...Long before Lindblum intervened...
...With the 'revolution', to bring that war a 'resolution'...
...I still remember...
...That boy...
...Yes... an alexandrian boy...
He only had five years.
A five year-old boy... who saw his own parents caught up in a fire...
...Dissappear into a riot...
I can still... throught my ears... hear their screaming...
...Was I... responsible... for it?...
...Or was it...
...The 'Drive'?...
...
I'm so hungry. Skin and bones. An animal after being sent to the local butcher. I feel like a peasant, the poorest one, belonging to the darkest corner of the dirtiest streets of a city without a soul. I'm referring to the Kingdom of Eternal Dim, Treno. There, you're either poor, miserable and skinny, threw away into the slums; or you're a noble, rich and fat, living down in a mansion near the fountain. Treno also hosts The Auction House, which works as The Capitol, the neutral spot of negotiations between the nations. Father would often make an appearance there, while Mother stood with us, cooking lizard tails. Alike an island in the middle of a sea in flames, they discuss either who is right, who is wrong; or force the nations to assign a cease fire.
'Unlike Peace, all cease fire agreements expires someday'; Father once said something like this. I'm so hungry.
About when Clyde finished his art of preparing the flame, rain poured down with a significantly higher chance of ruining our dinner. Me and Clyde, like the others, stood under our tents. Before the rain could put out the fire, I saw some rookies improvising a covering for the fire. By ripping one of those tent's cloths and supporting it with their own javelins, tips stuck on the soil, wooden handle wrapped by a cord. Kinda like another tent assembled, but exclusively for the fire. We poured our food on our helmets. A not-so-but-enough-clean piece of cloth to cover its openings. Our dinner was the least amount of black beans, to slightly improve the consequent loss of blood, and rice, who has everything we need to keep our bones seemingly hard to break. There was no water nearby us, the only who felt down at us wasn't enough – maybe we could use it later to wash our hands, since there's no cutlery for us –, so we peel some oranges, also brought by the rookies. My gratitude for them once again.
We layed upon our beds, to enjoy of our food, when a soldier came to our tent.
— Hello, he said. Could I share this tent of ours? Mine's got soaked, and I can't stand a soaken pillow.
— Well... Why not?
Me and Clyde briefly looked at each other. We accepted the comrade, not only because he was a fellow burmecian, but you might think it's incorrect to let someone without assistance and accompany at the worse of the situations. Our ancestors always wondered about this kind of attitude we have for the other. To place ourselves in a new perspective, a change of reality, created by the descriptions of pain and sadness spreaded into words... to comfort someone with our heart is something that seems so simple, but it has such a deeper meaning behind. All I know is that I feel more secure accompanied of someone.
And so, we accepted that fellow to come inside our tent. Like a lodger hosted at our tent, we offered him some of our food. He brought his helmet down from his head. As my mouth filled with the unsavory taste of rice and beans covered in spit, I took a look at the boy. It was a rookie, presumably perceived in his appearance. He was calm, and gently. The serenity of his childish eyes, green like two eliptical diopside gems, and that curvy and long flaxen hair, too well maintained even for the most formidable of the men. I don't recall ever seeing such a handsome man before. Only women, like my mother, my sister, and my wife shared of the same beauty. Just one day, that felt like a week, away from home and my mind is getting on of such thoughts. I can't make this own him as a first impression of mine. They say your first impression left is forever, and is difficult to change it. Poor Jack... he still feels marooned by his own mom since he was born. I'm sure Lenneth is doing her best for him.
Now, speaking of that boy. Yes, he seemed to not belong with us, and more likely, he was something parralel of us, like Francis, who once used to be a baker; or maybe James, the fisherman; John, another fisherman; Maison, architet; Vincent, still life painter, Emilio, husbandman and merchant; Jin, metallurgical; Schneider, tailor; Buckley, milkman; Clyde, baker – he used to be a former royal guard before. He kind of neglects it's fact, and I never had the chance to talk with him about it. I once thought there's no difference between a soldier like me and a royal guard Clyde used to be, but I was wrong. Soldiers don't get that much of salt not even in a week –, and finally, me. I don't have that much of a fixed occupation. My hobby is painting and reading. Sometimes, I use to spend the long lost afternoons to sew clothes. Jack's, Lenneth's and mine as well. Let's just say I'm free to do whatever I do, as a job. I work as a freelancer, I guess. I can do anything with those bare hands of mine, unless it's something I might refuse, such as to sell my body. No, I'm not this kind of fool. There are certain limits for what I can do.
I sometimes found myself, and Jack, hunting Basilisks. Those nasty creatures... They are a well-know prague at Burmecia, with such a tendency to petrify the ladies. Literally. People know it as the Phaedra's Curse. Worse than tetanus given by the cut of a rusty knife, or carbuncles inflammating over a neck, the disease is said to turn part of your skin into stone, progressively reaching your nails, your bones, your hair... even your eyes, turned into stone. Truly horrifying; but rumours aside, this disease has it's name because of Queen Phaedra, who has been infected by a Basilisk a long time ago. Legend say that her statue found at the inside of Burmecia's Palace is indeed herself, or so do people believe. People who became statues in a whole like Phaedra are rarely seem these days, since the production of a medicine called Soft, sold for a low price at the markets, has reduced considerably the number of infected. In a fact, the Basilisk only infects you when it's found vulnerable, cornered by his predators or you. They dislike the rain, so dry environments, like houses, are prone to have them. His eggs, with the size of the ones belonging to hummingbirds, are mostly found inside the walls, or in a hole buried in the ground, and unfortunately, they aren't edible. Despite petrifying people, little children can also get poisoned if they ingest one egg or even lick the shell. I remember the taste of one of those eggs. Worse than castor oil, for sure. If I recall, it was Clyde, once again, who saved me. He gave me an antidote who forced me to puke that egg, and so I had to rest in bed for a week.
Thanks, Clyde.
I finished dinner, about when Clyde and the other finished their dinner. I've never felt such a starvation like this one I felt. I even ate the entire orange as a whole, from its bitter syrup to its untasty pulp. A quiet dinner like so quiet I am, the introspect one; my mind is the only way I found so far to express myself... to myself.
— Oh, thanks for the dinner, said the invited soldier. Mind If I... ask your names?
Oh, we forgot to say our names. How silly of us, the anfitrions. I was about to say my name, when that guy looked at Clyde, Not a look, but a fixed stare, as if he already knew him. Maybe because he was once a royal guard, I don't know. Or maybe because he's a baker, like Francis. Everyone needs bread, so imagine seeing my brother's face everytime I need to buy cereals. He's so unreconizable wearing this outfit and that outfit.
— Well... my name is Bart, and this is my brother, Clyde.
— Bart and Clyde... He said, a moment before he stood quiet. The words vanished from his mouth, until his lips exclaimed. — Ah! You must be the sons of Major Brandford... My pleasure. I'm Highwind. Prescott Highwind.
Prescott, he said... Prescott... that name. Son of priest, I see. Now that answers why he doesn't look like a common soldier, after all. Strange... I once heard that surname of his before. Was it... Highwind? I'm certain that I've heard such a name before. Since my childhood, I regard my parents saying the name 'Highwind', as a part of a story. I'm sure I'm about to recall whether this 'Highwind' has or not something to do with me as a kid. While I struggle to find an coherent answer, the guest told us about the life he led before he came to where are we. He was once a royal soldier, as once Clyde was, but now he settled down for Sophia and became a family man, to take care of his sons. A bunch of them, boys and girls. One of them had the same name as his and, if I recall, he mentioned another boy, a wealth kid as well as his other sons. His words were so quick that I failed to notice that boy's name. Was it... Bradley?
No, I must be mistook. I'm so tired of today. I was about to feel asleep, when Prescott changed the topic of our conversation. This time, his mood changed to a serious one, as his face expressed sincerity and coherence. Was he angry, was he sad, perhaps? I don't know. He looked to us as if he was about to tell us his dog died, without sheding a single tear or change the tone of his voice. Prescott said he had information, brought by him from a friend of his, a member from the High Command, who deemed it as imprecise by them. Maybe in order to not upset us, they left this recluse in their own conversation. I wonder who was it who brought this confidential message to Prescott, and why do he's sharing it with us. And mostly important, he intended to share this information with Clyde, not only because I'm too quiet for sharing a talk, but I doubt because Clyde somehow knew Prescott. I had no time to debate with such doubts in the verge of a slumber. This bit of information is about our fiend, Alexandria, and part of their plan. It was about the enemy we where about to face, seemingly believed to be seem by a certain Moogle wandering across the plateaus of Alexandria. No matter what happened, even if Bahamut or Leviathan were watching us keenly, we knew we had to face him, tomorrow or after tomorrow. His name...
General Cecil Manfred Christophe, of Alexandria.
An elderly man, without a trace or an ounce of emotion, whose stoic and threatening glare intimidates even the man with shallow fears. A living halo in reverse, where only lands dry as a desert rests. A slender figure, whose ominious appearence sparks a contrast with his unfathomed outstanding skills in battle. An expert in Holy Sword technique and non-elemental damage inflicted; condecorated with six medals and the title of former General of Alexandria for his bravery as a warrior, he ain't no amateur. Because he wears less armor than the majority of its enemies, he moves faster and smooth as a breeze from the sea. It's said that General Chistophe killed a hundred soldiers on a single battle at the field. He killed those soldiers not only because he's agile being, but because he's confident of its actions and the turns those actions take as well. His sword, Save The Queen, passed from generation to generation, were once in the hands of his ancestor, Madalene Christophe. She became from an ordinary woman to a legendary knight at the age of 13, when she fought against Lindblum's army in year 1389, at the peak of their 9th war against Alexandria, with only nine soldiers at her accompany. Later she passed, in year 1401, due to unknown circumstances. As a post-mortem homage, Alexandria ergued a statue to commemorate her victories over battles, and gave her the title of Maid of Alexandria, the only female to do it so.
Thought to be unwinnable as a deity, a soldier from Lindblum proved that Cecil were a human being, by cutting the General's ring finger from it's left hand. An useless effort that resulted on another lindbluniam death, since Cecil was right-handed, that was the only time General Christophe got hurt and lost something in battle for a weakling. As unlikely it may sound, Cecil has its own code of honour. He completely ignores potentially defenseless people, focusing on those who aren't afraid of his self, willing to die at his hands. He has no mercy over such people, he said. All that I had to say for myself is that he doesn't fight for himself, nor kill people because he does like to do it. All of his actions are justified by the fact he's fighting for his land, Alexandria, and its people, who glorify him as a hero. It's said that he, and his own soldiers, called by Knights of Pluto, inspires kids around Alexandria, much like on the same way a Dragoon Knight inspires those kids of ours. To think, once in a lifetime, humans from all the nations of Gaia were once hired as Dragoon Knights in the past... until that awful incident happened. History is cruel, like Cecil pretends to be.
All the image of fear he carries accrued on himself is merely the fear of Alexandria of being pulled back downstairs in the staircase of its goals, conquers. The fear of retrocess, to be slowly burnt inside a building by fire instead of a quick choke. But Cecil can't see it, because he only obeys its orders given by Alexandria. Without the code, he's nothing more than another unleashed dog of war, and we, fools awaiting to be swallowed by him. Without our code, we are just like the Vastitas. People tied to a rope, about to fall into a ditch as dark and profound as the past belonging to the entirety of Burmecia. A past, whose consequences not even our God could eschew it from us, his people, still awaiting to awaken from a deep dormancy as profound as the one I felt, before I blew the candle illuminating the tent and layed upon my bed, as so did Clyde and Prescott.
...
...Bart...
...the Major's second son...
...He is so quiet...
...Just like his father and his brother once told me...
...He suspects I'm, somehow, an acquaintance of Clyde...
...Was it just Fate who brought me to his tent?...
...This is the opportunity I have seek throught these years...
...To keep him away from the danger...
...I must not dissapoint his father...
...Once again...
ns 18.68.41.141da2
