372Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFOdV5G434P
By: Autechre
From: LP5 (1998)
372Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7w9RECralB
A long ago.
Once upon a time, when time didn't mattered. Upon a building, a rooftop soaked of water, cold unlike that skin covered in sweat. The coat warmed the inside of what lied outside the burmecian standing above all the crowd, above the homes of same. My house used to gather a plenty of people, but now that siblings grew up, then it's time for me to do it so. Despite the name, Freya Crescent never felt that bored. Never that she had a plenty of time to find for herself. Hands and feet cold, a breathe that could be taken on a pocket, and sold like butterflies. Portraits of deceased, one more to the collection, as if the painting made of her relatives wasn't enough. It brought colours to a house gray from outside, and inside. Blood pours from the edge of the spear, and who else to tell it wasn't her own? An accident, as usual.
Too heavy, but Freya can bare of its weight, though it's hard to handle that thing with the right hand. All spears, javelins, whatever is the name they choose, not her, are made equal. All Dragoon Knights are the same, despite the colors. The red of her father is in that coat, as much as the white of her mother is in the hair. Who to notice her green eyes other than a puddle of water found onto her limping feet, and who to care about them. Why do he needs to take care of me, thought the burmecian, unprepared to combat. So they thought, those old geezers who had taken this Fratley of the Irontail house to be her mentor. As if the title of Sir didn't made him far above her, so did those jumps. Touching the clouds, feeling them alike cotton, and only her nose to feel of same, after getting injured.
Was he there to show its powers, or to teach them to me? It doesn't matter how much Fratley says that he learned these powers in months, Freya do not have a second to waste. Nothing else left, only her. He left that coat, at least. Same for the helmet, heavy unlike that tassel wore by that head. A bird had to suffer in order for those feathers to be taken and put upon his, and so Freya had to suffer in order to become a Knight, as well. That's the why which justifies why only a few decided to be a Dragoon Knight outside dreams. Nobody shares of enough money to be spent into this, but father had enough of it. He also had me, and still I have a bit of his. Careful... Fratley, I mean Sir Fratley, holded onto Freya's hand before jumping from a building to another, as if she was a girl crossing the street. Look at both sides, that's what was left for him to say.
Look around, idiot. The dark corners, where burmecians crawl out alike rats, less than. A knife stabbed on an unknown's back, blood in change of payment. Weren't for Fratley, retirement would come too earlier for this old man – this wound ain't that deep for Regen be casted without any waste... – said Fratley, as a green and bright light revolved around his, and that man. Only Dragoons known how to use magic to heal, as much as they can destroy. It costs too much, but he feels fine that a life ain't gone on its turn – he was luck. To where are you going, Crescent?
— I'll get some help – I'll do something, that's what Freya wanted to say, before she vanished with a single jump. Learned well, she expected Sir Fratley to say it so, but he had nothing to say. Too distant for a word to be heard, out of her tutor and that piece of flesh laying and moaning on the path of stone, grey alike that skin. Cleaner were the puddles of water, and mud was the only element who made them any dirtier. A single jump, and Freya sees everyone as dots, mere ants whose losts won't be missed.
— ...How much there is, chump? – a voice said, belonging to a creature who shares of a face as well. But its so hard to look at shadows within shadows.
— Not that much – and he is complaining? The one who delivered the blow, not the last one. Yet, nothing could make Freya feel any better, other than watch, when deep inside, all she wants is to solve it with her own hands. Claws, sharp alike her
— This was like kissing your cousin. It was far too easy – said another of them, and that was enough.
— Really? Because they happened to become difficult for you both! – words struck as the thunder who shouted, the lightning who followed it sparkling in the skies, alike the tip of that spear, sharp alike those canine teeth shown to those dogs who have nowhere to ran away into. The only thing Freya heard after were those screams at her, the Dragoon who seemed to hang on a wall alike a spider, who already wove of its web. Before they could trespass to an exit, the Crescent hovered to a point to another, as if her feet had springs attached below – come closer, I won't do any harm. I'm offering this chance for things get more exciting.
— If the lady says – even with a knife, things seemed easier as they should. A week of training stiffened my limbs a bit, said the Crescent, before smiling and walking on the air – hey, you've moved!
— Ladies first – with only her shadow and claws to be seem close of their faces. After a while, the rejoice of a child dissasembling the wings of a fly was gone, following the rearrangment of a spine, and the sound of a bottle breaking for a skull. The last one stands on its knees, shaking. He didn't shaked when that old burmecian was stabbed, thought Freya, approaching slowly. A smell other than blood could be felt by her nose – oh, look, they felt asleep! Now where's the one who likes when old man tumble and cry!?
— Don't punch me! I-I have rights! – yes, even a bastard like you have a plenty of them – I surrender! You can't punch someone who surrended. You would be violating your rights, lady.
— Sure. Say that to the old man whom you tried to take out its right to live! – without any hesitation, the Dragoon punched that face. A mother's slap, for him to create some sense. It took some seconds, and a hand grabbing her shoulder, that it was only a fetus whom Freya sparred of any serious injuries. The way he cried, moaned for a broken nose...
— Nothing can be solved with this game of eye by eye, Crescent. All you'll get with this is blindness.
— Justice is also blind, Sir Fratley.
— Blind in other way, not yours – Fratley said, trying his best to not shout. Only those who want to be heard shout, but when close of another, it's unnecesary – you see them as criminals, but they are equal in law.
— These individuals can sue me if they want – even with Freya fading on a distance, out of the alley. Faces, many of them can be seem, crossing the street. In the street, and atop same. Fratley follows her, he wants to change that face with his words.
— They won't. The institution will be their target, like always. What you've did as a Dragoon...
— Was it the right, or the wrong thing? – said Freya, panting more than speaking. Avoiding eye contact, but despite looking to another direction, or closing the eyes, her ears still listen to a lot of his words. As a kid, she learned that there is no way to avoid noise, even if you put your fingers on the ears, you'll still listen to another, and yourself. A heartbeat, blood circulating within you. I didn't asked for Sir Fratley be quiet, thought Freya, tired of hearing her thoughts – speak already. I know that you don't have time to waste, Sir Fratley.
— And I know that you want everything to be solved instantly, Crescent. That's not how things work, or happen.
— And how they should? – crossing arms won't do any good. They make your words meaningless, as you're already showing vulnerability enough with a gesture. But Freya insists – aren't we here to fix this crap in order to make our lifes better?
— All lives, Crescent. Couldn't you say that these men had a reason to do what they had done? In order to make their lifes any better?
— How dare you to compare me with these scoundrels!? – anger is still there, overcoming her body. It's an itchy that crosses throught your skin, like sweat allergy. Fratley is careful to the choice of words. He already felt the same as Freya do, but with less intensity – I can't believe you are defending them...
— It's my duty, yours too.
— I don't work for the sake of criminals to be freed next day.
— What makes someone a criminal?
— What? A criminal is a criminal! Are you crazy!? This won't end-
— 'Till they're dead? Pull yourself together, Crescent. These people do not represent a threat anymore, which is only at you – he didn't softened the blow this time. I thought he would, but after what I did... that's when silence becomes an awful experience. Only happy when it rains, but it rains all day. Not all days that I ever felt such humiliation, not from Sir Fratley's words. Because, had I behaved better, he wouldn't be saying such things to me. Had not those idiots appeared to ruin my day... no, they can't be put a blame. They appear everywhere, but what I did...
— I thought we were in this together, Sir Fratley – leave me alone.
— I'm not with you when it comes to what you've did... – fine, leave already. I have faltered, sorry – ...a Dragoon doesn't resort to violence, not even this kind on the harshest situations... – and he won't shut up, because you insist to hear him. Learn from your mistakes – ... but, althought what they did disgust me a lot, I don't want to feel disgusted by you, Crescent – despite the desire to get out of there, Freya is attentive to each of Sir Fratley's words, including the way he spoke of my name as if it meant something. But it did, out of many meaningless events which happened on their lives.
— Then why are you here? To teach the right out of the wrong a hundred times, until I learn? – sometimes, Sir Fratley Irontail is so clean that makes me sick. But the brighter the sun, darker becomes a shadow.
— If you insist that's all I have to offer out of my learnings, then so be it. But, take a look to your helmet, Crescent. It doesn't have eyes, unlike what lies beneath. Do you understand?
— Yes. I understand.
There are many ways to love someone.
As a friend, as a lover, but my love ain't like this. I mean, each of my apprentices is, like, part of me. She is younger than me. Did Freya felt too much... or am I feeling less than before? I was able to contain myself. If something so meaningless can happen to anyone, who to be there to offer some meaning? Like a teacher, I solved it all with reasoning, and a bit of heart. These are what makes me more than a creature. But when night comes, sitting in this lonely room, watching the candle light in my hands, bearing of such heat, wax dripping in the floor, and what was once a candle melts before I sleep, dreaming of same black void gathered within my sight, and this room. Remember when you were afraid of the dark? When you weren't a Knight who doesn't feel fear, but anyway you know it. Doesn't have shape, like another thing you know about, but you don't feel.
Falling in depths of fear, an abysm wide open and you see yourself into it. But there is another word you are falling into to, despite fear. Both come along each other, each time you think about her. A word of four letters, which begins with 'L'. No, it ain't lust. That only lasts for a while, but this aching doesn't. The night takes care of people, making them fall asleep, yet there are some who won't awaken anymore. Eyes can be open, and explode like the fat within your chest, or so at least that's what happened to a King's funeral. Old story, but I like them so much. Some make me laugh, others cry, but I can't do none of it when near her. Even speak of her name, other than Crescent. Alike the moon, Freya has its phases, shapes hidden by shadows. Girls are said to mature faster than we do, and that's a truth I can confirm by myself.
Freya is fast on everything, and that's what worries me. Decisions can't be taken at the peak of the moment, neither they can be influenced by same. Burmecia may never run out of water, but that we are running out of time, sure we are. Other nations do not belong to these times, they know how to make the Mist useful in other way, instead of hiding us from another. That may the be why of many wars fought, because the unknown and the unnexpected is what is feared the most, to this day. If talking rats like me were raised below the Mist, who can't say otherwise? Maybe such do not even exist, like many excuses for wars which lasted centuries to be brought. At least, our ancestos had the excuse to fight only at summer and autumn, before harsh winter came and spring flourished of new life.
I am getting slower, and I am still young, with the head of an old. Skinny like a door, same one my relatives locked between mine and their bedroom. I once took a peak in a keyhole, then I watched their silhouettes in the dark, muffled noise coming from within the blankets, and the next day they explained to me how I have gotten another brother. They couldn't explain the why on the same way my eyes did, and I wasn't in shock even when I heard that Matha got hurt. With so many getting hurt, and Dad Irontail was there to protect us. And to hurt to. I have done so many things, brought so many excuses and time tells how many slaps were brought to this skin, some with reason, others not. Why? I asked, as much as dad asked why I broke that jar. It was made of glass, then I stepped over its cracks like corn, and he didn't lend a hand over me. That would be disconsiderate, a word that wrapped into my tongue alike pasta made out of Matha's hands.
Matha... I didn't even called mom by mom, because dad called her by the name, most of the time. So did I, but I used to eat the R's back then. It was embarassing when near visits, because they all thought I was adopted, or that my mother was my aunt, althought that meant we still had a blood tie, and also that it doesn't matter which's your blood, a mother is a mother. And a father is a father. They take care and teach you, but they also had to learn from others too. Dad Irontail used to complain about how some days were hot, and others were cold. Then I gave him a hug, and I asked if I brought some warmth to his. Matha also hugged him in the nights. I could hear their conversation from my bedroom, only I, as it seems. My siblings felt asleep, while I listened to dad and mom, talking about something that didn't seemed to matter.
Since the age I began to play with mud, to listen to the Priest speak something about ashes to ashes at the church, when I drew people like sticks in less than an hour, while Matha stood still for half a day in order to a painter make a portrait of her, still hanging around somewhere at this house, together with dad. Now that they are gone, you think about them. It happened a long ago, before you came to be a Dragoon Knight. Dad Irontail wasn't one all the time, but that he had the efforts, the will, obedience of one, sure he had on his short career. Same for Matha, who worked as a tailor, who sewed the holes made onto the Knight's coats. This looks uninteresting at first, but that was the only kind of contact mom had with a Knight, other than being offered of their protection. Of ever touching a hand other than dad's own, to feel that they aren't deities. Neither I am, Matha. Sometimes I touch myself, feeling nothing.
It ain't fun or nothing new, since I already know how my skin is. How my life began with the contact of my skin with another, and how a life ended as well, without feeling nothing, but us... If I could feel, had found a way to express what I felt for you and dad, instead of feeling cold. I had so much respect for them both. I didn't cried when they died, by immediate. Not that I am insensitive as my front teeth do, but I laughed instead, and that wasn't a fun laugh, since I was nervous, unquiet and jumpy alike the water drops bouncing over puddles. Remember when Fergus said that the olives were a bit sour? Then he found half of a cockroach on his dish. We laughed, and dad had to say that insects are nutritive, for our laughter to be heard by neighbors too. Althought mom was still there when dad left, all they heard from days onwards were silence. When outside home, though...
There were other children. Gray and Dan haven't lost their fathers, that's why they seemed so happy. That's why I can remember all these things as if it happened yesterday. But they did, since there are many families willing to hang around on this kingdom, no matter the cost or the weight of a lose. As long as there are Dragoon Knights here, they'll be safe. I can't guarantee that they will be safe of everything, thought. But that we do not represent a menace to our kind, that's why I am here. My purpose, as a Dragoon and burmecian lying within, is to remind this Kingdom that there aren't giants walking around Gaia. That there is a system that works, where everyone is judged for their crimes, and that if such system didn't existed, Burmecian society would tear apart far more than my own heart could take.
It's all but a question of morality. And ego too, since I wonder if this will be an achievement of Fratley Irontail, or a Dragoon Knight by the name of Fratley Irontail.
372Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdMLe6LVQCi
— My Majesty.
— Yes, Mr. Irontail?
— I would like to grant your for this dinner you kindly offered to me, and my comrades – and to this day and onwards, a man by the name of Fratley Irontail began to be recognized as a Sir, among the title of Dragoon Knight. It was also the same day a horde of Grand Dragons invaded Burmecia alike they did a century ago. As if those demon's remembered the fear upon our faces, and same fear we put on them, if there was one dragon who remained from that day. The King himself carries on of one's bones, an actual replica of a Grand Dragon, which remained intact after a century. Not that old, to be compared with ancient scribs written on clay instead of paper.
— And that's it? – after a minute of silence, he answered. Why am I trembling before his? I mean, it's the King, my ruler, the one who rules everything. Such power is higher than mine. His clothes are far more elegant, and his crown shares of more tips than the only spear I share – it seems that there is still something you want to talk about. What that would be, Mr. Irontail?
— Nothing. Well... I think your decision in regards to Lindblum's offer was a bit, how can I say... imprudent.
— And you had to await for the ending of dinner to say that? Wait, I know why. You, Dragoon Knights... do not have courage when it comes to say what you think. To only do what you were ordered to. If you can't believe in yourself, Mr. Irontail, then your life means nothing. By nothing, I mean emptiness.
— I believe in myself, my Majesty. I didn't wanted, never that I would try to offend your person – its so hard to talk with him. Like, each word and I get in trouble. To tremble won't help either – but why did you refused the steam engine's offer? Wouldn't that invention help our people, and this land to prosper further?
— Nothing is achieved that easy. You know that.
— I do.
— Some decisions are hard to take. Lindblum was kind enough to offer us support on upcoming wars, but I believe that Burmecia is able to sustain itself, to share of independency. Althought, if we were truly independent of other nations, then we wouldn't be speaking with words belonging to a same alphabet, or to even care about numbers below zero. There are some ties that do not ammend, like economic ones. Hope I have cleared up your doubts, Sir Fratley.
— Yes, my Majesty. I'll leave right now
— One last question, Mr. Irontail – before I left the room, the King made a sign with his hand. I stopped, to hear his – have you say my son?
— Puck? No, I didn't, my Majesty. If you please, I'll search for his.
— My guards are already patrolling the Kingdom. You do not have to worry about him – The King didn't seemed that worried after all. But I couldn't say that. That wouldn't be polite, even for a truth – Alexandria... I once went there. It was a failure, but I took the rightful decisions. Weren't for me, and my patience, Burmecia would had been left in shambles. Have a good day, Mr. Irontail.
— May Reis bless you, my Majesty.
And so I have left that room, and the palace, heading to home. Burmecia as an entirety is already my home, but I am fortunate enough to share of a house, a private space. On the perfect world, there wouldn't be the need of private properties, neither the privacy of warmth. It's hard to find a shelter, more so than lit a fire under the rain. I work to put some fires out, where the rain can't reach. That's a shallow description of what is a Dragoon, compared to what kids tell us. I don't have none, same goes for wifes or affairs. I'm a bit skinny, in and out these clothes. And I do not talk very much as they do, only when it comes to teach, but that's the task of a Dragoon, not my own. Besides titles, you have a name, and yours is Fratley. Sir Fratley Irontail; not that I'm proud of it. I am proud of being alive, of all things.
To be alive ain't a thing. Things can be discharged, like junk. What is junk for me can be food for another, like an apple bitten in a half. And there are individuals who spit the seeds, instead of digging holes and burying them here. Only grass, tall like my spear, light compared to the weight on my back. The weight of all mornings, and days like these. Maybe Puck is hidden there. I wave for the guards who are searching for him. I asked if they found Puck, and seeing the look of their faces when near them, guess that question and its answer were in vain. But they do not give up, as they began once again to find the Prince. Do they care for his? Worried we all are, but to care for Puck's sake as a kid instead of being treated as a heir of a throne... we all are heirs, in a way. I attempted to fled, but I couldn't. And this ain't time for boys to be hiding.
— What is up? – I asked for the guard, standing upon a bridge.
— It's our Highness. We found his... well, half of his – the guard showed me blue rags, found under the bridge. A piece of royalty dirtied in mud. Only mud, I hope. That kid, running around wearing nothing, disguised with the ambient like a moth in a wooden trunk. Unlike many of us, Puck shares of a brown skin, a rare condition of our speciments. A condition, but all Puck hears is 'disease'.
— Did he felt on the river? – another guard asked.
— He can be anywhere – I said, before I left.
Remember when you didn't cared that much for home? When there was an an only person to care about? Now that he's gone... but this ain't the end of trail. If Puck had left one, at least. If things were more obvious than obscured alike these clouds, washing the streets and that kid of any mud. How he hates to be called by kid. Doesn't even act as one, but now that he's gone, supposedly everywhere, worrying those who aren't even his father, guess that this is Puck's opportunity to be a kid. Is he scared, frightened? Happy, enjoying the worse happening? Trolling us like fishes to his bait, the closer we could ever get? He did it once. Dissapeared for a week, only to be back on its room, with the size of a house, and toys that are made of wood instead of anything found on these streets. I once made a doll by pulling an onion out of the garden.
It was for my sister, who ate it. She earned the first teeth, had to use them for something other than talk. Wonder how she is been, and what was her name. My siblings were raised out of the gaze from each other since father and mother's demise. Too young to be raised on our own, too older to not understand why. That a 'why' brought silence as an answer. I listen to the rain, but sometimes I listened to the grass, and how it grew. I had nothing else to do, laying on the ground, eating worms, and now you've became a Sir. How things change, don't you agree? Some do not change, after all. Meaningful to unmeaningful, a waste and a gain of time, that's how I do spend my life. How life should be spent. Many titles were earned to you, some you got, some handled to your mouth as a spoon mom used to say it was a dragon so you've opened your mouth to chew it.
— Psst! Psst!... – I heard this sound, between the crickets and frogs on the marsh. It didn't came from there, but upon a tree. Like a bird on a nest, complaining about the light who appeared in the night – hey, shrimp! Ye there! – but birds do not talk. I can't believe it...
— Is that you, Puck? Get out – I was direct with his. Only in words. I do not deserve to look at that kid wearing nothing – don't you have shame, Puck?
— What's up, shrimp? Actually, I'm very proud of myself.
— If you are that proud, then why you fled the palace?
— I got bored ot staying there, of seeing people lick marble stones and pops back. People like you, shrimp! – I do not deserve to be fooled by the liks of his either. Though, I should have made eye contact, like a statue does.
— I have changed words with your father. He's worried with you.
— Is he coming here!? Nah, he wouldn't. Pops ain't desperate enough to find me. He won't hug me, but those hands are ready to slap my butt instead. Oh no, he have a guard for that too! – then I heard some slaps. It's hard to convince someone without looking to its face. Hard to tell this is the Prince of Burmecia, or a cousin of mine.
— These people are working hard for your sake, Puck. Don't you care for them?
— No, I don't. I only care for myself.
— If you care for yourself, then wear a cloth. You are going to catch a cold.
— And the doctors are going to treat me. I'll be fine.
— You'll be fine only if you share of a reason for doing what you did, Puck.
— I was born. Do not I have a reason enough, shrimp? – enough. There is no solution for this kid. A lost cause, weren't I someone who do not give up. I could have left Puck there, but that would be imprudent. For the sake of Burmecia and its future, and for the sake of yours
— Puck... if you do not want to get home, then you can stay at mine. Please, are you willing to stay on top of this tree in a storm? I have some clothes, I can prepare a hot chocolate to yours, I can do anything. Because I care for you, so these guards do. They may be obeying your father's orders, maybe same can be said in regards to me, but I also have my own beliefs. My own rules, and one of them states that nobody is allowed to get hurt – for the first time, I looked to the boy. To his eyes. I wasn't avoiding him due its appearance, or the lack of one. Puck is tired, so do I. When will I enjoy of a meal alike that dinner again? Does Puck even care to enjoy the same food of every day? That table is so huge, yet he is the only son of the King.
— Are you speaking as a Dragoon Knight, or as a Sir? – before I even knew how to pronounce my own name, I learned to speak without the need of carrying both thes titles. But Dad Irontail... he was my symbol, my inspiration of life. Althought, he and his image weren't any clean. Nothing is, but he tried his best, even when out of his mind – hey, ya heard me, shrimp?
— Very well – for a moment, I stood crestfallen, took my looks out of Puck. I am his only company. A plenty of guards that are loyal to his, and none of them are his friends. They act as one, but they all wear same clothes, same blue since he was a toddler. Nobody knew Puck existed until the King said he existed.
— Ya better follow yer words, shrimp – out of that tree, being holded by these arms, this boy's skin was cold, soaked by the rain as mine.
— Don't call me by shrimp, Puck.
— Hey! Ye aren't here to boss me around. I call ya by whatever name I want!
— Why shrimp? Is it because I have a heart in place of mind?
— What? Do they? Nah, ya must be kiddin' me.
— You're a kid.
— Hey, watch yer mouth, shrimp!
— Why do you insist to call me by that? I have a name.
— I don't care. You're a heck of a persistent guy, shrimp.
— Fratley. My name is Fratley.
— Yeah. Whatever, shrimp.
— Why the fixation for nicknames? We aren't even friends.
— 'Cause shrimp is a word easy to remember.
— Is that your favorite dish, perhaps?
— Nah. You're a shrimp 'cause you're skinny like one! Ahahahaha! – that ain't funny, but I'm not here to question this boy's dry humour – hey, you aren't laughing...
— Should I?
— I am the goddamn Prince!
— Watch your mouth – I don't tolerate disrespect, even if the kid adressed himself, not me. Doesn't calling Puck by kid is a kind of disrespect? Guess not. It's telling the truth – and where's your crown?
— It's in the blood. See? – then Puck showed me a finger, bleeding a bit. Let me see it... Not a bad cut. It'll heal soon – tastes like iron, ya know.
— When did you get cut?
— I got cut by accident. That grass sure is sharp like blades. It almost cut my d-err, my other finger. Can you believe that someone stepped over my tail, shrimp? My tail, the royal tail!? They heard the royal screech coming out of me too.
— You do not look that royal to anyone, Puck – he doesn't even look alike a burmecian. I mean, he is one, but his body is alike a painting. An oil canvas with melting faces and colours. Puck only has one muddy tone, but out of inspiration a puddle of clay is able to share of many shapes.
— Haven't ya heard about the King's new attire before sleep?
— But you aren't King.
— Someday I'll be.
— Just like your father.
— Not that I have a choice, Frito. Is that your name, right?
— Fratley. Tired of calling me by shrimp?
— I'm not tired. Just... a bit bored. I can't feel my legs, and my tail is numb.
— It's the cold. I'll get something for you to wear – soon as we get home.
— Why do we wear clothes? Is it only because of cold, Frito?
— Well... yes, in a way. Yet, nobody wants to see the next person naked at your side.
— Unless it's a beauty.
— Puck...
— Is it wrong to tell the truth? I mean, we are all the same, but we insist to make things different.
— Some things are meant to be different from another, like words.
— Yeah, I know. Boy and girl, man and woman, royalty and poverty, rice and beans; but Frito, don't you agree that after goodnight kisses, friendships, dates, poems, flowers, marriages, these bullshits... all we want to see is someone naked?
— Interesting deduction – I don't blame Puck for what he thinks, if it makes a bit of sense or not, because I thought the same once, on that same age. Which age is Puck's? I didn't even bothered to ask. Because I think about the same to this day – do you have a crush for someone, Puck?
— We all have. As for you, though... but that's your concern, alone. Yeah, alone, that's what we all are in the end. I got crushed, my heart squashed like a tomato. Love is all but a tissue of lies after another, wrapped to your neck. Like milk taken out of a breast, words and gifts stir emotions for a hundred times. Why don't these people put a gear to their heads and cry to something other than love?
— There are a plenty of ways to love someone.
— If yer talking about pops, though – Puck's words are becoming weak, exposing his fragile nature. We all get to be tired, so do I. They say kids share of a plenty of activity, but since there isn't a plenty of sun to be delivered to Burmecia, they get tired soon, unless you give them some apples. I may be tired, but I ain't a liar, not this time. Puck and I headed towards my house, despite that castle on a distance being so close of there. No, I did what I told what I would do, to Puck. He agreed to stay on my side because of those words, and the way I agreed to fulfill them. The way we stood alongside another counts too.
I sewed some clothes of mine for the Prince, since I do not have clothes for kids of its age, and I do not have my own kids yet. I don't have plans for it, or for anything so far that belongs to future tense. Puck is there, in front of me, up that chair, wearing red overalls who detached from the blue and white blend of pieces of rags assembled to another found below. Better than wearing nothing after all, though. Never that I saw a member of royalty wearing of same clothes as a peasant, or so they call us by. I do not see a 'they' on Puck. All I see is a kid to be paid of attention, and care. His dinner was left on the kitchen's table. Rice, slices of carrots and beans; that's all I have, before bread becomes hard alike stone. Quite a simple dish, compared to the turkeys covered in oil and salty tomatoes drying unlike their price on the fair.
That kind of food is enough to clog the veins of an entire body. Puck seems a bit fat, but healthy, and hungry too, that's what matters. A porcelain dish cleaned by its raspy tongue, which asks for more. As if the rain outside didn't bathed us enough, I offered a bath to our Highness. Water on the place of strawberries, althought a bit of red drew on it, and hands other than the maid's own, to whom Puck had a fall for. Dionne... Puck remembers her name, out of the many who are at his service. Everything seemed different to that kid, but for me, it was all the same. Puck was learning, and fascinated with the way I live. Survived, as he said a few times. How he had been spending his life prior we meet. Still I can't approve what he did, while I'm not sure if I should bring him to the palace the next day.
— Are you going to take me to pops tomorrow, Frat? – I had been wondering about the same.
— That's for you to decide. Do you miss his?
— I don't.
— Do you want to come back home?
— Burmecia is already my home, before it gets to be my kingdom – Puck doesn't understimate the royalty carried by his. He just wants to be part of something else. Something I may have offered to him, alike that bed frame he's laying upon, or showed a bit of.
— Puck... have you ever heard someone tell you to have a good night?
— Yes, the guard says it all night. I say for him what to do, and he do. All of them, including you, Frat. But...
— Something bothering you?
— You did this all, but for what reason? I didn't asked anything for you to do. Well, sure I did, but you could have left me. I know how to handle things on my own, you know that too. It was really hard to find a way to get out of the palace's wall other than the main gates. So, why Frat? Why?
— I followed my words, Puck. I would hate to see you getting more hurt, when I had the chance to not.
— That's what all guards think. You aren't different from them. You are... YAAAAAWnnn...
— Have a good night.
— Good night...
— Don't let the bedbugs bite.
— Bedbugs?
— Don't worry. There are none.
— You got me, Frat... you... you are different... from pops.
Puck... those wide eyes, whom I once thought it belonged to fishes, were closed at least. He's just a boy desperate to prove something, other than what a first sight tells. What makes him not a picture of me? Or Faust...
Another day.
Not another day.
In the meantime of one of these days...
— Weren't you supposed to be in training, Sir Fratley?
— Doesn't watching you counts as part of the training? – if there will be a sight left for you afterwards – now, which kind of moves are these, Crescent?
— Since I'm not training to become a Dragoon, I spend my time doing something else – that is allowed to be done outside walls, which aren't there to seclude both of us out of each other, yet again. I can't stop, it's boring to keep awaiting without doing something while other people move. Rain only falls, but doesn't think. Same happens when you are in a state of comatose.
— This dance... – Fratley gazes at me. He does the same when on training. Move from left, move to right, spin, two turns, stop... Move from right, to left – take a spin, 720° spiral, now stop... – he also talks, gives some advices when unnexpected of my part. Or when I already know what this means, how this works, and the story behind it, if needed.
— Should I breathe, perhaps?
— You're doing great, Crescent. Who taught you these moves? – not you, certainly. Yet, he talks as if he already knew about them. Fratley only knows a few things about you, and I don't know him enough to keep calling him by Fratley, without mentioning Sir on its front. He is in front of me. Above me. When near, he is nothing but another burmecian, wearing of green clothes.
— I am a bit cleyran.
— A bit?
— I have some parents who live there – only paid a visit to them once, but I was too young to not remember how they looked alike. Other than the giant trunk, and those clothes, and this dance... a few words to describe Cleyra. It ain't a nation, alike this place.
— Do you miss them? – it's not often that I do cross an entire desert only to meet familiar faces.
— Not a bit. Sure, I miss then somehow, but I know that they are safe – with ties severed between us, Cleyra vanished from this world, hidden by the curtains of a sandstorm. Long and old story, that didn't got an end to this day.
— The dance you've did is said to strenghten the sandstorm which surrounds that beautiful place.
— Had you been there too?
— No. But everything that's not touched by men is beautiful for me – that's why you've didn't touched my hand, right? Not that I want to hold on it, this ain't a street. They lie outside these windows, blurred by the cold. If there is something happening there, I should leave by the front door, and, well, Fratley is talking about something – ...you know that I am leftist, Freya. I believe that government should do for people what they can't do by themselves. Despite the sandstorm, Cleyra sure can't be protected against the likes of us, and that's why Dragoons only exist restricted to Burmecia alone.
For the first time, Sir Fratley called me by the first name, Yet, he came with this political talk to disguise his true intentions. I nod to what he said, as usual. Not that I do not agree with his words, because, well this is hard to say, but most of the time Fratley is right. That's why he is my tutor. Chosen to be my own. Did it happened by the luck of a finger? Because these can decide the destiny of many lifes. Go there, come here, do this, do that... but Fratley ain't alike this. Well, sure he is a bit, but not that much. Even when outside training, he comes to be alike that. A scarecrow, not so scary at all. For a Knight said to be fearless, sure he fears a lot. Yet, there is a kind of hope in each of his words, even when he doesn't speak. Some cleyrans do still pay a visit to these lands. Their ancestors were all born here, same for their customs and traditions, and a reason to leave this Kingdom to make their own.
So much death. A damage inflicted to ourselves, civil wars fought on these streets. An entire history blurred alike this window, burnt alike the many papers, unlike the names on their heads. Crescent and Irontail... suddenly, I hear someone call our both names. Market has gotten a disturbance. A huge, and winged one. Dragons were saw there, and no body yet. The breeze of the window was felt for a moment, before wind struck onto my face. Same for his face too. Unlike the days that came before, this ain't a trial, or so Fratley told me. I was going to kill, for the first time. No, the Dragoon was the one tasked to put an end to that excuse of life. They came in, devour children, chunks of flesh are left, and... I don't have anything to say. Didn't said nothing, I just agreed, no nods. As I brought my spear, a haversack of medicine was brought onto Fratley's back. Potions, ether, bandages, the entire first aid's kit, as if I couldn't do it without getting harmed.
It has been two weeks since I came here, so that's a reason enough for Fratley to be worried about me. He once lost a partner, but that's old story. An old gossip that still can be heard by these walls, and those who lie outside them. Before he came to be a Sir, to shove that title onto everyone. Before his own name, if Fratley is his name. Names don't matter here, because it all looks the same. I have some other names in mind, but there is no time for it. I don't have time for anything but offer help to someone other than myself. To let anger out of this flesh to another. The rain may clean what is left from open wounds, but some can't be seem in the skin, as much as they do with mine. An entire building doesn't feel pain. Do not care for those buried beneath his bricks. Even the Ironite who wants to eat care for these bystanders.
— It's devil skin will get more pinkish, soon as I get those wings – not only the rain pours on this street. Fratley knows the deal, and how to deliver a blow with his sharp blades, and to spin around with same. Had he taught me how to summon the elements, such as the ice overcoming these jaws I and my chest had been found together, this creature and its bones would be easily broken in an instant.
— AARGH! – the pain... it's unbearable. Better for this be the only pain to be felt. Only me to feel of such pain, and a teeth stuck like a knife. Can't take it, but I know what should be taken back – eat this! Die, piece of shit! I've killed you once, I'll kill you again! And again! And again! Again...
— Stop, Crescent – a claw is left tightened upon my shoulder, not a hand. Instead of a raspy shout, a calm voice pretends to stop me. Fratley stands behind me, alike all living beings we sparred for today – it's over.
— Sure it is. Urrgh... – my visions blurs, but who to say it wasn't already blurred before? This would be a good death, had I promises to keep. Promises to keep, and not forget. I'm too young to not forget like an old man. He wasn't old enough for his death be rightful. Father... you could have lived a bit longer. So I'll do... somehow...
372Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1LkCQpdYSb
In three to four murders, the victim knows the murderer.
I know that Freya will be better soon. She would hate to become another statistic. A number instead of a person. Her heartbeat is strong, despite the size of scars left. I'm more worried about the mental scars. This job takes too much of us, including our sanity. Sometimes, I feel that I am the only one who's able to solve problems. Instead of signing papers after the damage had been done, I hold this spear instead of the inking pen. With both, a Dragoon can draw a crucifix, though we burn what was left from a dragon instead of burying it. This is a sacred land for many, but for me, nobody is that pure. To be submitted to all kinds of rituals won't make you any cleaner. It'll make you feel, but to be is another thing. I am a Dragoon Knight, also a Sir, but none of these seem to matter at the moment.
Sure, status is a thing, but to deal with lifes is another. An only life, I mean. We share of so many, and some that do not even happened after all. When a lie becomes the truth, and an ounce of truth is treated as a joke. An ordinary, that's who I am, but Sirs are nobles by nature. That was the nature I took, not the one I lived with. I feel responsible for what happened, not in order to preserve the status of a good being. There isn't a need to be human, after all. Funny, we are rats that can talk. To be crawling around on all fours, wearing no clothes, but that's what we are, what we became. Why do I care for this unknown by the name of Freya? Well, because I was also an unknown once. A nobody, but that's what was left for the cyclops to tell its friends. Nobody harmed me, and that's how we deal with those whom we do not expect such things.
A rat, filthy as the sewers we walked upon, and the kingdom built above them. But what is lying on that table instead of the floor ain't only a rat. The Freya I know is only half of it. Less than. Same for me, who do not even know who is. Sure, Fratley is my name since birth, but why? I began to question it since I was able to, same for many of us. A mind in blank, ready to learn, and all I knew is that my name was Fratley. It is, to this moment, and after death. She won't die, that would be too silly. Though, Faust's demise happened alike that. His eyes closed, and couldn't be opened by his own. If I was him, I wouldn't open my eyes to look at my chest. Or look at the one who left a hole onto me. There is an emptiness within me, meant to be filled. That must had been how mother felt after losing my brother. I'm not sure if it was a brother, or a sister. Only a dream, that slipped on her mind. Mother even thought of names, instead of calling it by thing.
A thing was left in our door. Father was a Dragoon Knight, so I became one, but before there was me, and I had other siblings, but none other than Faust. My only adopted brother, the fist who holded of father's finger and the name Irontail tightly, far more than father could before retirement, before he became gray alike a tombstone. We took care of mom, as we all called her by, including Faust. Althought we didn't shared of same blood, nothing prevented us from sparring in the garden, hidden from mother, of course. She's hidden on the ground, like dad? On that day, like many others, I couldn't lie to Faust, as much as I couldn't call him by brother at the moment. We hurted each other so badly, only at training. I didn't wanted what we were on training get close to what we were as family. His only family. Things have gotten worse as soon as a distant relative took all our family's money.
A stranger not even mother wasn't acknowledged of. She ain't even there, he said. I tried my best for Faust not deliver a punch on that rotten man's face, more rat than man. I wanted too, but I didn't wanted to get more than my claws dirtied. Some friends of father and other relatives were willing to take care of us. As for Faust, well... I had to take care of his, as usual. He was a brat in search of fights, punchbags other than me. A street rat, whose crime never commited was murder, this until he became my apprentice when I succeded father's throne. It took quite a while to get the title of Sir, and for my brother's crimes to be reedemed. He had skill, was obedient most the time, patience that's good gone in an instant. To be a Dragoon Knight was my dream, but Faust's own dreams and reality were sustained by me.
— I only fight when victory is assured to us, Faust. If you go there, you'll be heading into the spider's web.
— Come on, Frat boy... are you chickening out!?
— Your tantrums won't work with me. They used to, but I know you aren't a six year-old anymore.
— I know, because I'm not worried! This will be the final battle, and we're going to put an end to this!
— We? And who said this is the final battle? Don't be stupid, Faust. You can't kill all dragons of a nest on your own, and even if you do it so, that won't solve anything. More will rise than fall.
— I thought you would understand, like father.
— And who cares about our father? Why are you bringing up the dead to this conversation, damnit!?
— Because you already did... brother.
Living someone else's life. A sort of life where nothing had been handled to his without any efforts. And lifes being taken so easily on his thoughts, Faust wanted a life more satisfying to his kind. As long as he felt proud of himself, my brother would have a reason to live. Until that day. A dirty day. Faust was tired. Should have stopped, heard me. I should have stopped too, because I was out of my mind. And that was the last time I heard Faust call me by that. He couldn't hear me calling his by same name... A vegetable. How my brother despised them floating on mother's dish. How he came to become one. After and before he took a deep slumber, before he had been gone to earth, where all rests. He believed that two outnumbered a horde of Ironites. The dragons teared more than his cloth. Something was tore before he could reach in their nest.
Feel better soon, Freya Crescent.
I had a nightmare.
Can't remember that much of what happened. Someone in the shadows, with the voice of a kid, asked to me 'where is Korova?' before I felt something sharp coming in my chest. A finger that stabbed me alike a knife, right throught my diaphragm. I couldn't breathe, then I woke up. Better not sleep with a head sunk in a pillow again. Then I woke up again, nature calls. For some reason, there is this kind of thought that each night, a figure lies on these shadows. Don't know its shape, other than it ain't there. Many candles were wasted before I slept, and dreamt of light. Flying alike a Dragoon, or so a kid told me once. I don't fly, all I do is jump, but back then, on the first days, with Faust gone and nobody to take its place, never that I felt so admired by another. I wasn't even a Sir yet, and I didn't knew anything about Freya, or worried about her.
Then I get into this bed, yet again. Like cake, layers of red, pink and orange, and a rat found beneath. They often can be spotted outside, on a luck birthday. All you used to get is a cake, with no decorations, unless something special happened. Like, if all your front teeth felt, but that meant you couldn't taste or talk like you did as usual. And to be called by Gapley... geez, sure I am getting older. Well, I didn't wet the bed since I was seven, that's an improvement. Wet where is already wet, and that's why I didn't had to bother coming back at home, because the rain already has its scent, and rain falls everywhere. In the trees, the walls, the people... well, the last ones are an exception, though. But since we never got caught, we used to do it anyway. When things like this didn't seemed to matter, at the same time the world as our own began to be left untouched.
And a world brought by the touch of fingers, ladders to walk upon and trails to be holded with. In the morning, I grab my spear, wear the uniform as usual, adjust the feather on my hat, because I'm going to pay a visit to someone other than myself. A visit meant to be paid for someone in mind. But with bare hands, holding nothing? The spear is on my back, in case I need it. I should have used it when Freya needed. The wound was too deep, a thing only this spear knows to do. I know many things, and one is that this spear can save lives, because I am the one who holds it. I've learned to not sleep for three days. For Crescent, I stood four without taking a nap. A week passed, and here I am, tired. Some would ask if I am feeling ill. Not a bit, but these hands... they're empty. Bandages are wrapped over them, same for her chest. I should have brought a gift, at least.
You keep saying that these hands are empty, Fratley, that there is nothing left for you to say, but when you deliver a hug that meant something more than feeling another's touch... Guess you have a plenty to learn. We live for it.
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