Let fear propel you forward. Do not look back. Do not let failure stifle you; he says.
He won't stop yelling these words at me. Now it's my turn.
Be quiet and listen.
A man without fear... is a man without hope.
By: Radiohead
From: Kid A (2000)
370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBcndKO1fN4
I do share of some small ounce of hope, compared to Freya's own, in regards to a search that shall remain, so do I as a whole, not only in the memories meant to be seeked by me too. They are mine, and they do belong to Freya as well. Whichever it may be the place, they do not exist anymore, outside of our heads. I insist that I do not, but deep in the sea, there may not be possible the presence of any source of light, yet life makes a way to grow, adapt wherever it may be suitable. In the jungle, in the deserts, in the kingdoms of brick... We got away from the stone a long ago, that's what these alexandrians tell us so, but in Burmecia, we are still armed with javelins. This room is dark, until I reach the window. Sunlight hits my face, and I see the darkness again, inside me, my eyes. When I open both of my pupils, I take a look to outside. The sky seems so blue, the air is fresh, so does the scent of the rain, the floor belonging to outside is wet and only the boys without shoes to know it's slippery or not.
It's fascinating how much can be seen throught this blurred window, yet those people moving outside do not even care to look at the city, its people, or ever say an 'excuse me' when between a crowd. In the end, they are the same as me, who had no time to share of a 'thanks' to Freya, in a way that not only I do feel grateful. I ain't a hopeless man, and not a fearless knight as I was once deemed to be. Yes, Fratley Irontail... he was a coward. His only fear... the death upon his own hands. He feared it, still I do feel these shivers being sent to my spine, the shock of a lighting rod flowing throught my skin, the layers of fur throught my body standing erect soon I'm about to get up from this bed, where I layed, before I fainted... he would faint too, forever. Fratley wouldn't be able to take it so easily, and who else does, besides an assassin? Creatures like dragons aren't deemed to be akin to human emotions, but even the worthless of the animals had a mother. People... he can't kill people. That's his fear, your fear... Fratley would never kill anyone.
You didn't forget it, did you? How could I forget? No, you can take a bath on your own, but to feel her hands, those sharp claws... is something else, isn't it? Does it make you remember something, at least? Yes, it does. I've lived before, without a person by the name of Freya. Freya Crescent, that's her name. Never that I would forget... She is always there, within me. No, she wasn't. I was on my own, until Freya came on my way. Like anyone, I lead her to follow of my trail; I needed someone to hear of my voice, instead of someone whom I needed to throw my tantrums, to curse at, didn't I? No, I don't. I don't know. I can't remember even which kind of person I was before. Was I a good person? Maybe, seeing how much Freya cares for me, everybody does to someone sick, but I ain't sick. I am... I am... My head hurts. Am I sick? Because my head hurts.
So many thoughts without rails, crashing and shattering into tiny debris, inside my skull. The mind is always open to something new, and a box is closed to keep something old from perishing, and a coffin is meant for both. I was supposed to be dead, but instead I was the one who sank into the depths; since rats and burmecians are naturally well-skilled when it comes to swimming, due to our membranes and lungs, I found a way to return to the light. The sun... I was sank in the snow. So white, clean, but when someone steps, falls over it, the white of before is smudged by grey tones, salty it becomes it's taste. My head hurted back on that day. I could feel the warmth falling out of me, pouring into the snow surface, smudged in red... My head bleeded, while the other wounds left began to heal. Then... I don't remember how it happened, and if it was me who made those wounds. Some of them, I thought, but I don't believe that much. Besides forgetting, I ain't able to believe on the veracity of the facts told. Maybe I am dead, but seeing, feeling of this same pain, then I realize at once... I am alive, and my head hurts.
The pain is what make me alive. Same pain is what guides me throught these corridors. If I can feel pain, then I am able to feel of a kind of joy as well. They last for a moment, all of them. Just like the memories... some I refuse to remember, while others I struggle to feel, to know it was something real, alike this pain. It didn't ceased already, because I insist that such persist. Torment me. Only I to decide if it's enough, or not. This kind of punishment. Throught the ages, certain individuals were know to spent their entire lifes wandering across this continent. Besides being know for their scent, their skinny appearance, the amount of beard hiding their faces, these people brought a whip, all of them. Yes, flagellants... that's how they were used to be called by other people, since they didn't had any names, they refused to carry on of a name, and to carry on of their own lifes spent on sin. The whip wasn't used by them because they needed some sort of defence for the beasts across these lands, but instead of killing them, others as a matter of survival, the flagellants whipped themselves, stepped on the sharp stoned floor without wearing any boots, the scratches belonging to his arms and legs had no use to be bandaged.
To scourge their own backs as they claimed for salvation, purification of their soul instead of the rotten flesh... I've came up across one of these flagellants, maybe I did. Or maybe I was one of them, seeing the amount of scars left on my back. They are mostly healed, except for a few marks covered in layers of clots. They can be found around my neck as well, under these bandages that used to be wrapped into both of my hands, and below the hat that used to hid my face. From white to red the bandages wrapped on my head became, now only my hair hids them. I take good care of this hair, flaxen like the beach sand, as much as I do with the bandages wrapping me, hid by the clothes I wear. These pouches carry nothing but useless lint, only useful for telling me so that there is a space to be filled in. Inside these pouches, inside this body, whichever it may be the place you've choose to store your hopes. Your prayers, your soul. This kingdom and those soulless factories are full of dirt, and so does the mind belonging to each people. Nobody is that clean, but the brighter the sun, the darker it becomes the black spots around your sight.
How would I know what a flagellant is alike, if not because of one of these books? There is a plenty of them, but Freya seems to spend her time reading, rather deciphering an only one, seeing how much she cares for that book. She cares for me as well. I cared for her once, and I don't have any idea how it was alike. Only Freya to know if I was tender, shy, restrict, passive... Only I to know how this head feels. My head hurts. Everything on me hurts. I woke up with a stiff neck. Alright, just... just look at the left. Argh! It hurts. Again... it hurted, again. But I feel better than... before? How did I felt before? I can't remember. I just... can't. Too childish is this answer, isn't it? Imaginary friends as well. I had one, but I forget his, or her, it, whatever... I have better things to be done, and to be thought. I've missed the morning, but not the afternoon. So did Freya, whenever she may be.
Freya... She always seems to be so near of me. For years, I stood with her, only in thoughts, and now it's all but a dream. I mean, we are together, yet we remained as halfs, broken pieces; the have, and the have-not. Maybe, I'm not sure, but we were strangers, rivals, then friends, acquaintances, lovers... the passion is what hurts, like any other feelings, but the love is something else. Like gold, it's strong, it resists, a small part of it belongs to everyone, filling in the pockets for some, and the mouth for a few. A need, a relief, a pleasure... each one shares of a definition of love, but they are all a sort of passion in the end. Not Love in itself, but a pain, and nothing else. Each day, and the buildings becomes higher, the chimneys and their smoke fill in the air, the houses become full of cracks and empty of the peole, who lay on the streets and jails... No matter how much you insist, Love is unreachable, even if someone insists to build a ladder to reach heaven, something we don't have; only in the shape of a desire.
The library is empty of any person, besides me, and those figures who became books as a sort of afterlife. Some are clean, while others are covered in dust. Some pages had been eaten, while others are poisoned enough to be eaten by any young moth. Thick are its pages, which required someone to lick the tip of the fingers, while a small amount of either hemlock or mercury stained on each page flipped fills in your stomach, then your body. Today, it became easy to open those secret books carefully, a fifty-hundred pages of a death meant to be slow, the worst type. It took five and a half years for Freya to find me, while she began to lost of her own life. Years that could had been spent on something else, with someone else to be at her side. There is a time to open, read and close a book at once, but time isn't meant to be only spent at books, at the fantasy of some, and the raw reality outside of them, but we do insist to transfer truth and lie, knowledge and ignorance as well to each page.
A man builds a city; banks and cathedrals. From a concrete boulder, a man shapes the statue of another man, catches colors when painting the portrait of a woman, stains her in white alongside his children. Never that I felt such hatred, yet no big surprise, but the selfishness, the sheer amount of it, the cheap attempts that somehow work to disguise it... A rat comes crawling from the sewers. Like oglops, people despise them, they bite, carry on of diseases, but rats do suffer as well. The fleas sucking their blood, parasites inside their vessels, traps set everywhere, its head put as a sort of reward. The only reward for it is that small crumble of what was once a cake. Musty. In pieces. Disintegrating upon its tiny claws. So tiny, the muzzle trembling like his entire body. Tiny lungs, tiny organs. So quick, yet it stands, near my feet. I won't step over you, my friend. We are, somehow, connect, as much as I am. You live, walk above, smell like shit, but you don't have any time, or a reason to bother about it.
A fresh cheese found above a table, or half of an apple threw in the streets, and you're happy. At least you're honest, my friend. You do not have any reason to deceive someone with words, gifts, caresses in order to endure your speciments. You just do it, you don't have to await for the kids, you don't care for their safety, you don't love anyone, anything... you just survive. You are alive by chance, because you took it first than the others. If not, then there will be another to take it before yours. Either you fight until your death for a piece of junk, or you just pretend to live in search of something else to be eaten, and only I to say you're happy about it. You are only a rat, pal, and I may look a bit alike yours, but I don't. I call you by friend, yet you do not say anything else. You just ignore me, another reason that justifies why you are far more honest than any man I've ever met, including myself. I do not talk, so do you, unable to do it, but since a child I've learned how to speak, to shout, to curse, to forgive, but you do none of that. You only bite, others bite you, the flea bites and infects you too. You do not evade from my sight because I do not share of an intention to cause you any harm.
To your sight, I ain't small like the fleas sucking of your blood. My appearance, the mere presence of another rat doesn't frighten you, unless same rat advances towards yours, taking out what it means the most for you. You are hungry, so do I, but I am not desperate enough to eat the same as you do. I ain't a rat that walks like a man, or a man that acts like a rat. Unlike you, I am a burmecian. A man. And a rat. Only men belong to the society, found nations, raises their children, and only a rat lives on their own, except when it wants to share of a warmth, and do not care for the children it threw away across the world. I see you crawling away, with the food on your teeth. You did it as soon as I walked towards you. A man, and a rat... they are frightening on their own, twice when together. I don't bite, but what about a rat who learnt to hang on a spear with an only hand, when many can't even hold on a broomstick without using both hands? I still share of these claws, though they aren't as sharp as they used to be. They are still sharp, but this doesn't mean that I can go towards someone I don't know and pull the strings out of his chest. What would they think of me? What I've became for them?
As a man, I would be deemed to be a criminal, an assassin, but as a rat, that wouldn't make any difference. They don't need to think, bother about it. They do not even wear clothes, but I do need to cover my genitals. It's offensive, somehow, to show others that you are a male, instead of acting like one. The least I could do is to show my nipples, but I don't have any reason to do that. It's cold, and I don't pretend to woo anyone, or to shown that I am skinny as a wooden table, unlike the figure of a proud worker, the dumb muscle that appears on each pub and corner of the kingdoms composed of houses made of brick. Anyone shares of muscles, and bones, or else, we would be like insects, crushed on with an only step, limpy as a jelly. Funny... Besides being able to question the surroundings, I remember that I was the only one who ever called a creature such as a rat by 'you'. A pronoun. He, she, we, you... only men use them, when referring to people. It. A pronoun. It means 'thing', like a stone.
No matter how much a cloud is able to change into any shape, nobody ever called a cloud by 'you'. Nobody holds a cloud with a hand, because they are so far away, and we are so far behind, below the skies as well. When the clouds turn grey, all they do to become white is to cry above us, so we are able to get a piece that fell from the skies. Yet, I remained gray, because that's the color of my fur. I share of my own fur, my own warmth, yet I demand these from someone other than me. I had the first contact with mother, like any burmecian who lived for this long did. I don't know how she looked alike, what she felt, if father was there too, if I had a brother, if they are dead... I am dead, then. My head hurts... yet, I feel better with myself. If I feel anything, then this means that I am alive. If I can feel the cold of outside hitting the window with a single touch, see the tiny black dots walking in a row, ants in search of food when closer, one of them bit my right foot, the brief scent of poison meant to kill something other than me... these are the signs that I am alive, as if being able to endure such thoughts wasn't enough.
The corridors filled in by the carpets, and the steps taken by a few knights... It must be a pain to clean them all, besides these windows, but everything is meant to be cleaned. A piece of crumble of what was once a cookie in the pockets can be eaten by a rat, a sort of cleaning. The trees from the garden outside, alike some small plants hanging on a square and another, are able to turn the polluted air into a freshy one, where nobody coughs. When I woke up, remembering nothing, I was deep into a forest, so alive... so did I. Aaah... that's the sound of a breeze coming upon your face during a chocobo ride. A yellow chocobo... yellow like the amount of dirt inside me. Now I feel empty, so does this bathroom, empty before I came inside, to do some use of this facility. Or else, I would explode. It threatened to, like an intruder walking in the dark, his silhouette blending with the shadows. The unforgettable silhouette... an unfatomable reminiscensce. But for those around the table, I am know as-
— Hi, Fratley. How are you doing? – someone greeted of my presence. I didn't even stepped further into the dining hall, also a lunch hall, feeling this smell of rice and meat... beans as well.
— Hi – I said to... Simon? Garfield? I don't know. Only the fact that he is a Pluto Knight, and that he greeted me. He sure looks alike a Garfield, but either way, I won't let his on a vaccum we didn't agreed to be left into. It ain't polite to leave someone who began a conversation without a reply – I feel better than before – I heard no reply, only those belong to me. To eat a dish with the excuse of avoiding a wide mouth open... maybe I heard nobody, after all. Nobody hurted me... I heard someone, yes. Only inside your head, who began to hurt once again, so does this chest, and the empty stomach inside.
Peach pudding... Garnet's favorite dessert. I don't even know which one's my favorite kind. Like many other things, I forgot it. Not bad, because I share of a varied dish, from lettuces to meals and the cleanest water I am able to drink. Many drink alcohol due to the water's pollution, while others only enjoy it to achieve a kind of pleasure, instead of a relief to the famine. To see the world spinning around your eyes, anyone does, but to get your own world is something else... Yet, we all step on a same world, and places we call exclusive for some. There is no exclusion, just an act of self-preservation that remains century after century, and a questioning coming from one of us won't change it. If so, then none of the wars that happened would ever happen, again. Only the war against ourselves, within ourselves. My head hurts, but I don't want to puke. This meal is good enough to be thrown up so easily.
At the kitchen, lies a Qu. They are far older than us, yet that kind woman speaks like a child. The pan may be 'borken', but the food still shares of a taste. Woman... I know those Qu are genderless, and rats are meant to be called by 'it' instead of 'you', but that's part of my nature. The task given by the men; to socialize with others. Most the children don't attend school to learn about physics, because they can either learn somewhere else, and because all they want to do is to befriend someone. From an imaginary friend to a best friend; none of them are real, only the capacity of calling someone by friend we had been born with. You can only call someone by friend when he or she is there with you, not only inside your thoughts, but outside them, doing something for the sake of both. Born out of a offspring, mostly the burmecian children try to make ammends with their siblings, besides the bond they already share with same blood.
It's understandable, given that with many of their fathers lost, some forever, the first thing many of the children did during the invasion was to hide with someone other than them, someone to be called by brother, a friend as well, while others had no choice but to go fetal until everytihng came to a stop, except their lifes, thought some of them wanted to die. If there is a thing that I do remember... is the horror of their faces. Clean and wide open, alike this dining hall. A hollow space within them, filled in by the air. Only a rule had been settled by those who became survivors of the invasion, and those eating on this table... Do not talk, but at least, we are somehow alive, thought I am about to say the otherwise just by looking at the kind of meal they are eating... but I don't care.
Some of them aren't eating, but rather they are enjoying a game of purple cards and monste figures draw on their other half. A pair is enough to make the game playable, but not enjoyable like this soft burmecian rice. Lots of water are needed to make them grow, on ladder-like foundations buried atop the mountains. They couldn't reach in there, despite living onto this plateau. To take our food wasn't their goal, a miscalculation of their part, though many of our granaries and their contents had been stolen, but by ourselves, the people who lived under a siege who lasted two days. Their lives taken within an hour... and nobody was there to enjoy it, like the people of Lindblum who attended the Festival of Hunt, where many beasts are stabbed to their deaths throught the streets of each district. Panes et circenses... these words may be older than the book I had found with them inscribed, but the tradition that shares of their meaning remains until today.
A cheap attempt to make the boredom of life be dragged away by a few laughs, cheers, meals eaten, meals stabbed... and it works. For many who agreed to live together. It ain't my fault that I am bad when it comes to play this game of cards. The rules are difficult to follow, even for someone other than me. These knights are all sat on what was once the lunch's table. They don't speak of their names, but they all know each other with the assets of cards. Tetra Master, one of them said. I was once a skilled player of same game, I was many things, but now I've took an only role, yet each day I am asked by myself and someone else about what shall I become. I don't have a spear anymore like Freya, I don't have a crown like Garnet, I don't wear a helmet like any other Dragoon Knight, I don't deserve to wear that tassel once upon my hidden head, I ain't a child alike that... Eiko? yes, that's her name. A brat, some would say, before knowing she is only a child, who deserves of any kind of attention, and I didn't passed already like Vivi. Only half of me, meant to be given a rebirth.
Whew. How do I remember those names? Why I am only of the few who called Adelbert by the first name? Not even his wife calls him by that. And this Vivi, Vava... Vivi. I didn't knew his, Freya barely did, so did the others. He was a doll, yet everyone called and calls what was meant to be a thing by 'he', or 'his', or just Vivi. Vivi Orunitia... he was a good soldier, thought he didn't knew for what he was fighting, living for. He may hadn't lived enough, yet Vivi could remember his own birth, something nobody is allowed to, not even me, who is on a pursue for moments left behind, like the dish and the pair of fork and knife I sent to the kitchen, personally. I didn't had a reason to do it so, because there are people who take those dishes, clean them, make the bed of each room, all with their both hands. Living and moving like shadows, I brought them a sort of relief, something that Vivi may had struggled for. A relief, and an afternoon that comes after the lunch, so does the rest. I gave a break for a while, unlike Vivi, who have already done enough for this world, and himself.
'My memories will be part of the sky'; those were his last words, also engraved on the tombstone made for his. If Vivi is part of the sky, then why the need of burying him deep into the earth? A doll who disintegrated into the same air it was made from... I guess that's a way to tell people to make life grow, instead of creating it with their own hands. How do memories are created, how do they grow, how they die... not even the spiders who weave together a giant web to catch something big as a human know. And thus, the man learned how to become a spider, far more than a mistaken insect crushed like any other, and to be tied to each other, walking over the same web we are attached with. They do not last for too long, nothing does, unless we fix what we build with same hands. So does the streets, the bridge we step over, and the memories we are part of as well.
I woke up, to realize I am into this same room, again. I do have time to make this bed, to make my messy hair, to do anything on my own. Freya used to be there half of the time, and now I wonder where did she went. I have been wondering, instead of researching, both I do when standing alone. An only spider is a dumb animal, but when together of other spiders, they share of the same reasoning. They tried to eat me once when I fell over a web, because an only spider wasn't enough. The poison unique to an only bite was enough to paralyze my whole body... just like the sedactive who ran throught my veins. No, I'm not that tired, not yet. I'll be when the night arrivers, but for Freya and her pupils, any time became a sort of night. The sky is half blue and half orange, awaiting for an only color and a plently of stars to arrive. I won't be awaiting for Freya, so I'll be leaving these gates, but they are closed. They do not remain on this state forever, I know they don't.
— Uh... Excuse me – I said, to the guard I've later recognized due to that face, and the odd look of those eyes, who seem alike those ones belonging to the statues found near the church. They once belonged to the people, and the fear they shared of comminting any sin. Adelbert Steiner... He is the captain, the head of all Pluto Knights. He doesn't seem to be that fearsome enough, or some clown to laugh at. Incompetence doesn't belong to his, though this man is know as well for his short temper, and the aversion he shares when it comes to people with tails. Person, I mean. Only a person.
— Sir Fratley, isn't it? – he asked, to which I nodded, thought this seemed unnecessary. There is an only Fratley, as far as we know. Yet Adelbert, or Steiner by everyone else, is the only one there who still calls me by 'Sir'. I ain't a Sir anymore for the people whom I was once avaliable for any kind of help. A 'Sir' seemed so far from their reality as well, even thought I was born into one of those neighborhoods, I grew there, I've managed to become a Dragoon Knight... but I can't remember none of that – I hope you and Freya had a pleasant stay while on Alexandria.
— We sure had – I said – Alexandria sure is a nice place.
— Dusk and dawn, rain and sunlight... Alexandria had always been a fruitful kingdom. And a nice place to live too – well, any location you may be able to go can be deemed as a nice place, until people decide to stay and settle their houses. Then it comes the pollution, the civilization. Some people are rotten, yet there are others who are awaiting to be mature enough to understand the why. I wish I could be one of them... I was, but I don't remember exactly. I do only share of a collective memory, where anything done by any children can be related to me. I delivered them a sort of help, at least. Freya did her best too, but they, adults as well, still insist to call her by 'Lady', a title that means nothing, doesn't share of a same equality and vibrance alike a 'Sir'. 'Dame' Freya Crescent... these will be words never spoken outside of my thougths. Her own as well, whichever they may be alike.
— And how is Garnet doing? – I asked to Adelbert. He is also one of the Queen's personal guards – I suppose she is fine after a year ruling these vast lands.
— Well, our Majesty, Garnet Til Alexandros XVII, despite being a kind and well-liked person, knows what is meant to be done for the sake of her own people, and the others belonging to other nations of Gaia – he then began to be overcome by its emotions, shedding tears of joy. I suppose – ...once I called her by Highness, now my Majesty... Garnet is growing up, isn't she? It reminds me of the days Brahne was sane. Alles klar, Sir Fratley?
— Well, yes – I said, but I felt that something was off – I hope I'm not disturbing you, Adelbert, but have you seen Freya today? – I asked to his. That is my last question, honest. Steiner told me that Freya left this castle before I've decided to check the roof, if there is a way to reach them. Only Freya, and the other Dragoon Knights, know how to. A straight jump, and she may be found atop someone's house of bricks, where people live inside, but many lay outside of them. Inside the cold glass of a pub, the cabinet of loan sharks, a store of mannequins... despite their shape, they aren't humans. Only made by their hands. Vivi shared of more humanity than any random person walking across these streets, or so Freya told me so. Choosen randomly, looking at their faces of disgust, the coal throught their skins, that's some kind of conception given prior a clever one. Misconception, prejudice... it's natural to even the smallest of the animals. The prettiest of the rats do share of the sharpest of the teeth. The ugliest of the smiles unfolds the kind of joy most the people are unrelated by.
Smiles, faces... So many laughs, so many faces. I wasn't able to see them, only hear. Voices, shouts, screams, and nothing. Only the darkness about to be set above this entire Alexandria. The shadows and the people who became them lie at the corner who, unlike mountains, are reachable by anyone, any victim of those who became assassins. They are victims, once murdered as well. I don't have the time to blame them, only myself for remembering this matter. They exist everywhere, unlike my memories, only a few whom I am able to remember. My body and my retinas may had been burnt by the explosion, but I am still alive. How fortunate of me. Instead of being received into an hospital facility, I went to a better place, a safe one, where no soldier could step over to make us bled more than we could. The bells... they rang, once again, into another place.
Inside Lindblum's church, I've layed over a bed. I could feel it with these claws. I wasn't able to see, but I could feel the pain of those needles sewing me, the pinchs pulling out sharp pieces of what was once Cleyra. Yes, they told this name and many other things when realising that I was hearing well, despite the sound of the explosion, enough to make my ears bleed, but they soon healed, so did my body. But my vision... the curtain came down, but that wasn't the end of the act, for a burmecian by the name of Fratley Irontail. Yes, I've heard this name being uttered so many times that I took it to be my own. But Fratley was already my name, and I couldn't remember why. Then I've touched one of my wounds, and the name 'Fratley' was signed over them. Of course, Freya wasn't the first person I've saw, heard, just one of the few to take notice of.
With the familiar hue of a red glowing over her coat and helmet, anyone could notice Freya from a distance, except me, even when close of each other. Only a few days later that I would be able to see Freya once again, like now. So easy it is to spot, instead of imagining her. She and her colours aren't blending with the sky, or with the rooftops of clay where she is sitting above. Her voice, raspy and cold, unable to calm my and her own heart, who had no use other than estabilish a connection between us, stood the same within the days. Freya only had a hour to stay with me, but time didn't mattered for us, anymore. We have found each other, again. There are some wooden blankets found atop the gap from a roof to another, but I just jump over them, like I did to reach atop same building. I felt nothing, but a cold within my chest, and the blood being shaken from inside my veins.
370Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡssqfbOeG4S
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— Freya... – I said. At least, your blood is still inside your body, and you don't seem to suffer from any vertigo at the moment, though the view there isn't that much to be called by amazing enough to consider a faint into a big deal. That would be a pretty stupid death, after all. And... yes, Freya. She seems fine, and maybe she heard me so. I don't have a need to shout at her when so close, but same could be said if I had been further away from her as well.
— Fratley?... It's nice to see you. Nice as well to know you made a way to reach there – she said. I stood next to Freya , sitting as well above this roof only the chimneys are found to stand upon, so they do on these surroundings. Beneath us, our feets hanging on almost loosely out of our bodies, in front of the gap leading to a hole, which in fact it's another of many squares belonging to Alexandria. These people do not even have the time to notice both of us, standing there, not even the clouds in the sky are enough to caught their attention.
— The same way you did, I presume.
— A jump? I mean, you aren't used to do this kind of thing since... well, it happened so long ago – Freya seems tired. She refuses to tell it so, but I can see throught her. I've spent a month without seeing her, years as well, and within both I got blind. Freya as well, for each blink I am able to spot from behind those strands. They are set to be freed, too much of a liberty given to a hair that falls each day – ...as you may know, there are some things you are still able to remember clearly as if it was yesterday, Fratley. Like orders taught to you. Everyone remembers an order after being grounded so many times, right? It may not be your case, Fratley, but people tend to commit errors and to be punished by them, only so they are able to do their best, not to fail once again. I am a walking contradiction, ain't I?
— Sometimes, to be fair – I said. Freya began to make questions and expecting me to answers then. Before, she had nobody other than herself. She ain't there to watch the stars, or to be looking at the city. Nobody can take a look at the sun without taking some damage to the sight. No, Freya is sitting there to receive of its warmth. Being raised on a land that only rains, growing in the dark like a violet, it's expected for us to enjoy far more of an ounce of sunlight. With the cold I share with an only arm, I am able to take Freya out of the trance and on a few instants, I am able to bring her back to reality, same those people tiny like ants share on those streets, taken out by those who share of a home. This kingdom is their home, but only a few share of a house. Of a company.
— And that's it? Alright then, Fratley... So, I'll believe that you somehow found a way to jump. I don't need any kind of demonstration coming from yours as well. I know you would do such a thing. It ain't funny to let someone create of fake expectations...
— And who said that I would? To create something artificial takes a lot of time, and we don't have none of that to be wasted into something so vain.
— Yes, no time to waste... I said it so to myself so many times. Ironic, isn't it? It is as if I've spent an entire life questioning whether or not I should do it, when wasting time doing nothing at all.
— You did something at least, Freya. Many of them who are beginning to have any effect only now – with my right hand upon her shoulders, Freya felt nothing else, but how cold I had been, living under a ceiling. So did her as well. The sun is about to be gone, slowly following of a decay into the west horizon.
The clouds, the only ones we can see when at Burmecia, are changing of their colors and size. Freya... If wheter or not you should decide if you need to breathe, you'll end up dying if you don't do it so. Drowning into a pool, all you can do is to hold the last remnant of air, if you want to come back into the surface alive. I won't say it, maybe I've already said it once, but we don't have time to be discussing of this matter. I don't want this time to be used for any speech, yet to demand a silence may be something impossible, since there isn't only us. The entirety of Alexandria is alive, and only a few of them to watch this clear orange sky, which became a sort of ordinary view to many of them. So did the rain of Burmecia, cold as we, one body stealing the heat of another. It's something rather unfair, I know, so does Freya, but we don't care. We don't have this time for complains.
— It seems that there are a few things you haven't forgotten yet, Fratley. Yet, there is still so much to be done...
— I didn't forget that you are a woman, Freya – so, mind if we appreaciate of this evening for a while, before it's gone? While the days seems to last forever, this same date and the events of today will only happen once... another monday, tuesday may be avaliable each week, unlike the opportunities to spent them like this.
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