handwriting... I wonder why Fratley never wrote any letters. Or a will to his heirs, despite the ceremonial march of an empty coffin. All Dragoons attended it, except you. Those who attended were on doubts as well, but as Dragoons, they couldn't ever leave Burmecia. The whole world ain't a place for our kind, only a piece of it, preferably the shadows. The sun hits me constantly, and I feel ill somehow. I won't feel any better soon as I come home, because I'll miss the sun. Radiant, shining... but when you're near of the flame, it burns your skin. And so a deja vu comes, and goes. Is that the reason why only a feel people stay in our lives, because we have no space for it, no matter how repetitive it is?
I didn't began to like Fratley by repetition. It began soon as I knew him better, that I could trust his words, same he did for me. Now, if you left Burmecia to fix this wretched world, would Fratley follow you as well? Maybe not. He would trust that someday I arrived back home, I would sent him letters to not be worried, and... no. Why would I try to prevent a war that does not have anything to do with me? I am a Dragoon, secluded by blurred windows and watery curtains, unable to see the world outside by my own will and the collective's will. There isn't many Dragoons around the streets of Burmecia, so what about these open roads? They stand empty, more than you do. Someone steps over them, and they may feel glad. Whenever someone step upon you, of course you complain.
Out an artist's troubled mind, crimson clouds surrounds the yellow skies. At the top of the world, I see no war at the horizon. Just tension, which I hate, but when I see the clouds, I am in doubts of liking them or not. I become a silhouette as the sun settles down, but that would be the case had someone else stood at my side. Only my ancestors, but they're dead. Fratley lives, or so something in me yells. The beast that yelled 'yes' in the heart of the world...
...
January 1800
...
Scorched roots, deluged by fumes taking shape of a herald of winter... that's the aftermath of Cleyra.
Once found atop a giant trunk, this small settlement and its inhabitants never saw any clouds above them. None of them ever witnessed the sandstorm to be gone. Those people didn't commited any wars to know how it feels to loss so many lives for a tepid reason. Where was the honor? The cleyrans, unlike those from the faraway Burmecia, never wore any guns. Their claws were never brought to harm, or by desperation. Blue and purple nights stood at the skies, before the whole world turned red. The Desert Star, a piece of an once shattered gem given to all nations, was taken back by same Alexandria, and its spirit of centuries ago. It never gets old and rusty, unlike its people and soldiers within same armory. They fled on portals before their skins have gotten burnt by what they described as 'the sun itself', This before everything have gotten cold, but snow didn't fell from the skies.
Taste of ashes fill in their mouths, and the scent of same can be felt by those miles, and heights away from what was once Cleyra. The desert burns, but it'll become cold as soon as the night rises from the horizon. An empty horizon, taken of its life and those with emotion in sight to see it. The ground soaken in blood, the air filled with screams and agonizing torchs, pain that seems to fill in even the clouds, about to flood the earth with tears never felt by dry wastelands... imagination can do a lot, like creating a perfect world, yet the wretched reality suppreses all dreams of a a bristling, tortured Dragoon Knight, crumbling and melting inside. Atop the Red Rose airship, Freya Crescent cries out in silence, in anger to her being. Why was I forced, brought forth to this dark, cruel world?
— ...Huh – – the Dragoon is interrupted of her thoughts by a little hand pulling her vest – I think Zidane is calling us, Miss.
— Leave me alone – said Freya, turning back to the clouds. She could stare at them and they do not stare back, in dread.
— You aren't alone. We're here with you.
— I should had been there...
— You can't be everywhere.
— Those who were left at Cleyra... they are everywhere. On this same air we breathe – Vivi Orinutia couldn't do anything else. He already had done enough to convince his friends that he was more than a doll with yellow glowing dots instead of eyes. And a pitiful day was enough for a man to become its inner monster – please, leave me alone – and so he did, like the rest. Vivi heard nothing come out that creature, but that stare... it revealed no emotion, as if the living look Freya had in plenty before was drained out entirely, and all that's left behind is the husk.
The cleyrans and a few burmecian refugees left haven't saw the last of the days, only half of it. They all saw the end of all things, brought by natural death. It became natural for humans to kill other humans, by each means. As easy as it is to despise a rat, and a rat that attempted to become a human. Claws instead of fingers, javelins clashing against swords, but both humans and burmecians had been hurting each other, and themselves. Four minutes... this was the amount of time left for people to do nothing but pray for the fate of Gaia's entirety not be taken by an only person's hands, for Odin's last cavalcade to be brought only at that moment. Eidolons can't stop after they had been summoned, because they do not have conscience of any of their acts. They aren't hungry of any power, or aware of same.
A world to be fit on its leader's image, but there is a problem... Queen Brahne is ugly. All of this accomplished by the strenght stolen out of Garnet, her daughter. No blood relationship prevents the worse from happening to anyone. For soldiers to share of their own familes, yet they all shed of same color, the only thing in between. Black ink is signed over papers for a privilege to be buried in a cemetery. Now, which color and price does a tear have? Only the Dragoon Knight to know. Its taste feels salty, alike many of the words that came out of her mouth. I'm sorry... On moments such as these, Freya Crescent forgets of her own name. That her name means something. That this world only sees sense when you are able to force it to, instead of having your spine bended by same.
— My ancestors faced simpler times than these... and wars simpler – thought aloud the Dragoon, whose escutcheon shining on chest reveals her nationality, duty, and shame to anyone else.
Shame of being a burmecian, despite the job of a Dragoon Knight, a high class job back at home. Yet, each time Freya looked at a mirror, or a water puddle, something told her that she couldn't change. Same for the feelings within her heart, still beating. How come they could do this to Cleyra? The Crescent asked, and nobody was there to answer. Which kind of answer she was willing to hear? Both ears weren't hurt, not even after that explosion. Only the explosion to be heard. At least, Freya is alive. This until she looks around. Above the clouds... not even a Dragoon is allowed to touch any of them, no matter the higher were the jumps. How risky are the leaps of faith. Puck... Vivi's friend was also there. A burmecian too, alike Freya. Now he became a burmecian like any of those who have 'stopped', in the middle of rainy streets.
Their scent and lifes were gone. Beings similar as Vivi Orunitia, but they didn't shared of a name other than Black Mages, and a designation to kill. Blindly following orders, while Vivi just followed... he didn't knew what. The black mages are like clocks... made of tiny píeces, each one important on their own and the rest. If one rots, the clock stops. All a clock does is to tell which hours are. All a Black Mage does is kill since the beginning of its creation. Vivi is different, yet he kills too. Still, that doesn't make him a cold murderer. For what reason he helped people instead of erasing any of them? To cease their agony with a care other than a quick death... One minute earlier, one minute late; things can be done by a minute, but it only took a few second for they to be left behind by an one person's decision, feeded by the desperation of many instead of their hopes.
Why? This... this is just a nightmare. Soon I'm gonna wake up, and once again, Freya lied. How they came to fled from a paradise now found in ruins? Could there had been another way to prevent it all from happening? To lessen the damage done? Pretty much that a 'yes' could had been delivered to each of these questions, not only secluded within Vivi, and those yellow dots alone. How much of a failure is left to fill in my life? At least, Freya have a life. And a world to her own. A world where a selfish and immature child dreamed to become a Dragoon only so to kill dragons, not to kill people in a sort of retaliation. If a single teardrop could make a whole rain, so the Dragoon atared at the clouds, pieces of white cotton in middle of a sea of burning pillows, where a civilization rests buried in the snow. Her poetry side had been given a lot of inspiration, which can't be taken by the child within.
— I can't talk right now, Zidane – said Freya, washing dry tears – I'm tired.
— To be fair, I don't recall the last time you have slept.
— If you only came here to say this, then – it's hard to convey words to someone who refuses to look at each's faces – you know I had to be alert, even on sleep. But the alexandrians attacked on brightest day... I was careless, yet again. I couldn't fulfill of Fratley's wish, or even protect that beautiful place. Only for a while, as ever it has been.
What a let down. Throught the darkest and straightest of the corners, into the deepest of the valleys, the highest of the plateaus, the hottest of the days felt before her feet above tin roofs... A brief presence of Sir Fratley Irontail at Cleyra took over five years of what seemed to be an endless search, led by an almost hopeless Freya, whose only strenght sometimes resided with the outfit wore by Dragoons. And the strenght coming of people like Zidane. He was just a kid, a thief that had nothing else to do other than flirt with women, and to steal the money of her acquaintances. Zidane never stole a woman, a code made by his own, this until he met Ratchel. That name used to be funny to be tackled at Freya's face, he thought. No more that Zidane is a child, same for Freya. They share of the same jobs as before. Same problems, for hearts left a hole.
— You are awfully quiet, for someone who usually talks a lot – the Dragoon made a remark, as she looked nowhere with life, a static ocean – you feel it too. Something in you yells 'I wanted to be there'...
— There is nothing we can do, or could do about Cleyra – Zidane said, standing at the side of his friend – we had no time.
— We have more in hands than time alone could suffice. And we barely used it... except by ourselves – at the same time Freya let herself open up, she also let her wounds stretch out further. Zidane looked at her with indifference, as if that plain look have gotten assimilated to his face equal by equal. Only the face.
— Understand, Freya... we couldn't save everybody-
— At least ONE!... – suddenly, Freya bursted, before her throat dried up – if I could have saved at least one person other than mine... a soldier named Dan saved his family, and in return, I left them to oblivion. Dan was a longtime friend. How I used to despise him back in my youth, call him a bastard, and now that I saw his best, he had to die. No, I saw his ashes taken by the wind, after a Black Mage burned him to a crisp. I wasn't even at his side, to fight at his side, to say goodbye... – crestfallen, the helmet in head shares of same weight as Freya's guilty, which extends further than a single person – Reverend Kildea would have same age as mom had not I... now she's dead. A kind, decent person, rare to find in a world with plenty of indecency.
For a moment, Zidane and Freya stood at the edge of the ship. The two stared at the clouds, couldn't look at each other. One's face was covered by a shadow, and the other was filled in of the sun's bright – I... I know how you feel. Well, I tried to. You see, unlike me, you have a reason to fight while others are unable to. You feel a need to help, while I just do it without any reward. It's strange, because I grew my entire life as a thief, but at least, I feel like myself. That's what matters.
— I choose this life, Zidane. I have no regrets. But I can't let anyone else be hurt due my mistakes. It took a matter of seconds for Cleyra and its people to vanish out of our sights. It took years so I could find Fratley, but in the end, he found his duty instead. The rest... he have forgotten. Not that this makes any difference, for now.
— You are being too harsh with yourself.
— And Vivi? You? How long will it take for I to fail with someone else whom I care about?
— Vivi and I do know the risks. You do not have to worry about us, Freya.
— But I do. A Dragoon must – then, pouring out of cracks in armor and tears in fabric, a sort of light began to glow with Freya, but she didn't felt any cleansed. The belt who sustained the weight of that escutcheon tightened further. Alike canned fodd, the burmecian felt caged by her helmet, and armory, the only protection against the outside world – tell me a good reason why I can't go inside and choke Brahne's neck.
— It ain't the right thing to do – said Zidane, who looked at the dentation left of the wooden piece Freya's closed wrist holded onto.
— In a world where everything is wrong and confusing, it's surprising there are a few who dictate what's right and sane – something in Freya's voice became icy, despite the sunshine within her being – I know that fighting them right now would be senseless, against my principles, yet... I really want... it would make me feel better.
— Only now, and then? Besides, is that what Fratley would want?
— It doesn't matter, Zidane. He's dead, same for his ideals.
— It's hard to kill an idea.
— I am an idea. Of a perfect warrior, a perfect woman, realized within, yet, all I had been showing recently are the flaws. Perhaps I do it so as much as I wear this coat in order for others to understand I am alike them. That I'm not infallible, not an idol to be worshiped by a cult of millions... They might comprehend what sort of power I do have in hands this way, and my intentions.
— Do you intend to commit a murder for your people? – said Zidane, trying to not stare too long to that oscilating radiance.
— If it's necessary, I already did it so – together with the light fading away, quick as a blow of a candle, Freya felt that power diminishing on her being. A power enough for mountains to become particles smaller than sand, on both her hands... Trance; said to be related to the overcoming of someone's emotion, and an urge of discharging them to another place, not as easy as it is to blame someone for your faults. It can change someone's appearance, or reveal who they are, and aren't. Same power doesn't last for too long, as soon as it's expelled out of the flesh.
— You aren't only a Knight to care for someone with all your heart, or a single person to take all blame, Freya.
— I know. That's my nature, the one I grew with. Now you understand by what do I mean when I say 'leave me alone'. I don't want to show any weakness. The worst of me...
— And who said that's your worst, Freya? That's your way of showing humanity. Also, nobody can bare of such power feeded by such suffering.
— Unless I have forgotten... that I am far more than a rat – to this day, the only kind of purity Freya felt belonged to her tears, unseen even outside the rain. Vivi is pure too. Zidane used to, a bit to this day. A younger kind is always pure, this until grief arrives to take each of their lifes – an animal is said to cry only when it feels pain, but what I do feel... I feel sad. Haven't felt this way since mother left. Mom... each animal and a child deserves one, am I right?
— Guess we're all orphans, in a way.
— So do my people. And Vivi, as well. I know how he feels, Zidane. Dolls alike Vivi had been trained to become weapons, had taken so many lifes in the process, but they didn't had a reason to other than achieve justice. They are just tools, but what makes Vivi and I unlike any of them is that we had been inspired by. Taught the right out the wrong. Even a thief as you share of a code, so do Dragoon Knights. Reason why I came back to Burmecia was in order to protect its people, a task given by same King who fled to what was once Cleyra. He left his own country behind, in exchange of tomorrow. Only one burmecian had ever left its home for a tomorrow...
— You mean Fratley?
— Eidolons do not kill people. People kill people. Lifes could had been saved by this spear, and this is a kind of power Fratley knew about. He knew about many things.
— Did Fratley knew that you loved his?
— Wonder why there is an aim on my chest? I can't shield the head, despite this heavy helmet. Neither these limbs. I must move lightly, but when the shock comes, it paralyzes you. Metal attracts lightning, and I knew it on the worse way possible. This before I learned how to endure a kind of pain that vanished with time, and training. Sir Fratley Irontail... he was older than a boy, far more than a friend. When on the streets, each of our movements were like ballet. But for Fratley, there was nothing but the street to care about. He never laid a hand on me, althought I had been asking for it. Then the streets became avenues, and came a time when we had to choose which path to follow. I stood at Burmecia, while Fratley went beyond its boundaries. I didn't prevented his, not even a single moment. But there are some ties that do not break up easily.
— Is this orange ribbon wrapped on your tail related to Fratley anyway?
— This ribbon belongs to me ever since I was a child. At least the color. This is indeed Fratley's ribbon, which he offered to me as a gift. He was, other than a brave warrior, a shy guy. Maybe I was the only one who ever saw this side of Fratley. Other than that, most the time he spoke with an only mouth to all. To wear of a Dragoon's mantle was already a gift enough to the entirety of Burmecia, he said. It meant power and recognition to me, while Fratley believed that there were no weak beings to be subjudge by those deemed as strong ones. Before all these events, Alexandria and Lindblum were powering themselves, and it doesn't take too long for a thread built by years of tension to be tore apart. And somehow, Fratley was able to keep those words. After all these years, from a former shell to nothing... I had so much respect for his, enough to let him get closer. Just a promise of returning home, that's all I had left for his. But there is no home left.
— And what else is left for you to accomplish, Freya?
— In my world, you either die a martyr, or live long enough to become a pariah. I want to change it. Other than that, there's nothing meant of a change, Zidane. Nothing... other than tomorrow
— You mean a tomorrow better than today?
— Just a tomorrow is enough.
Unfinished dishes, written letters, the scent of soap coming out of grandma's home... All the little things a person can leave behind, a sign they lived in this world, might have enjoyed it; these and other thoughts pass throught Freya's mind.
...
May 1800
...
At the entrance of Alexandria's Royal Palace, the following words were carved in a burnt wooden piece:
Watered by rain, feeded by light
Out of a ground soaked in blood
A rose grew in the middle of asphalt
Pain fills in its thousand thorns
Growing in barren fields
A flock of crowns screams in air
Spread upon a scorched earth
To prey flesh under siege
Bright is the new morning
Dead skin pours upon an eye
Itch are the thorns of yearning
Dust comes to each sight
ns 15.158.61.54da2
