"It's the way a man chooses to limit himself that determines his character. A man without habits, consistency, redundancy - and hence boredom - is not human. He's insane." RHINEHART, Luke
By: Pulp
From: It (1983)
Mother's day.
A day for many to hold hands, and others to look around for pockets. Don't you have education, boy? Asks a single lady, tall and wearing a leather coat, followed by her cub, a little girl eating a lollipop. I have no mom, the boy said, before he ran away. Mom, why rat don't have mom? Asked the girl, to which the lady replied that rats do not have moms. A misconception, judging my people aren't know to leave their sons at streets after evening. I know, because I lived there, at Burmecia. Used to, before I came to Alexandria. I also had my misconceptions too, since I heard from travellers that the streets were made of gold, the people were nice to each other... day after day, that painting shared of more colors, but soons as I knew the truth, based on my experiences, I see gray like I did in my homeland.
Why do I feel so bored? I wonder why I feel this way, a thing I never felt that much. Jumped on bed while wishing to be above the ceiling. Now I can jump higher than the Alexandrian Palace, by comparasion, but I don't do it so. I would, had I been younger, reckless, disobeying my parents, none of these things I have anymore, though I am still young. Am I? There are things in your youth that you despised, more than you did with yourself. Like salt, you hate too much, but poured it upon tomatoes to make them taste any better. It was the taste of salt, now running out your body throught tears. Yes, I never cried in public, for a land already sad despite fertile. My name... I cursed it a few times, but other than that, I kept it, as a signal that I value my being. I hate being a burmecian more than anything, but as long as I am Freya Crescent, I can prove the other way round.
Well, a name doesn't say much about a person. It can be a burden to bare for many called Dick, or something worse. And when your name is followed of what you did, more bad than good for generations to come, like Brahne. An assassin for me, and my people, but for Garnet, Brahne was her mom. She acknowledges that the onslaught brought by Brahne was dehumanizing, a retrocess of ages, but still Garnet calls that grotesque being by mom. They aren't even related by blood, as if that would matter... it does for me. So much blood pouring out, more than I can remember. And I'll always remember, no matter the days where people reunite and become one in a row at the market's fair. Geez, I wish I could be less cynical. Begin with the world, and you should feel fine in your own cage.
— Don't you like holidays, Crescent? – so Amarant asked, with the typical perfume of beer floating out his mouth, spread around its beard too – nothing to do, and nobody asks anything out of you, except love.
— Or a round of mug, in your case – I couldn't stand being so near of that awful scent, but I ignored it so many times – to be fair, you always seems drunk.
— And you are the saint here – he said, about to tumble and lay on the floor. There, he did.
— Get up – I wonder why I said it. Couldn't I touch its skin, that's why.
— Oh... you sure are an example of motivation, Crescent – geez, what have I done to deserve this? – look, if love is what is really being given, then why none of us are empty handed?
— Well – that came out of nowhere. I'm used to it – I don't know. What do you feel when I hold your hand?
— The same when someone scratches my back – of course Amarant's lying – what are you looking at?
— The kids... – at the other side, I see a couple followed of their children – they hate when their fathers kisses each other. Cover their eyes... it's so cute.
— Uh... – said Amarant, struggling to balance himself –being this sentimental all of sudden, Crescent.
— I see nothing wrong – I mean, I see a lot of wrong in Amarant's face, but that doesn't count – it's already hard for me to express what I feel.
— Yeah, right. You say these brats are cute, but try to teach them to not talk. When they learn to talk, they never stop.
— I would like to. I am fit to put order.
— I agree. You have this thing of mom.
— Do I? – hearing this out of Amarant... the way he said such, I felt no offense – was it a praise?
— If you see that way. I mean, science doesn't explain everything – my guess is that Amarant is feeling such a pain in head that, no matter what he tells me, he'll forget it. Or maybe yelling won't do much to relief his pain.
— I agree. If it could, maybe I could understand you a lot better.
— And why you would? – good question. I have something to say, not so sure, but here it goes.
— Because I don't see you as a foe anymore – there, I said. Nothing happens, perhaps Amarant holded of its breath for a moment. He doesn't stink the way I tell.
— So that means you see me as a friend of yours?
— Not that much, Amarant – you're so mean, Freya. I may be laughing by now, but in fact, I don't see this Amarant like I did before – I wonder why you are blue. Other than Queen Brahne, I know no one else
— Pfft. As if I was meant to be an adjacent flesh of that grotesquous lady...
Manners at table, taught by Freya for Eiko.
— No.
— Why not?
— Wrong tip.
A knife. Sharper than a pair of scissors. Imagine a kid running away with one in hands... it only means disaster. This speaking of Eiko, a young summoner who holds of enough power to not only make a hole at this ceiling. She knows about the power in hands, doesn't unleash it, and its there to learn. Barely Freya knows a thing about forks, and wonders whether or not if many of them are any useful. Forks are meant to stab, end of talk. However, there is a fork for shrimp. Isn't it a sin to eat shrimp? Used to be. Anyway, not only there are forks, but knives, and spoons of different types, yet they all look the same for Freya. Then she briefly remembers her childhood, not so far away, when she only needed a kind of fork in table. At the window, men holding pitchforks in hands, collecting wheat for their families not perish of starvation, yet all the credit went to the Dragoon Knights, and their javelins.
— What is this little spoon for, Eiko?
— Why? It's a coffee spoon.
— For coffee? And this one?
— Oh... the teaspoon.
— Tea? But it's the same as the coffee spoon.
— No, no, Lady Freya. It's a bit bigger, but not that much.
— I wonder why you need different spoons. Is it to feel only the taste of a thing by once?
— Maybe. Aren't you the one supposed to teach me?
— Times change. The teacher also learns from the student.
— To be fair, this is the first time you are teaching me something, Lady Freya.
— The first?
— As a princess, I mean.
To live like a princess... never that these words stood on Freya's mind. They just passed throught, unlike the rain that falls upon skin. Opportunities, however, do not fall from the skies in same way rain falls for everyone. Only a person to complain about wet shoes; wet by rain. To think Lindblum once had its streets filled in of dirt fell from windows, this before someone came with the idea of sewers found below. The burmecians already had the knowledge of sewers, but in fact, said sewers were once their homes. Now they became underground culverts, in a city whose cobblestone do not let the water feed the soil. It ain't a rainy day at Lindblum, as saw by the window. Somewhere, dusk is taken out of a carpet, but it's nowhere to be seem. Nowhere where the nobles of Lindblum walk at.
— Say, Eiko... do you ever use all these utensils?
— Not at once. I have lunch, dinner, and dessert at this order. So, guess I use three of each.
— Three forks, three knives, three spoons... nine by person. How many eat at this table, Eiko?
— I don't know, Lady Freya. They mostly sit at the other table. My dog can't even take a place, you know.
— Do you have a dog?
— Yes, I do. Makoto ain't here, but they give him ratio covered in gold flakes.
— Gold flakes?
— Uh huh. I wonder if it's any harmful to him.
— Well, poisoning by heavy metal for a long time is a thing...
— At least, they do not give him any truffles as dessert.
— I wonder who gives chocolate to a dog. Or if there is someone with gil enough to buy a tiny bit of chocolate.
— Uh, have you ever eaten chocolate, lady Freya?
— If you mean cocoa seeds... I don't think so. Now, look at these spoons.
— Are you going to bend them with the power of your mind
— Oh, don't be silly, Eiko. I mean, at Burmecia, not even the spoons are made of metal. They are needed for the production of tips for arrows and javelins.
— All of them?
— Not that much. Some can eat with metallic spoons, but only a few. And to eat with the tip of the claws... a lot.
— Uh... don't get me wrong, Lady Freya, but I thought you Dragoons ate with the tip of javelin.
— We don't. That would be pretty risky. But still, by tradition, the first food of a Dragoon Knight's child is given with the tip of the spear. Mine was a sardine.
— Couldn't it be given with the tip of a spoon instead?
— A whole of a javelin isn't a spear, but sometimes it's called by spear anyway.
— So, if your whole is a rat, can I call you by rat?
— No. I have a name, and I prefer to be called that way.
— Okay. Did you know that Freya already means 'lady'? So, that means you are twice a lady?
— I can be more than you think.
— I think you are pretty.
— Thanks.
A tea in hand, a tiny hand on another. How they grow, though the Dragoon, watching out for her smallest friend. So many things to know in a world that offers a lot.
— I really want dad to stop making beasts fight each other, Lady Freya.
— For you, Eiko, he would make the moon come to your window.
Many things changed.
So many things changed, while others... Humans. They never change, but I did. Still I have a bit of humanity, same had millions already gone. Gone before time. A young son that dies before its elder father; a baby that doesn't even live enough to breathe in middle of flames; it's mother that dies of fever in bed. And a warrior who harms civilians, turns the neighbor into a battlefield. I have no mercy, she said, while they had no weapons. Only because my kind is born with claws doesn't mean that they are brought to harm. Or because rats can bite bricks that we'll never get hungry. Or because we are rats that our population will grow without consent. Beatrix... I know how ugly she is. Like all societies and the elements who agreed to live together with it, there are those who obey the law, and those who do not. There are the ones who love this place, and the ones who do not see anything but criminals, liars, and idiots.
There are many who oppose the power around, a few who stand out, nobody who doesn't shiver when I speak. It's because I can still speak, after all that happened. Now I am speechless, have a reason to. The trial of Beatrix began. Half a hour, and nothing important happens. I just watch. That's all I had been doing. Watching. That creature. I see her its knees, pleading for forgiveness. That's how I imagine, but that's only my imagination. I believe it is my own. A fertile imagination, unlike the ground of Burmecia. The seeds have been buried, and if they grow, they'll remember this song. Plants grow with songs, as much as children feel less fear when hearing of lullabies. The bridge falls down; so much death, less fear at night. All I see is a white night, hearing their words. White papers, all layered upon another like a book. A big, and tedious book, just like the truth.
The truth, a finger pointing out, like a gun right in your face, hitting your skull like a bullet, making your head ache like it never did.
Papers with same power as an only paper with nineteen statements attached at the main church's door.
Papers which can bring Beatrix down like a lead soldier.
Her lead soldiers. Who obeyed her until the end.
Sent to rainy plains and the dry desert... nobody honors them.
At the end, the trial never happened. And Beatrix... she's free.
Free.
Free from the responsibility...
Free.
Free of any penalty...
Free.
Free of the weight of guilty...
Free.
Free outside my imagination.
Free from what's written on paper.
Papers that have nothing to do with my imagination.
All these papers... and the words within...
Falling and fallen...
The law...
This is the law!
THAT'S THE JUSTICE!
Tons and tons of paper! Junk. How many trees had been sacrificed, how many Beatrix slaughtered... only so she could get free, as if nothing happened. In fact, nothing happened. Nothing I expected to happen. By the time a man murders another, he's violating the law and the codes society built with time. But in which way can a burmecian be considered a man? Or a woman? Someone who feels something... I feel anger at the moment, and yet, that's not enough. If I punch someone right now, I might get arrested, which never happened. Instead, I am a hero as much as Beatrix is. Guess we turned out to be the same in end, except that I never killed anyone. For Reis, I only left a trace of blood, mostly mine. For Reis, I prayed for this world to make sense, to give forces for me to understand it, and yet... She's free.
I understood enough, Reis. So did those living underground. When they get my words wrong, it's a shame.
Blood is the ink of this world.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
