By: Ultravox
From: Rage In Eden (1981)
343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4ialeiVQT6
343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXsXNyHUUJW
Underneath a sky so dark it's almost impossible to distinguise the buildings, weren't for the lights showing their outlines, emerging from the shadows, they walk alike ghosts, some tumbling on thick air. Despite the fall, they do not give up. Some follow the scent of homes, but what they all see are familiar faces. The fisherman prefers to threw same faces on a bowl, as much as he have put the weight of night upon his older son's shoulders, all done an hour before the sun is set. At Burmecia, the sun can't be seem, but felt instead. Same happens on cloudy days, a few days spent on Alexandria and they passed unnoticed. There are other ways to bring heat to a kingdom after it's gone. Await for sunrise at horizon, which takes a time, and Freya doesn't have none to waste. Nothing to lose, yet again.
This ain't her place. Neither she felt fit at Burmecia, once a nation of warriors, whose spears are the only things who stood still most the time. As for the nation these brave men protected, though... ruins above ruins, built beneath a seemingly nonstop rain that pours over those lands. Crops grow around Burmecia, same for its population, who also suffer from a large decrease. Numbers aside, a plenty of people live in here, some do not live that long, and others are blessed by Reis to live with a wisdom fruitful as an apple tree. Apples aren't fruits, but nobody cares. They can be eaten, unlike many types of mushrooms, some who can heal or leave wounds in body and mind. A child doesn't know when to stop, or to hear its mother's pleas, who can't buy that truffle the brat wants to eat so badly. All they want is to eat, and drink. Nothing different from the adults coming in, the doors weren't open, but a large amount of people gathered inside a building.
People are there, so alive. Once, they were inside, and outside homes, into these streets, an entire Kingdom put on all knees by a single Eidolon, a disrespect of Bahamut, hero of legends told to an younger Freya, yet an accurate version of what haven't been told to her, in regards to the onslaught brought to an entire civilization, which would qualify as mass murder these days. Father only told me the good of being a Dragoon, instead of showing me the size of wounds not only scattered throught his body, thought Freya, crossing a street of cobblestone. On meetings, Freya tried her best to not shout, be polite, even breathe for a room to share enough of air in a matter of hours. She can't breathe here because that side of street stinks, and nobody to blame. These people didn't choose to live there, and of all things I've done, I can't change it.
It ain't simple as to pour soft for those petrified by Basilisks, to travel from a world to another only to meet new people, say goodbye for some, rest in peace for an entire yard, to end the life of a Vice and many creatures without making this world miss any of them, to cut the wings of an Ironite with this javelin I took from a place of old and new memories; yet, the burmecian doesn't give up, even when it comes to head nowhere, same place where all those reunions seem to lead. Adults shouting alike kids awaiting to be heard of their opinion, and they all sound silly. If they were smart, there wouldn't be streets without lights, and people living there. So many problems for an only person to bare, and many problems for people who do not care. Not that Consort Zidane doesn't care for this Kingdom, as much as he cares for Queen Garnet ever since the day she kidnapped her. Long story, boring as well, unlike the theather adaptation, which's fine.
Rarely Zidane himself gets to play its paper. He does it very well, sounds really convincing, as if that playful child remained unchanged after all these years spent on this planet. A place to belong with, that's what we are all in search with. Some live at high plateaus, others reside below. Sometimes, it ain't a matter of choice, or opportunity, but there are isolated cases, and a plenty of people who look the same, or are disguised to be alike. There was that girl by the name of Dagger, but the once Princess of Alexandria didn't fooled me, neither did Zidane. Puck doesn't wear of same clothes he used when walking on rainy streets, to pass unnoticed except when he yelled to somone who stepped on his tail, or when a ghost knocked an elder's door. That's what kids do, because time doesn't matter for any of them. Get to sleep and wake up were taught as orders before they became part of your routine.
Besides, orange and jumpsuits are one of these things that gets your immediate attention. Now, in regards to this coat that makes me look like a triangle, though Freya... As much as triangles do not exist in nature but only the human eye, so do the many faces within faces, like layers of onion. The more these layers are exposed, they make you cry for a long time. Only eyes to shed of tears, althought suffering can be hidden within a shell, until it cracks because nothing lasts forever. Not even hunger fluttering your empty stomach. Not only what lies within Freya is getting irritated, or empty, or ceasing to exist. She woke up in the middle of night with a strand of her hair within an eye, which grew red in the morning. Yellow used to be a color that meant happiness, as a puke coming out of you. But when it comes out your throat, a bad aftertaste is left.
Some days are better than others. What makes a bad day better other than its end? Sure, Fratley stood on your side, didn't cared if an awful scent came out of your mouth, or from the mouth of another. Water doesn't have a taste, unlike the one that comes from the river, or the one that comes from the burmecian mines. It tastes like iron, as if you were eating a spear's tip and drinking your own blood, shakes with your head for a moment but instead of feeling ill, you feel better. Same water began to be traded to other nations, but that wasn't the only topic of that reunion, or the many Freya had to bare. They became irrelevant with time, like who cares about left-handed matress makers? Despite being a left-handed, Freya didn't. She went there, on that tiny room instead of these large streets, where things happen other than talks.
A bottle of wine gets broken instead of drank within a cup on the other side of the street, where a figure rises out of shadows. Dead eyes like fish sold on the market, whose scent is better than the one which belongs to cod, althought their meat is soft. Then Zidane laughed on that dinner when his wife made this comment. This happened after Freya and the others who attended the reunion could eat and feel the taste of someting better than dealing with the results of war between the burmecian's nation against this, where she's stepping at. This doesn't look like Alexandria, as much as they didn't when on conflict. Both sides looked all the same, and that was one of the few things Freya agreed with. What she couldn't agree with, though, was the argument she heard from a retired General, stating that a war between Burmecia and Alexandria would be worse if Odin haven't dropped upon Cleyra.
How come Alexandria would prevent an attack coming from Burmecia? Which Burmecia? asked Freya. There was none left, and it would be impossible for my people to reorganize in small groups, only to counterattack in a sort of guerilla warfare, and where was the link between Cleyra and that that explosion, which disintegrated its people? A demonstration of power for a few, of stupidity by many. As stupid as it is to make a Kingdom ressemble a field of war, where not only soldiers are injured or aware that they will be injuried, where anyone crossing the street can become a hostage, to have your homes invaded for no reason other than strike fear on those who can't bare it, or didn't learned to with lullabies. Well, everybody is freed to say what they think, even if I do not agree with they, in the end. But, do this statement only counts to facts, excluding theories?
A stranger loving world, indeed. An extra hour of strife lasted on that room, before Quina, bless s/he, finished the dinner. But Freya ain't satisfied yet. Guided by the lights like a moth, it wasn't everyday that she had the chance to visit a pub. Sitting onto wooden chairs, cherries chopped out for their butts be found in a comfy state, some went here by the need of their dry mouths and heads desperate to ache at morning. They will ache anyway, for another reason. Despite mugs and cups, foods other than peanuts are prepared by the wife of this pub's owner. A receipt of today's dishes is written on a board lying outside. A butterfly seemingly drew by a child who holded of a piece of chalk, yet none of them are here. How elegant the place looks, but the burmecian Knight ain't only here to serve as an eyewitness. Crimes are usually commited outside places like these, and glasses other than the window's own are broken outside. On marriages, as well.
Was it evening, or night, it didn't mattered for these people. All that mattered was that they had a time to enjoy the best of life, after bearing the worst of. Why walk, have bubbles below your feet, if this place offers chairs for you to be sat upon? Red dyes the carpet, and a bottle of an old wine. None of them are dry, despite the age. With all the requisites, Freya's initiation process on the Dragoon Academy proved to be succesful, worthy of a commemoration. The first wage, and I already knew how to spent it. How long did it took for a hundred of grapes be squashed by feet, and how many years for their taste to be felt by a mouth. For that kid to grown up and not come here followed of her father? In a way, Freya still had a piece of his alongside her. Many pieces, attached on that coat, to this and that same day.
A bucklet which tied that escutcheon wrapped by a pair of belts on her chest didn't seemed to have a special meaning, only the purpose all pieces of a clock have. No matter how small, they are meant for something. Wisdom teeth only brought pain to the Crescent, althought she already felt pain before they grew up, and after they were extracted. By hand, just like those spring rolls following the wine. Tainted in red alike that coat, dripping as the blood, which tastes sweet and bitter as grape juice. In the parties, Freya used to drink of same juice among her cousins and friends, even feel dizzy for the play be convincing enough. The money in her hands was enough for the pub owner forget to ask about the girl's age. But Fratley had to be there to ruin it all. No, he didn't ruined everything, because he was a nice company. Which other company better to follow you than a silent one?
A pretty woman, for someone who is sharing of its sixteens. Fratley said, then he felt a bit of shame for making that statement. Freya said nothing, already wearing of this red coat, same red which became part of Mr. Irontail's face. He knew how to be a gentleman, a nuisance my old self had to bare with, before knowing more. An ignorant tends to follow anyone's words, while a paranoid hears the same words on all voices belonging to its head. I didn't knew which one I was, most of the time. Do not talk to strangers, mother used to tell me. With time, Fratley wasn't a stranger anymore. I learned to respect him, and to feel something for him. Mother married when she was fourteen. It was an arranged marriage, but Fratley Irontail didn't made a place on my life by a matter of fate. It was a matter of choice, one mother didn't had. If there is one thing we shared in common, despite the hair, is that we made a relationship based on endurance to trust.
Cold makes us sentimental, and cooperative beings. Cold enough were the days water shaped into flocks of snow, or hoarfrosts in a twig. To this day, Fratley and I share of same shape. Only one of us to share of same memories. Though, Freya agrees that there are some things meant to be forgotten, for good. A same joke can be laughed at many times when forgotten, for example. Fascination which came at the first time you felt the scent and taste of something new, the dare of doing something once forbidden like drinking a wine, or to feel the sweat of someone close to another. There is not enough space to fill in a box, so do a brain and its memories. Yet, the stomach complains when empty, and you are at its service as usual. Freya used to be at service of Burmecia, near its people. From a while to another, they shown up there, and here, which's better than being driven near extinction.
— Good night – speaking of it... Freya never heard the Amarant she knew be so polite, not with random people. Well, he had been allowed to get inside this place, though – hello, Crescent. Aren't you going to say anything?
— I do not want to choke.
— Yours or my neck?
— Are we here to speak of preferences, or to ask for them?
— I'm not here to question any of it – said Amarant, before asking for a pint. A green like jade bottle, followed of a tiny glass cup, and the burning on his throat expressed by the pull of faces. No wonder why he is called by Flaming Amarant... Now, did he came here to pull my money instead of his own? Thought Freya to herself – argh... even if they count as part of my favour to yours.
— Do you still remember it? – as it seems, he is also here to pull some small talk out too.
— I kept my word – one of the few he had the pleasure to keep.
— Why? That was a silly game, a mere passtime...
— And I agreed to play it with you.
— You do not care about in which way you waste time.
— Time is the least of the things I have to waste.
— Same for money, I presume – Amarant had not been working on its career who made him a know figure, instead of a ghost. Same blue skin, cold as a reptile, though the mugs drank made him a bit warmer. That's their purpose, a thing Amarant does not have, or do not care for.
— Wait... think that I came here with nothing but lint in my pockets? That I sat near you not to talk, but beg money to a Ratchel as yours? – Ratchel... how Freya hated to be referred as such. By this Amarant, whose head is spinning like a planet. Almost threw away as a ball, but it ain't no fun to have no one else to hold it, or threw it back to Freya, alike their words to each.
— From whom you stole this bag?
— I've earned it. Honest.
— Carrying potatoes?
— At least, I've did something.
— I've did a lot of things as well.
— Do they mattered?
— Security matters.
— To which country they do most? How much had it been since you've stood at Alexandria?
— I ask the same to yours.
— I asked first.
— Ladies first.
— Uh... okay – said Amarant, slurping the pint filled in of yellow syrup. Alike corn... it tasted awful, but what the hell, who cares? Freya is about to burst, holding the giggles. A swollen face after a bee's sting, and something had to die for that – I do not have a place to live. Gaia is already the place where I had been brought birth, you see. Lindblum, I mean. Not that one with gorgeous and tall buildings, with ridiculous airships flying above with their wooden tips, to compensate something. If we can't touch the sky, then so a machine will do for us.
— I'm not a machine, and I've touched the sky several times.
— Did the sky touched you back? – he's already out of his mind, making silly questions... not that this mattered for Freya, or for this and that Amarant.
— Only hands to touch, and feel of same.
— You, burmecians, should be glad of the rain. A hand that feeds, for all.
— A hand without a touch.
— This if you aren't a butterfly, or if you do not have bones to bare each drip. We are all butterflies, in a way, in and out the rain.
— What you do mean?
— Well, Crescent, my dear... Why there are guards everywhere watching us? Why so many people walk on a large street, without feeling stuck in a jar of pickles? Why beer, wine and anything with alcohol can be drank in parties and not considered as a drug? Why banks, cathedrals, hospitals, jails. orphanages, moms and dads; establishments of religion and public order, of assistance and punishment... Why do they exist?
— Because people agreed to live with each other in society.
— Yes, and because freedom does not exist, after all. If you were truly freed, then you could kill anyone in the street, but you see, by mentioning the word 'street', you are already mentioning a way society built to put people in check, other than justice. These and other structures, built above fields once filled in of war, and fields tasked to be filled in of war. But when war wages on the city, then there must be something wrong. Well, anyone who insulted the King or called its wife ugly would get the head chopped, ya know. It's a fear doctrine, made to put everyone in check as well.
— What all these things do have in common with a butterfly?
— They do not. The King, the money, the God... If you don't have none, them you must be a creature. A butterfly flying around, but even those little bastards know how to control other beings. Ants give priority to a blue butterfly's larva, so much that they even sacrifice their own larvas to feed the bigger larva, who in exchange produces a kind of honey stimulated by same ants, on a same way a man drinks milk out of a cow or a chocobo's breats.
— Chocobos do not produce milk.
— Well, because they're either smarter, or because some people are dumb. You decide.
— Nothing you've said made any sense.
— Because I didn't finished yet, Crescent. Well, excuse me... uh, as you see, saw, whatever... ahem. Nature features a lot of permanent friendship, ammends made eternal between different speciments. Friends instead of foes, but who to create such words as 'friend' and 'foe'? Animals do not talk. A rat doesn't talk, yet you stand there like one. So do I, but I'm not a rat. Heck, I do not even know who I am. If a human, or less than. But that I am talking, think, standing still, drinking a mug made by another's hands... No matter how we look different, we are people too, Crescent. We call ourselves by names, which makes things harder, a kind of unnatural that became something natural. A dog shits everywhere, doesn't care where it's going to shit, and do not even know the word 'shit'. All that a dog knows is to follow of a instinct, so do people. We still follow of things now deemed as 'past ideals', 'paradigms' that shift according to time and the will of a group. Only people belong to society built by people, and those who oppose it are creatures, less than people, exterminated if in the past, and excluded nowadays. How many streets does this Alexandria have? Not a single avenue which heads to the palace, right? How did you came here, to this place? Did you knew about it, or so you just happen to be here, by instinct? Well, it's better not kill people like dogs, but make them live in fear, and with this 'freedom' which opposes fear, all in order for a state of equilibrium to be built.
— Uh huh – for Freya, it was funny to see Amarant make a smart comment. Or something which seemed to be smart, due how tired she felt. Both of them – from where have you gotten all of this information?
— I'm currently working with the book business. I mean, you can do anything with a book, other than reading it. Sometimes I do check the pages, and well, that was an awful book. By awful, I mean all the truth it was there.
— The truth as a whole can't be secluded within an only book.
— I know. So the silverfishes agree with me.
— How many pages had they eaten?
— Some vermins are way worthy of eating pages than people.
...
A pig... in a cage.
Sleeping well. No bad dreams. No longer afraid of the night. I am the night. I've became the night. That's who I am. I am... I am...
— My name is Fratley Irontail. I am a Dragoon Knight at service of Burmecia... And that's the only thing you'll retrieve out of me – no matter what. It doesn't matter. Nothing I am... nothing. This pain... It hurts so much. I am still alive. I have a plenty of life to be spent.
— Why don't you make your intentions clear? Tell us truth...
— ...To fear nothing you get! – empty stomach... Empty heart. Empty prayers for an empty mouth. Vegetables do not speak. Do not think. Do not say... I won't say anything for these bastards. I'll say something other than my name.
— SPIT!
— That's enough.
— For today is enough – I won't say anything. I can't speak. Can't hold a breathe any longer. I have a mouth, but I do not scream. Nobody else to hear me. Never that I would let a scream out to another. These others... They do not care. I could smash their heads. Nobody will miss them. That's why they do this. Why I am here... I have been forgotten.
— We're not here to break your bones...
— ...Agree if you do.
My wits can't be burnt. My eyes see black instead of red. Ears shut, limpy like pancake. They heard the storm, and the rain. My lips are dry of water. I'll get back to home. Not as a body. Or a nobody. My head hurts. Everything hurts... Chicken, or egg? Nails on my back. A good wife. Good sons. Good job. Solace on sundays. Will not cry in public. Not cry. I can't remember... remember anything. I cry. Don't know for what... But what's gone is gone. Who am I?... Not a gone. I am weary... Pieces of rag. Snow. It's so cold. My head burns.
Fog... Evasion... Home...
...
— Thinking about something, Crescent? – asked Amarant, who followed Freya into the main street which leaded to the alexandrian palace.
— No. It was someone – clearly Sir Forgetful, before he came to forget. Nobody knows how, and it's better not. That hypnosis session which happened some time ago could had been an act, despite Tot's reputation. And the way Fratley's voice became Brahne's... that sure was frightening, for someone who saw quite a lot of absurds, and complicated schemes of relationship between flowers and bats. A bat is nothing but a winged rat, so do a Dragoon Knight, but most of the time, Freya stands on same ground, hearing of noises other than her own – what is this?
— It's an yoyo – said Amarant, throwing the rope of presumably its toy and pulling it back to his hand.
— An yoyo... how childish – for someone that drunk, Amarant had quite a talent, or so Freya had to agree.
— These used to be weapons in ancient times. Lethal ones, alike your spear.
— Don't you wear a claw for same purpose?
— I haven't been born with one.
— Neither I had been born with a spear – said Freya. The last, at least, can be changed, or made at the synthesis shop. Spears do not need to be polished because someone complained they are too sharp.
— Have you felt responsible since when you babysitted your siblings, Crescent? – that comment sounded like an indirect. Typical of Amarant, this and that one. They are all the same, in a way. As for myself...
— In fact, they were like dolls. Not made of rag, but they wore it instead.
— This is so interesting. I'm just going to listen.
— Now you'll have nobody to listen other than yourself, Amarant. Have a good night – said Freya, her last words to this day and that Amarant, who stood outside, wandering alike a ghost. How many died in attempts to climb these wall, only to drown at the pool below, or be melted by hot oil in ancient times, which seems to persist to this day.
Instead of arrows or swords, the gate raises for the Dragoon's entrance. A tired Dragoon, who headed to her room. Nowhere else to go, other than the place in which dreams are made. Fratley was already lying there, on bed. Bent, yet straight like that javelin hanging on a wall. Only a javelin, for someone who haven't used it for a while. There are quite a lot of beasts around Alexandria, but those battles fought do not mean that much as they did before. All but a passtime. And what about the many lives she saved? What about the amount of lives who should had been saved? Well, one person at time. One that is alive, at least. Fratley is on a sleep so deep that he can't even feel being covered by layers of blankets, and to see layers of cloth taken away from a body. With the blew of a candle, everything turned dark, and cold.
The sound of steps taken outside reminded Freya of her home. Always vigilant they were. Men like her father, and Fratley. Wearing of coats tainted in red, green, blue, yellow, orange... a rainbow, something Freya only saw during her travels to Poplos heights in order to decrease the number of Grand Dragons. How pleasant were the scent of hyacinths before I became one. The still sea, darker than before, her finger to brush its surface, and a pillow to hold on as a boat leaving the shoreline... Like the moon creating tides around Gaia, Fratley sewed the Knight's wounds with a needle. Pain is felt anywhere, at any moment, same for the many thoughts within Freya's head. Nobody thinks when dreaming, or having nightmares. Which one should I deal with? A question hard to be answered, because it never does. Once, the Crescent dreamt with tooths cleaned by soap.
Not a great solution for bad breath. And when these little dots begin to shine in the dark, stars who can't be touched even when close, and Freya can't sleep yet. The moon only settles down at the dawn of another day. Fratley felt asleep soon as the clock turned to eight thirty, like every child does. He still remembers a few things, like going to the bathroom at the middle of the night, drink some water, run away from a ghost and get into the blankets. To have a bladder near a prostate changes everything, somehow. To be part of a group mostly composed by male knights, and only a few ladies... how Freya despised to be called by that, yet it is on her name. She was never found of wearing earrings like Fratley did, or to wear a ribbon at the tip of the tail. A customary of Dragoon Knights to offer it to its lady, but Freya was a Knight too. Still is, here to serve and protect.
There was a day Fratley tried to put an earring in one of my ears. Not a bittersweet memory, or a moment considered to be forgotten. No matter where you put it, the pin gets stuck there, or so he said. I wish I could be like a pin, but I have a name that means something. An object can mean a lot when offered by a person, like this orange ribbon. To this day... And the two shall become one. Fratley and I... we made vows. Men do not wear ribbon, unless... All I need is to sleep. There won't be any goodnight kisses. They do not make any fault. I can ask for it to come anytime, unlike this feeling. It comes and goes, like we did on days out of duty. We had something else to share with us both other than looks, and life lessons. Curled to each other, tails wrapped as strings, to stir emotions for a hundred times... Meow, a cat can be heard in a roof outside, calling for a partner.
Dear Reis. With a head sunk under the pillow, Freya can still hear those cries. They get within the room as rain used to leak from that ceiling, and visits paid at the front door. One of them was Fratley, a recurring visit. Sometimes he was happy, but didn't shed of a smile. He was sad, but didn't shed of any tears. But it wasn't a plain, dull like concrete face all the time. Alongside his, some flowers instead of an empty hand, or a hand filled in by a spear. Standing tall like one, all time. And when on a sleep, he looks so vulnerable. His flaxen hair do not share of split ends, and it's fluffly like wool. And to count sheeps won't do anything to make Freya fall asleep. She is already used to boredom, which doesn't equal to peace of mind. Peace is but a temporary achievement, and the mind is unseen, unlike Fratley.
Even on the dark, there's something unforgettable about its silhouette.
ns 15.158.61.12da2
