July 15, 1794
...
437Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8Ie80KirUX
437Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgsnKhJxEvT
Yaaaawnnnngh...
It's another of those days, isn't it? We live in a beautiful world, don't we? The rain and its scent poured down onto me as I got outside home, on my own. It's your birthday, and shouldn't you be happy about it? The days had become gray as the clouds above the skies, same for this fur who grew into my skin. Many things grew as well, besides my height. I am tall like a wood plank, sharing of a lime dress alike green leaves, and the eyes of those kids covered in mud tell me so that they want to climb onto me. Not only kids, but everyone who shares of those claws, and tails wants to do it so, now that I've reached the age of consent. To be fair, they all had been awaiting to see me like that, even thought I wore of dresses like these when young, and ponytails tightened at the back of my hair and tail as well. My tail... someone stepped on it, and I couldn't scream, or even shiver. I did trembled, and the result was that I let some white porcelain to fall in the floor. 'Don't get in the way, Freya'; 'why are you standing there?'; 'Freya, could you bring the tea to your aunt, please?'; my house has become a turmoil of legs and humdrums to bare with. Since mother got ill, all the near friends and relatives of her family branch, the Crescent, are standing in there. They aren't that much akin for those who share of white hair, unless it's someone old. Mother ain't that old, but she is as young as me, beautiful as well, althought the purple of those eyes seems to have disappeared with the time, unlike father, who died once.
...KNIT, KNIT, KNIT, KNIT... ...dad, where hid? ...KNIT KNIT KNIT... Dad is sleeping, my dear... no, dad no! dad not sleep. Yes, he's sleeping... ...knit knit kNIT KNIT... ...mom, you lying. why? ...I am not lying, Freya. I told you the truth... ...what is truth? you lie, not truth!... I'm not lying, my dea-NO! you lie! liar! LIAR!... That's enough, Freya! Your manners are boorish... mom... sorry. you taught me not lie... not lie... Not lie. I was only five years-old. It was the first time I shouted to mother, and so she did the same. That hurted. I still didn't learned how to control myself in order so to preserve my identity, same one I had been building up since I felt of your warmth, mother. For you, and my sake, I stopped doing the many of my drawings on the walls, they were so wonderful to look at, but what they only saw were ugly scratchs. My brother Jack didn't minded, or bothered about them, althought I used to bit his tail with my jaws, and ears on his sleep as well whenever my bed had been soaked alike the jordan made of clay.
Besides the bed, my face had also been soaked by tears. They were so easy to be felt, and to be shed by me as well, but I couldn't make them appear on my own, still I don't. I shouted to mother... how rude I had been towards her, and towards father. If by given the task of pulling the stone up the hill, only to see it slip to the bottom, and do it again, or back to the fields of war; anyway, he died as a miserable, who couldn't even bleed elegantly. A miserable, but a good father. I knew how much of a father he was, but not enough to call him by more than a good person. For mother, he was more than a good example of a pair, of a lover, of a husband. When she stood away, due to her routine as a Dragoon Knight, father was there, sometimes it was Jack, grown up enough to be able to take care of me, even if I refused of his sometimes, but an only brother is a fine, and rare gift to be given.
Before I came, many called my mother by 'infertile', because she only brought an only son instead of an offspring. Incidentally, they never said anything about father, but gossips always seemed to surround my mother instead. Still they do, and by 'they', I mean my own relatives as well. 'She couldn't even take care of her own children'; this statement is a clever lie. If it was right, or if it was wrong, I guess mother didn't minded, but she knew what to do, instead of letting me on that way, without a hand, or a cloth to wipe my eyes. ...mom?... ...mom, why cry?... ...the truth... Freya... ...mom?... ...do you... still want to hear the truth?... ...Jackie tell truth. truth hurt me and Jackie. mom, you hurt... ...tell truth feel better. mom... ...oh, my dear child... My child... I am still a child, even grown up like that. We live in a pitiful world. My relatives are all children as well, seeing how they laughed to any joke to find some relief for that bad atmosphere, as the tea was still being prepared by me, of course.
'Life is great. Without it, you would be already dead', that's what uncle Clyde once said to my father. I wasn't even born, but those people at the room were, still they are alive somehow. How great that now both are dead; my uncle died before he could come back to Burmecia, and father passed after five years of my existence, and mother is currently on the blink, even if I tried to deny it so. I can't lie, but you already know that the truth hurt, althought such truth to be told is meant for me to feel better, but I look worse than a puke. Too much of me had been threw away out of my throat, in words, or had been withheld like the blood inside of me, but those wounds always seem to open, in days like these, or in months like the ones who came weeks before. Because of my blood as well, I ain't that much of a child, althought I'm afraid, yet I couldn't admit such easily for them. They wouldn't listen to me, or they wouldn't care about me. Or my birthday, who doesn't share of any 'happy' on its name, unlike the days that came before.
— Happy birthday, Freya – I heard a voice, belonging to my cousin Dan. He was on my back, wearing of that Royal Guard suit. Though today is my birthday, there is nothing of happy to share. Happy was I when together with other children, of same age, some older than me, but on any age, I always seemed and looked more older than those ten year-old boys, still stucking their fingers on their noses and doing of some nasty stuff. Jack, my brother, ain't alike them, but still I seemed more responsible than his, like Dan does. We both lose our fathers, but Dan lose his own first.
— Well, thanks Dan. Hope you have a good day – I said, as I turned my back to his. I had my own destination, and less time for small talk. Dan had been the only one who remembered, or had the audacity to call such day by 'happy'. Only for the children, as it seems. I saw some of them, belonging to my relatives, outside that house, playing with wooden bromsticks, like future Dragoon Knights. Mother was one of them, but now she doesn't seems to share of any future anymore, since the uncertainty of her life turned out to be the certainty of death.
— Are you going to the market? I'm sorry, but there won't be anything in there to help Lenneth feel better – Dan said. He already knew the news who came out of that house like a fly's noise onto his ear. A gray fly, spreading of its disease. Dan still shared of that gap in the middle of his teeth, even though he shares of ways to fix that thing, but it's still in there, to define some part of his. He didn't smiled, but even if he did it so, that gap would foil his to me here.
— I know, Dan. I know, but I want mother to share of something else other than her last meal... – I said. The rain is cold, but since I share of these clothes, and mother shares of warm blankets, there is still time to do it so. There is time for many things to be done, and I wished that mother could do some of them. To drink of a last chai... that sounds fine for an entire life spent until that now. I'm searching for some ingredients to be prepared as a chai to be sipped, before it's all done. I'm sure that I'll be there, with the chai, to give mother some warmth. She is so cold, like ice, even thought she didn't melted, yet.
— Maybe I can do something for you, and Lenneth as well – Dan said, as he followed me to the market. This place is a maze, as this people keep moving in circles, squares, rows, threw into any direction, but since Dan is here to put some order in the row... Thanks again, Dan. At least, you didn't had to reveal what lies inside this sheath.
Well, I need some dry carnations, cinnamom rolls, cocoa, ginger... It must share of a spicy, yet sweet taste. Mainly these ingredients can be found on the kailyard outside home, but I didn't wanted to be there for too long, smelling fennels, and listening those voices, kids throwing tantrums to each other, walls of people crying, heads filled in by headaches, the withhold of blood... I couldn't stand in there without being here, not a silent place, seeing how much those people talk, but a place without that kind of noise, and pressure that kept crushing me like a bug. I was crushed on that bed before I woke up. A single bed, same one I began to slept above, a substitute for the crib, but instead of others awaking because of my cries, I woke up because of the cries of a crowd. But I would be awake anyway, since I couldn't be there, without doing nothing, as mother has already done enough for the sake of us, and this kingdom as well. I saw no member from the Dragoon Knights at my house, not even the close ones related to mother. I guess Dan won't be able to be there as well, but at least he did something so I could share of a moment with mother, before she's gone.
— So, how is Learie doing? – I asked to my cousin. Not that I did minded about his personal life, as much as I am not someone with a cold stare on the face. Cold as that tea I've prepared, everyone on that house was so cold before they even sipped a cup... Only because it's an iminent funeral, not a marriage like Dan's, or a birthday, as it should had been. The pleasure of seeing both of their hands and tails tied to another can't be related to this day, except if on a memory. Dan, Learie... I envy them. At least, I've brought them a gift, a pair of spoons, metallic ones, cold as much as I had been with both.'She is into one of those days', that was the major excuse brought by many of my relatives to justify my behavior back on that day, as if those cramps changed the whole of me, or that they became me. Freya Crampscent... Ever since I was a child, I was the one who tried to put some order, by any means, and so began the comparasions between me and mommy. The gift I presented to them may not sound like a thing, but at least it was something, other than a look of an innofensive disgust, unlike the times I had bit of other's tails. I used to taste the entire world and it's flesh with my mouth, until I learned to feel it coming from inside of me as well. This rain, unlike me, didn't changed, only the intensity of it's fall seems to vary.
— She is fine – he said, as if 'fine' could be the best way to describe his wife's situation after a painful labour. It wasn't his who had to bare a swollen belly for a month and later give birth to two brats, after all, and I hope they don't turn out to be such, because those children don't deserve such thing. One is called Adam, and the other has been given the name Jack, same belonging to my only brother. I even had the opportunity to hold them, even if I didn't wanted to. They think those arms are only made to hold of those children with phlegm and lices running around their body, althought I was once this kind of kid; itchy due the gathering of chickenpox I had gotten from another kid. It was only a kiss... a straight kiss that almost became the kiss of death. Besides the scratching of those eruptions into my skin, anyone else seem to have fled from my sight, unlike mother, who treated me with those baths. Within a week, I felt better, and no more that I wanted to tear apart my own skin, or any hopes. How long mother will be awaiting for me, if I never had the reason to await for her instant aid?...
...And out of the houses the rats came tumbling... As I cross this bridge washed by the rain, and this basket I hold in my hand gathers all the ingredients needed for the chai, I am about to go home, again, to see mother. Back to square one, throw another stone, and walk again into the hopscotch... Jack once pulled a sharp stone, and so I've stepped over it, as if I was willing to do it so. Who else to blame, other than the rock that cut my feet? They can't blame the objects, but people instead, and since Jack was, still is, older than me, he got grounded, same for that stone who remained on that same street of cobblestone, alike this one; the children here look all the same, yet I can see myself there, on the middle of them. Maybe it's just a tiny water puddle, but still I can see a bit of myself. How could I and my brother had kept playing such games, while mother didn't had the time to do it so anymore, same time relative to the one she used to spent with father?
Dan has some work to do, so I left him, but not without saying goodbye. He said it for me, clearly a goodbye, for this day. We'll meet again, on any street, unlike mother, who can only be found lying on that same bed I was born, my brother Jack as well. What we thought to be just a few coughs turned out to be the beginning of the winter fever. She and her lungs had been suffering from the pneumonia leakage, and since them, those coughs had no more reason to be threw out of that throat, besides making everything worse to see, and feel. If, by any chance, they worked to make mother feel better, I wouldn't be covering my ears with the pillow on the nights, but even that is useless. I shared of some good moments on that place, on that sleep, and mother is one of the fews ones who ever saw the plenty of father's green eyes on me.
Jack also shares of same eyes, though mother had noticed them mostly on me, her second child, the last one of the family meant to be more than both of us. Sure, mother could have adopted an orphan, but we became orphans anyway, since she couldn't be there all the time. Only the weekends seemed to stretch the time and ties between us, besides the diseases strong enough to put me on bed. Lenneth Crescent... I don't seem to recall ever calling mother by such full name, just mother is fine. When people are close enough to each other, there is no demand to call they by the title given or the full name, but it may get sick for someone to keep calling their wives by 'love', 'sweet', 'heart', anything that reminds me of sugar puke. Father never called mother by such things, and if he did it so, it may had been faithfull to what he truly felt for her. That's another reason why mother didn't married anyone else, not because it's wrong to marry another after a beloved's demise, but because it takes some time to estabilish relationship between people that shares of same closure from the one that came before, and and those who are desperate, anxious in heart, always seems to commit the harshest of the mistakes. That's something father would say; his daughter as well.
...Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins... Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives... Many see mother on me, in my hair, my ears, my arms, my feet, and even my tail; still I am a child for their children eyes, not because of my innocence, if there was one, or because there are vermins inside me, but because of my attitude. They still see on me the same Freya from ten years ago, the one who used to spoke of broken words. Father taught me well many of the things meant to be learned by me on his short time, before he left this same front door, to never come again. He didn't abandoned me, only that weary body of his. That couch, now occupied by some of his relatives, only a few, unlike the ones belonging to my mother, is the place were he used to sit, or fall asleep. With me, he only could do a single lap, before I cried, demanded of his attention. Now, everyone who's here cries, and nobody pays attention, and why would they? Most of these people are here because of mother, not because of themselves, though I am here because this is my house, the place where I belong, same for mother, and Jack, who's also here, pouring the tea on those empty cups instead of me. Courtesy, or just anxiety, they soon became empty again, unlike the source of that tea; the rain falling from outside offers a plenty of water to be collected and boiled into a warm slurp of chamomile or pennyroyal.
— Freya... Where had you been, sis? – Jack asked, as soon as I came into that kitchen. Not a mess that it is outside there, with people comically sniffing their noses, making those angsty faces without shedding anything but an embarassment that is the reason some tears may be found on some faces. The only one who isn't akin to any exxagerations there is my aunt Theresa. She doesn't have the need to do it so, anyway, althought she is another of my aunts who is sharing of a cup of tea. This ain't a tea party, though I wanted such to be... – are you listening to me, Frida? – wait... what did he said?
My brother, that jerk, uses to call me by that name. What was once a misunderstanding that I could bare with when I was little just became a sort of unfunny joke, althought I can see him, only his, sharing of a smirk. Not even a laugh would be enough to understand it, or a brain surgery, if there is such thing. Mother gave me this name because of Frøja, founder of the order of Leviathan Knights. If it wasn't for her, mother, alike many belonging to her family, wouldn't become Dragoon Knights. Frøja... I share of her same exact name, though 'Freyja' is a variant that came after the second spelling reform of centuries ago, and it's more easier and less strange to pronounce, so mother gave me a name, as much as the relatives and other kids gave me of same name, on the way they use to spell such, and hear as well, like this Jack.
He insists to call me by 'Frida' sometimes, which means 'peace', only to mock me as it seems; I, somehow, pay some more attention to Jack when he spells it, as if this word was meant to pull my ears and sight to his. Maybe it's a sign that he really appreciates me, on his own special way. I'm being related to his far more by the blood running throught these veins, her veins as well... She is above this ceiling, isn't she? I can imagine some blood leaking from there, though it only does out of that mouth, far more bigger than any wound left on that body, alike those scars on her back, a bunch of textures belonging to a painting losing of it's substance, though the portrait remains the same. That mouth, any of them, are also the same places where many wounds happen to appear, in words... I shouted to her once. Only once, because I couldn't take it. It was like shouting to a mirror, until it's shards broke, and so I've stepped over them.
— Freya... I thought that you wouldn't be back – he said. Only a person, besides me and Jack, had been given a chair to sit. It was Otterley, the same nursemaid who helped us there to be received into this world. She was there, holding of what seemed to be an infant wrapped around some white blankets. They aren't that white for those who are younger alike it... I have also left this same basket I had been carrying on all the way above this same table, containing my last gift to mother, or the ingredients needed for it to be complete.
— Me as well. But I knew that I needed to be here... – I was born here. He understood, even if I didn't finished the sentence, as silence overcame me so suddenly. Be quiet. Hush, Freya... never that I've felt so quiet like this. I would whisper to someone else on the left or the right of my shoulder, like I did so many times with another child as we had been gathered on the middle of a crowd. Same group of people isn't between me, and I didn't cared about their noise, but now, it pains me to belong there, now that I understand them all. And so they began to understand me; not only mother holded me with her arms, but she also taught me with those as well. She had the will to educate me, but her force wasn't enough, like the one belonging to father, who was dead. Soon mother will be with his, travelling throught the Weltall, but not before her moments there become unforgettable, on the best way possible.
— What you've brought from the market with you, Freya? – Otterley asked, still holding of that infant. I wonder from who this child belongs, but it seems to be her own. That woman always holded any child she had been able to give birth like it was her own, so she does for this one. That little thing... maybe if I looked to that baby, I could know who is his. I offered that wooden basket to her as soon as she gave me that same infant to be holded with my arms.
At first, I thought I was holding of some doll, far bigger and heavier than the ones filled in by rice that I've used to hold with an only hand, not both at the same time. Carefully, I didn't let it fall, because it wasn't like a doll, althought both are fragile, dolls are easy to ammend a loosen limb, and who else would let such thing be taken by the pull of gravity? It was still sleeping; it couldn't even open his eyes. With a more clever sight than the one spontaneously given before, I can see that it isn't a newborn, but someone who surpassed a month by being alive. I could feel the warm air coming out of his tiny nose, and that wasn't the only sign of his presence there with me. He, or so Otterlay said to me, could hear us as well, but not understand clearly as we do to each other. To understand in the manner of how they taught us to do it so...
— From who is this son? – I asked to Otterley. It didn't took that far for me to get an answer.
— You mean who is Freyr's father? – instead of Otterley, Jack asked, looking at the infant in my arms. He only went to this table to take some of these ingredients to prepare the chai for mother, thank you very much for doing your part by the way, as much as he also went here to take a look to this child, his own. It was obvious it was his son, listening to the manner he asked to me as well. Freyr... that is the name of the child. His child.
Sure is an old name, alike mine; I already could hear him uttering 'aunt Freya' already, but not 'grandma'. That seemed a bit unbeliavable to happen for Jack, given the life of his, and as far as I know, he never came to this house to show mother any of his affairs. If Jack is the father, then who is the mother? Not that I'm interested in any kind of gossip, just basic information. As much as I know my brother, I don't know nothing about his, only by the words coming from his. I could say that Otterley is the mother, anyone would, but she is a nursemaid. If that was the truth, it would be rather ironic. It ain't a son in blood, but an adopted child instead. Mother always wanted a third son, but she couldn't. She was still able to, but without father, she felt sick of thinking about it, I knew she felt this way anytime I've asked to her about it. Mother could had adopted a child as well, since there are many who need to be taken with the arms instead of the streets. While working as a Dragoon Knight, she once told me that every child she had ever been protecting was deemed to be her own.
I never heard from her that she wanted any grandchildren, like Freyr here, but maybe she would like some of us to share of a life to be called our own. When my brother said that he was adopted, I thought for an instant that he only saw that child as a gift, and only. In fact, he seemed a bit worried, now that he had the need to take care of that infant. Mother did it so for both of us during the time she spent healthy like before. Only in appearance, because I knew she was far more sad after father was gone. Like a wall peeling out it's painting, yet a wall remains the same in substance; mother protected us before and after we were born, so did Freyr's own, whenever she may be, if given up of taking care of this child, or if given up of a life. A chai takes some time to be prepared, so I'm not wasting my time, mother. I'll be there soon... if Jack was there, so do I'll be too.
Vermins... rats... the babies on the cradles... the dogs on the streets... But before, I'll be awaiting for this chai, still boiling there. On a same way they prepare the silkworms to be sunk in, many cravats once tied in her neck had been done because of their demises. I'm not only serving this chai to yours because you'll soon pass away, mother. Understand it as a sign that I love you, and so I'm glad that you had done so much for me to be able to do things on my own. Freyr Crescent, your only grandchildren, the only one you ever saw in your life, the last bits of same; Jack gave you his own kind of proof, the last gift sent by his to you, so do I may serve this same cup to yours, and me as well. I'm not even there, on that same room, but I know that I am prepared to be there, and to do what I should.
The cup is so fragile, same for mother and her bones, wasted between the first years of my life, and the last ones she will ever be able to see. The porcelain being holded by my hand isn't as white as it was, so does that hair, or what remained of it. Like a willow tree, there is a plenty of hair on that head, so does mine, whom mother used to comb with her sharp claws whenever I had been itchy of some crawlers taken from the hair of a child other than me. White were also the nits, the eggs, the seeds of same creatures atop my head, whom mother also took care as well. On those days, I've smelled the many scents belonging to the amount of oil above my head and those claws scratching my skin, and it was better than being bitten by someone else feeding of my blood like a Muramasa held atop me. I do bleed, but I cannot die yet.
— Mother... – I said, as soon as I've opened the door, only to look at that figure lying above that bed, covered by thick blankets, where I used to be hid from the storm. Thunder and lighting aren't that frightening... Mother ain't bleeding, though her coughs are far more menacing than any wound or scar found across her skin, yet I can't let this cup fall. To come this far, from the wall of people surrounding one of my aunts instead of mother, they still keep sobbing as if their tears went dry, to walk across the staircase, where the possibility of same cup to fall and tear part was higher than here, on this same corridor, the painting that resembles what remained of father, and what shall remain of mother, unless I don't go there, opening this same door kept locked, understandable when father was here, not on those lonely nights mother spent on her own, unless I've caught her asleep. How often I did... Not on this morning, but on nights that she was awake like it was morning. So dark it was this corridor, and those globes instead of eyes; she was out of her mind.
— Well... if it isn't my daughter... cough... Cough! – she said, before she went coughing. Lenneth Crescent, my mother. She is happy to see me, so do I. Far more happier than I do, given that joyful smile upon her face; a child's smile. I don't know if that may sadden me further, or if it's meant to bring me some comfort, like a mirror does. So cold is the touch, yet the one you see there may be fine, some days not. This is the last of her days, but this doesn't mean she has no time to give the unique impression hid below the layers of those belonging to a Dragoon Knight, and a mother as well. Any frown, any tear, any order... all ended up with a smile.
— I'll be always here, mom. Never that I would let you down – I said, sitting next to her. With those blankets around her body, she seems to share of more weight she should had, but in fact, she is rather skinny when looking at her arm. Not as skinny to show any sign of the bones into her skin, but that body is the one that belongs to a dedicated Dragoon Knight. A bit stiffen these limbs are, but mother seems weak on the breathes she's taking. So many of them... and then she coughs. An attempt of her lungs to be fred from the leakage, done so many times, and none of them worked as they should. Instead of feeling better, mother felt worse, so she does, yet she is still sharing of a smile, as if she accepted her end. The cup of chai is lying a few centimeters above my waist, being holded by these fingers from the left hand, same hand mother used mostly. Instead of giving it to mother, I decided to drink it. She needed of far more than the heat belonging to a chai. My presence here, and the days she used to prepare of same chai as I stood on father's place is enough of a gift.
— I wish that I... I could be here... all the time – mother said, before she coughed, again. As a Dragoon Knight, she had to be away from here, while Jack, my older brother, had the need to take care of me, even if I was able to take care of my own already, not that I did missed you, mother. Now I shall miss you forever, but not the moments we have spent together. With father, only a few ones, yet this doesn't mean I must discard his from out of my mind. I still remember the day I went with his to the market, and how awful was the smell of those codfishs, and ironic as life is, I had to eat them. Their flavour is great, but same couldn't be said for their stench. Jack caught a cold back on that day, and the only complain of his was that he couldn't taste anything. I wished that I could had gotten a runny nose like his own, but I have gotten my fingers instead.
— Nobody like you can, mother – I said, as if this was meant to be said by me. I have a plently of things to be said, but time is short, or worse, the clock that belongs to each one runs unknown, even to the person it belongs. So, we do our best to spend it as we should, on any way meant. Mother had a duty, as much as she had us to be taken care – this proves that you are human, not another giant among this same Gaia – and the same could be said about father, Jack, even me. For all the struggles taken to make our mark far more than the one we left on the soil we step, notihng can compete against time, and the death. In just a few generations, we will all be forgotten, so does our accomplishments, only retained like memories, not the same experience it comes alike the contact I do when I hold of this same arm, not even the nearest I can reach of what belongs to mother. If someone tells it's cold, they know it really is, but if someone tells you that years ago a huge winter came, like a talk between father to son, the little one can only imagine, or guess how it happened. The details may vary, but all you can do is think about it, and what you do feel ain't the same.
— Freya... – she spoke of my name, before she slightly coughed. I could see that she, as much as me, was tired of those. So tired... There is a time that everything is meant to come assunder. Nobody knows when it may arrive. Father didn't, yet he kept pulling the rock up a hill and saw it fell so many times he didn't cared or bothered to brought it back from where it felt to the top, again and again. So did Lenneth, mother, whose colors are fading... and I know my name won't be the last thing that will come out of her mouth, and mind. Barely, she turned her against the window, while still laying down on same position, her last. I can see the petals over her, same for that look who stood. Again, she looked like a child far more I recall ever being. It happened so long ago, but I know it happened, as much as I know I had a father, I also had a mother. Still I do, but I won't be standing here for an eternity like the rain pouring from outside, same direction she is looking at – do you know how does it feel?
— Yes, mother... – I asked. To be fair, I have no idea what did she just mean by what I do feel, as we both look at the window, a bit smudged, yet we had no other complains. A feet is meant to get dirty when stepping above the soil, cold as well if it stays there for too long. Crawling around this house seemed so easy, now it hurts whenever something fell under the table. I can't even fit in there, like I used to do, used to hid as well. Until the day father couldn't be find, like many who lay. Still mother had a duty, and she saw a plenty of people once at her sight and no more else to be seem. Mother had no time to miss these people, only a person, Bartholomew Brandford, my and Jack's father. Still I don't know what mother meant by 'do you know how does it feel' when looking at this same window. I just agreed, but now I see that I am wrong, or just hurried. I don't need to be in a hurry, I don't have anywhere else to go, not even mother here, for now.
— ...Touching the skies. To feel... so light. So... so free – she began to talk without any kind of organization in her words. Either way, I could understand her, I've learned it so within the time we and father spent together. Mother looked like me trying to talk, excited about something that caught my attention. Nothing there outside this window but the city and the clouds, where mother used to be most of her time, wearing of that same Dragoon outfit, the red belonging to the Crescents that came before, and those who may come afterwards – over the city, flying like a bird... almost flying with leaps... yet, I knew I belonged to same ground same people keep walking... no matter how high were the buildings, none of them will ever reach the clouds, only those who fell... like dreams. I had many of them... some that I'll never be able to realise... only those near me, like you here, Freya. One of many dreams I had... is that I wished to live a bit longer...
And then, mother stopped. Talking, hearing, listening... yet, I could feel the warmth of her breath slowly coming across the skin of my hand. Her eyes stood open, like the ones belonging to a fish. I had to close those pupils on my own. Instead of a hug, I just opened this same claws belonging to the left side of mine to run it through her hair, like she used to do whenever I was sick, pale of those crawlers taking out my blood. Later I would eat some beans, prepared by her, but mother ain't hungry. Won't be anymore. She is still alive, only sharing of her last dream, and then, comes the black. I have said to her so many goodbyes, but I knew she would came back, sooner or later. She will be back... only in our heads. Triangles may not exist, but we do everything to see them everywhere we go, that's what father, if I may recall, once said. Lenneth Crescent, once a Dragoon Knight... and a mother as well.
The place where... for the last time... they were seem... Follow me out of the town... Come on rats... Come on children... Happy birthday, Freya Crescent.
...
ns 18.68.41.141da2
