''He who cannot obey himself will be commanded. That is the nature of living creatures.'' NIETZCHE, Friedrich

"For after all what is man in nature? A nothing in relation to infinity, all in relation to nothing(...)" PASCAL, Blaise

"...Year 0. Gaia had its moments of glory, when the first civilizations were being developed and organized, from a primitive community of farmers to wide urban centers, powered by the production of artifacts and the emergence of the first commercial relationships(...) Market concepts, know as Trade and Currency, date from that time. Living at the lowest parts of the Mist Continent, the early human inhabitants of the planet suffered the constant risk of invasions, mainly from the inhuman Vastitas, who would later become Burmecians." Excerpt taken from Encyclopaedia Alexander, volume VIII

"It's foolish to believe the only way of prosperity is to sacrifice our own brothers. You're sacrifing part of yourself as well. The only way to clean your bloody soul is to follow the path of the floating river." Excerpt of the Words of Kain, the Mediator, also first King of Burmecia, orally passed from generation to generation.

"All kind of warfare is utterly based on deception." Excerpt taken from a revised script of the Book of Gizamaluk, dated from year 1300.

"Deception is the key that opens many doors. My sons had been brought to this world of deception by same deception as well." Excerpt taken from Clyde Brandford

...

(Before the trip to Vube's desert, Bartholomew Brandford and Prescott Highwind shared of a moment of contemplation, sitting on a hillside of Poplos heights, above the Mist. Covered in Grand Dragon's blood, like the rest of the squadron, retrieving the dead carcass of that creature while taking it to Burmecia, where these fortunate souls will have a short time, still an opportunity unlike any other, to see their families. The alexandrians aren't the only menace at horizon...)

BART: ... (stares at the skies)

PRESCOTT: A beautiful day, don't you think?

BART: ... (nods with head, positively)

PRESCOTT: The skies are so blue...

BART: ... (doesn't nod, stares below, feels an awful scent)

PRESCOTT: ...And the sea of Mist, insignificant compared to the floating rivers coming at Burmecia...

BART: ... (with hands on head, washing dry tears)

PRESCOTT: ...When I see it all, I feel so... so tiny.

BART: ...I feel sad.

(pause)

BART: Don't know why, but all I feel is sadness.

PRESCOTT: Come on, pal. It ain't all you feel. Is it something like a twinge in your heart, isn't it?

BART: ...Yeah. Like that.

PRESCOTT: Well, that's not sadness. It's pathos.

(pause)

BART: Ain't the same thing?

(pause)

PRESCOTT: No.

(sigh)

PRESCOTT: With a world beautiful like this, I am not surprised that you feel this way.

(pause)

BART: What do you mean?

PRESCOTT: What do I mean is that it's natural for a being like to to feel things like this from a while to another.

BART: A being like me?

(pause)

PRESCOTT: Yes. A meditative being like you.

(pause)

PRESCOTT: I once met a hermit, who lived in a cave. He was like you, but the beard was bigger.

(long pause)

BART: Did this hermit felt sad? I mean, how he felt without company?

PRESCOTT: He was never thirsty. Drank a lot of water.

BART: It ain't healthy to drink tones of water without boiling it.

PRESCOTT: Animals drink the water out of a river without complaining.

BART: I ain't an animal!

(pause)

BART: ...I mean, covered in blood like this... who am I supposed to be?

PRESCOTT: Someone who thinks.

(pause)

BART: ...That wasn't me. I haven't thought for a while, only now I realized... I was angry... so much angry...

PRESCOTT: ... (staring at clouds)

BART: ...I lose teeth, but they grew back again. That's... I... I can't believe...

PRESCOTT: There are things you believe, and things you shouldn't. It either comes by experience, or personal belief, or whatever makes you think long enough.

(pause)

BART: I feel sad watching the clouds.

PRESCOTT: Why? They always come back.

BART: Yes... they come back and leave, like longing for someone.

PRESCOTT: Wife and child, right?

(pause)

BART: Lenneth and Jack for me.

PRESCOTT: Sophia. We had five kids. Can't remember their names, except for Marsh, Fratley, Prescott... but that's my name, I carry it on with me. I think I have a Jack too. Everyone has a brat called Jack these days... it's one of the first names that comes to mind. Easy to remember.

(pause)

BART: ...Why those clouds look so big, while I feel so low?

PRESCOTT: So, that's what bothers you?

(pause)

PRESCOTT: You are unable to see yourself in what the world offers to you. The whole world, I mean, since you are used to live in a small world like Burmecia. That's the why of the dissociation between your being and the being in himself.

(long pause)

BART: ...Look at that cloud. Does it ever feels sad? It cries when its gray, and when it's white... does it know it's white?

(pause)

BART: Now, when I see a white cloud like that, upon the thick Mist... I think about Over The Hill's melody.

PRESCOTT: 'Over The Hill'?

BART: Yes. Over The Hill, Crossing Those Hills, something like that... I remember when I heard it being played outside the Royal Palace, arranged for dad's funeral. I hate that song as much as I like it. I don't hate it because of my dad's demise, but it's because it reminds me of how small I am to this big world.

(pause)

PRESCOTT: A lot of emotions come afloat when hearing a song. It's the speaker/listener intermedium that makes possible for emotions to be brought from deep inside. The giver, and receiver... You know, it's common for those traveling to Burmecia to feel sad, not because of rainy days, but because they miss the sun who once shone on their faces. It's the longing you feel that makes you feel these conflicting emotions.

(pause)

BART:... When I look to the Mist, I think about the melody of that mellow song I mentioned before, its chords, the coldness preceeded of a soulful flute... that part, in special, I don't know how to describe it in a way you can understand, but... it gets stuck in your teeth, like caramel. It brings uneasiness, as much as it embraces you with comfort. But, since we're speaking about a song, the teeth are replaced by your ears, and in my case, the heart.

(pause)

(long pause)

BART: ...My whole existence is a conflict in itself.

PRESCOTT: Combined with the existence of others, you mean.

BART: Yes. Without alexandrians or lindbluniams, or any kind of competition... I can't think of a world dominated by our kind.

PRESCOTT: I don't believe that one should subdue another. There must be an exchange between parts, that's my dream, my idea of an utopia. Now that it seems so far away, I have plans, less pretentious, but as long as I care for what I have... they'll be worthy a try. If I came back alive, which I hope, I want to teach one of the kids how to fish with the tail. Ever tried to do it?

BART: ...Yes. Clyde threw me on the lake.

PRESCOTT: I don't think I'll do same with one of my kids.

♫Autechre - Further♫

July 05, 1778

The Funeral March

Early Morning

...

— Oi! Get your filthy hands off my desert!

Those where the last words uttered by Komakino, if I recall. This before gunpowder struck at his chest, same part I thought to be hollow once. Gunpowder... To think such is now killing us. Once upon a time, fireworks were fired at the cloudly skies of home; whenever a King had been crowned, whenever a King or someone important had a marriage, whenever a son/daugther of the King was born. They never fired such fireworks when a King died, thought, they do a march instead. Not only for the King, but those as important as his, like father. Drums were played, and each beat strucked our ears, loudly than a single firework, but less than how our ears had been struck by the news. Either sad, or neither bad, because father died in the field, and that's were he should had died, instead of letting this world as a Major, sick in bed, like mother.

Only when father was alive, the fireworks were alive. But the same cannot be said for Komakino. Even when father was a child, he was old like now, or even more. Even with their guns, these Alexandrians still find a way to stab us, either with with shots, or with the tips of those knives. Thiefs would never play fair, this if it's fair to pour some sand on their gaze, but instead of our eyes, they pour sand on our wounds, more than enough. And mostly, this is our sand that is being threw away into the wounds, and these wounds had been made by us as well, or ordered to be made by the one who's above us, yet below Bahamut.

'God's watching us from a distance?' Don't make me laugh, Sigurd. Well, I sincerely can't, right now. But even if I did, briefly, someone else would notice, like Bart, here on my left, same direction his wife often uses to hold of his arm, and that spear, and maybe something else, judgind how she holds that spear, made by her husband as well. We cross many lenghts to achieve love, or a peace of mind, don't we? We offer gifs, invitations to stroll around the lake, all done for us to have a chance to later make out keenly, as I did, Bart too, Prescott as well, but the same cannot be said for Komakino, judging how he used to ergue that sword... Speaking about swords, we all queued in this linear row, except Sigurd, who's in front of the pile of wood, we all lift the tip of our swords, or daggers, or knives, something with a sharp blade that shines within the range of the sun's light, up into the further we could touch the azure of the skies, same color belonging to many of our outfits, except Komakino, who isn't wearing nothing. He sure seems gray like before, heh he... Ouch!

With some words of 'he was a courageous one', 'an honest Burmecian', and 'this medal of honor shall be granted to yours' is the cherry of the cheriest cake. Giving a medal to Komakino is as redundant as someone who is digging to find some dirt; medals are already spread on his body, alike every children's body is meant to be infected by lices or chickenpox once in a lifetime. That old crook already had gotten tones of medals dedicated to his honour, if there was one. Maybe a medal of tolerance would fit better, or a medal of 'oldest alive' would be alright. But medals don't make you itchy, despite some of them being uncomfortable, and the risk of the tip some had gotten to be stuck in your skin, like a wood splinter in your finger, but instead of the finger, your chest is wounded. However, these people are proud of receiving medals.

Maybe I'm just jealous that I had never gotten any kind of medal. I have, at least, a wife, my dear Cynthia, whom I call by other names as well, this when we are alone, cuddling in the room, and those hands, my hands, her ears... they say you cannot raise the dead, so I'd rather reserve such thoughts for later. About the relationship between me and Cynthia, whom I miss so much, like any other man there misses their wifes, and children as result. I wasn't planning to have children, but it just happened, like how Komakino just died. Komakino was the son of another commander, a family of commanders, unlike my father, the Major Brandford, whose family, my family, is alike a tree that share of many twigs. I can't even imagine Komakino as a kid, but I guess he was already old when born, unlike my sons, who were so little, skinny, furless, yet adorable.

After some words of self-praising, which I might include in my will to be uttered in a near future, here, on that pile of dry wood, they'll burn that damned's corpse for good. I wonder why, since Komakino could be mummified instead... or maybe he's already mummified? Heh. Even Bart may had agree, don't he? Maybe not. People often smile when they are upset, or worried, than they are happy with something. Even children force their smile sometimes. What we think to be cheerful beings are deceptful ones as well. Besides the fake smiles, mostly the children keep asking not due to their annoyance, if there's such, but because they need to satisfy their doubts, or so Prescott told me before, when one of his sons asked to his about the labour pains, and if sex hurted mother. Geez, I guess I would never be able to tell the difference between pain and pleasure on a satisfying way, but Prescott sure did. He's a cooled out person, even when on a fight, unlike many here...

Bart is my mirror, sure isn't he?

...

The Post-Funeral Chess Match

Afternoon

...

Gbr: NB1-C3

Sig: PE7-E5

— Moving one of your horses first, my Highness? – Sigurd said, as he moved one of his pawns, jumping two squares instead of one, as pawns can do on their first round, and only. Afterwards, pawns can only move, or jump one square, and always to the front square. They can only take another piece if such is located on a square adjacent to the front square, either left or right.

(pause)

Gbr: NG1-F3

Sig: NB8-C6

— Another Horse? – Sigurd asked, rhetorically, after he settled a Horse belonging to his side of the table, as I did before, twice. He even moved as fast as I did. Well, even if I had the opportunity to take out that Pawn he left on E5 on a first hit, since I could move the Horse from before right were that piece was lying, I couldn't. Horses are the utmost important pieces of chess. Well, each piece belonging to chess is important, even Pawns, this if you can reach the end of the other player's border. Chess sure is a game of lure and deception...

(pause)

Gbr: PD2-D4

(pause)

(long pause)

Sig: PE5xD4

Sigurd captured a pawn of mine, the same who I moved prior its demise. I was careless, or maybe not. Pawns are easily the ones who get caught first on chess. Paws can't be taken, or be 'killed', as I used to say when I was a kid, that much. At least, one or two or three of their kind must stay at the table, so they can reach the other player's border, Sigurd this time, and always had been. I played this game firstly with him, like many of the things I did first. I used to play outside the rules, making bishops move like the Queen, make the King jump on a Rook so he could move like a Rook does, make the Pawn go backwards or even attack and 'kill' one of Sigurd's pieces with a single move to the square in front of the Pawn, or make a Horse move in 'L', 'M' and 'N' patterns.

Sigurd just let it go on such times, these who happened before I grew up, and understood of every single rule, of Chess and anything I used to do. Speaking about rules, Sigurd, as much as me, can block the Pawns from reaching the border with a piece in front of the square where the Pawn was supposed to keep moving, simply because if you reach the border of the black pieces, as I am playing with white ones, you can get a piece of our side, once taken from yours, back to be played and used against the side who had made such piece a prisoner. For example, if Sigurd took a Horse from me, I could move my Pawn to the end of the Black border and take back that Horse, or other piece taken from the White infantry. Kinda like a war, mostly they stood on same way. Until now, there's no such piece taken from me, so I don't need to move further those Paws, this if I want to free the Bishops, but not yet.

Gbr: NF3xD4

Sig: BF8-B4

I took that Pawn belonging to Sigurd with a Horse of mine, as he moved that Bishop of his. From a distance, a curtain of smoke raises in the air, as white yet grey like the skin belonging to the body, or what was one, resting over that pile of wood, burnt by the bright sun, who brought of same fire and ashes posteriory. Commander Komakino's funeral just happened, minutes ago. Everyone was expecting it to happen, prior these weeks. Even when I was young, the commander was already old like now. Even older than Sigurd, or father, or everyone else. His body has been cremated instead of being mummified. He was already mummified, some would say, or think as I do. There are things better thought to be spoken, as I learned with Sigurd, who learned from father.

Gbr: PF2-F4

(pause)

(pause)

Sig: BB4xC3+

(pause)

Gbr: PB2xC3

(long pause)

Sig: NC6-B8

...

Ransom On The Sand

Afternoon/Dusk

...

— How odd... – Bart said, as he stood erect, turning back after watching the both sides his neck could turn, with a look on his face belonging to someone who carry on more than doubts, but suspicions. Unsatisfied, Bart watches everything, even me, with an unpleasant vision, unlike the breeze that comes after, and before the sandstorm. We had left our camp to do a walk, as we check if there's some stranger presence over the horizon we gaze. Thought, we are strangers of this land as well, even if such land belongs to our ancestors. Yet, I do feel in a kind of home.

— What is it, Bart? – I asked to his, yet he didn't gave me an answer. Yet. He turned his back once again, watching the trace of footprints left by us. Only us, I thought, Bart too, yet he denied of such circumstance, calmly upset.

— I don't know, Prescott, but I am with this kind of sensation since we left the tent. It's like we had been followed by someone all along.

— That's strange – Bart was somehow right. Something was off, wrong. Chills sent throught my spine, I was beginning to act like his, when suddenly, somehow, I also felt that we had been followed, no, still being followed. It's a kind of situtation where most of the people claim to be just our imagination, yet it doesn't. How could somebody follow us throught this desert? Well, anyone could. However, why couldn't either me, or Bart, see footprints on the sand, that's the question.

It was then that the wind blew further. What was once a mere breeze was starting to become a sandstorm. I and Bart went running to stay behind the nearest dune we could find. Maybe the sandstorm from before had cleaned all his footprints, as it did with ours, on seconds. Now it became almost impossible for someone to keep following us, this before the sandstorm became slighter. From marks left by our feets to small holes, sand who almost filled in our eyes, we could see the skies once again, as before. With the dusk arriving out of the orange afternoon, scorching hands becoming colder, and the twin sattelites wandering in the skies, I guess it was about time to go back to our tent.

This before Bart stood still. He refused to walk, unlike me, who had been walking towards the place my compass told me to be the southeast, where I could find Clyde, and the tent he had been taking care of, alongside the Libers, who had been taking care of us as well, tied by more than familiarity. Bart ain't the kind of reckless man, so I turned my back, and from a distance, mere 5 meters away from his, atop a dune higher than the one where we stood away from the sandstorm of before, I saw his, and something else, the something we had been afraid of. A crimson bat came flying, being blew by the wind, until it landed atop that dune, near Bart. It must had been such that alarmed his, and me, by consequence.

— So we were being watched and afraid of a CRAPPY MAGIC CARPET!? – I shouted to Bart, who stood above same bat. I think that Bart could hear me from such distance with my common voice, but instead I had changed my tone, a tone that I do not often direct people with such, only when I am truly pissed off. Not even my kids are that kind of to bee annoyed with.

— It can't be... this thing, can it? – he said, about to pull out that crimson piece of cloth, a rather peculiar one, even from such distance, who become shorter as I walked, again, to same place. That bat didn't caught my attention of sudden, besides the crimson alike blood I saw as the color of such. Maybe it belonged to some Liber, who had lost it in the middle of the sandstorm, strong as the tidal waves of the sea. A cloth who seemingly had been following us at our backs... Heh, I briefly showed a smirk. Tsk, tsk... Briefly, I said, this before I felt it again. Something was, once again, off. To a world where ships seems to be flying in the skies, and houses with spider-like legs moving around foreign lands, a living bat is kinda doubtful. The doubt is gone if I consider the bat isn't the living one, but... Oh my...

— ...Watch out, Bart! – I shouted, but it was too late. No wonder why that cloth, besides a life for his own, told by the strange yet familiar motion of a human figure in distress, had such weight, even for Bart's arms, who holded both of them in thick air, this before a sharp knife's blade crossed throught the bat, letting a cut throught his right arm's sleeve and skin, where such blade had gotten stuck, and a 'GRAAAARGH!' yell had been made, to be cleary heard from a distance, lenghts away from mine. A yell made by Bart's lips, who spoke of the pain, flowing into same arm and coming from the bottom of his soul as well, and by the figure who lied behind the curtains, unseen by us all along. Who would doubt of an assassin hid under a wandering bat?

No other pain mattered to Bart, besides the one coming from the knife stuck at his arm. As his body felt from above the dune to its lowest point, the neck belonging to his body seemed to had been turning at the back belonging to his, alike a fossile carved on a hard stone, who presumably died of agony. Bart didn't died yet, this only if he, or someone else, took out that blade from his arm. If it was the throat of his that had been hurt, even by a slight hit, then Bart would be gone already, a fate said otherwise by his constant yell, and shivers that followed of same yell, into same disturbing waves that made the body of his tremble, as I could see when I reached him.

No high amount of blood poured down, only a few slivers of red felt into the sand, but mostly they stood flowing from the wound to where gravity pulled then out of that arm. That blade must had hitten the bone, because of how it was truly stuck on that arm. I couldn't forgive, still I can't, of what happened since that moment, with Bart, and mostly his. It could had been me who had been hurt instead. But that didn't mattered, since I was about to be hurt more than now by his, even without the weapon that used to belong on that putrid arm.

Before Bart took that cloth with his own hands, that assassin had been hid underneath such dune, where that cloth once were lying above. Fascinating, like how the sleeveless of armor figure, revealed to be a man by the daylight still, the same that stood above us walked throught the sand, the dunes, without letting a single step, moving around like the wind, fast like a breeze, as told by the leap he took, to end up falling in both feet, alike a cat, or an experienced acrobat. However, of acrobat, he had nothing to share with. Dressed in black as a messenger of death, carrying on of the unseen wings of Malphas, who guided his to us, Tommy Violence, or Zephyr as the way many call the name of his, the name he prefers to be called as well; an adequate name for someone who share of both light feet.

— Before you kill me, and this man... would you please consider what should happen next? – I asked. There was no answer to be delivered, as told by the gaze of his. A gaze of an utter determination to kill us, barehanded or not. When I fight, I often feel my muscles stiff, my blood crossing faster my veins, the lungs breathing more than usual, as I could see from his as well. An average man in height, and weight as well, Zephyr stood before me, the only one near his who stood still, on both legs. He expected me to fall like Bart, or even fall on his knees, if I needed so. But I had no time to do of such courtesy, since I didn't worried about it. All I had been worrying about, from that moment and onwards, was about Bart's safety, but not before I engaged into a conversation. You must be respectful to someone who can kill you, Mrs. Highwind.

While that man, that assassin, stood moving around in front of me, without letting a single print on the tand, I stood in a fighting stance, still adopted until today by Dragoon Knights, and some special units of the army. It's both an offensive and defensive stance, as I may be able to avoid an attack coming from any direction, by pouncing into a direction contrary to where the attack might come from, with speed on my side. Thought, this armor is kinda heavy, yet soft. So I took out the metals and leather of my uniform, throwing them right under my feet.

— Is it a threat? – Zephyr asked, and I had no answer to give to his. It sounded like a threat, I may admit, but the one who came with the threat first was his – because I do not care. I am an assassin, after all. I had been sent by those above me, like many times ago. I am rewarded by what I do, and I am proud of what I do, for my sake, and their sake.

— Right, my dear assassin – I said, tryin to not upset his further – I know, that your job's prospects are to kill those who you had been paid to. People of this world are paid to do many things, some aren't even paid after all, yet they still keep working. With this job of yours, you may be able to sustain yourself, or more than yourself. I do have a family, as much as you too have as well. If not, then you do consider the concept of being a member of a group, in bloodline, kinship, or just what do we call by mutual need.

— All I need is to kill a member of your species for today, and tomorrow as well. That's what I had been told to do – he said, looking at me with a distaste on his mouth, unlike the eyes, who only stared at me. A look that was grated of my presence into both eyes of his, who reflected of my image into them, same for the blade stuck on Bart's arm, who reflected of his concerns. Don't worry, Bart. Just hang on for a while. I know how to deal with those scumbags. Mostly they lose against me when playing of a Quad Mist on the darkest of the alleys belonging to each Kingdom I had made a trip into. Not only they do lose in the card game, but they also are fooled by my kind face and skinny limbs.

— You are sure of a tomorrow where your job is done for good, Zephyr... It seems you do not accept, or even consider of another possibility to happen instead, don't you?

— And why would I bother? – he said, stretching of his fingers, and closing them to form a fist, and so he repeats. He must be preparing to jump into me, so he could suffocate my neck, blocking the flow of blood to my head, besides forcing my lungs to stop the breathing process, as my heart stops beating, my arms vainly try to take those hands out of my neck, unlike those legs numb already, as the whole of my body, when my vision darkens, alike the dusk arriving sooner than I expected... A slow death, worse and more painful than a death brought by a single stab in the neck. Victims of burning buildings mostly die due to suffocation than being burned alive; same goes for those who climb the highest heights, where the snow also burns alike the fire.

I thought this for a moment. A single moment that felt like a minute. I knew, from that moment onwards, that I couldn't die yet. Bart, as well, wasn't ready yet to knock the Weltall's door. The same couldn't be said for that assassin, who somehow hadn't killed us yet. A better assassin would be done with us already, so I had a storm of ideas. Such thing happens mostly when I am on danger, like now.

— You're taking too long, my dear assassin – I said, as I abruptly threw away my own dagger, whom I had kept on its sheath all along – we, Highwinds, are known for traveling such long distances, but not for solving of personal vendettas. They blacken the soul, as much as they blind both eyes, as much as you do insist to remain blind, because that's the job of an assassin, after all. Nothing against, I know you don't do this because it's fun. No kind of job is funny, though; I guess you could take my blade, and end this at once. It make things more easier, as much as you insist for them to be.

— I won't take this dagger of yours, but if you insist to die already... – he said, and only. These few words could had sounded menacingly to someone else, but I had no worries, except Bart, who only moaned, and had no eyes to see both of us. And why would he? Instead, all attention of his was paid to that knife, and the pain still crossing the arm of his, or even beyond, since his entire body has already been overtaken by same pain. Even my body could feel of his pain, unlike that assassin, and how careless was he.

That assassin was willing to kill me, and show of his moves as well. After I threw away my knife, oferring of ration for the dog, he jumped to later crouch in the sand, moving alike a wagon's wheel. I guessed he was a kind of acrobat, and exhibitionist as well. Then, as Zephyr took that dagger from where it layed, sand carried on by my right hand flew right throught both of his eyes, or threw by me into his eyes, to where I gave a kick with my joint afterwards, when I had the opportunity of holding his shoulders to deliver that kick at the right angle, who had made his vertebra briefly turn, on the same way Bart turned when falling from the top of the dune. I do expected of a counterattack, but what I didn't expected was a straight punch delivered by his into my chin, coming from below like a whale emerging to the surface, and I the boat who almost sank. My nose bleeded, but at least it didn't broke.

The pain didn't mattered, and the same goes to Zephyr, or not. Unlike me, it seemed that he didn't felt anything. Nothing. Not even a bit of pain, or a kind of expression that suggested of such pain. This if frustation could be considered a signal of pain, thought. I mean, he should had felt some pain, don't he? As my head slowly recovers from this dazzling commited by the impact of his fist, I am able to perceive the face of the assassin in details, even with the fist of his above my face, about to be crushed, or so that seems to be the intention of his. That leather boot, as black as the outfit of his, didn't prevented me to see that face, if that should be called by face.

Zephyr's face is full of scars. Not only single scars that resembles clear lines, as random mistakes commited by a black eyeliner. In fact, that face of his had less skin than scars left, presumably by Zephyr himself. It is as if all the scars of his body, and even soul, if there's one, had been gathered into his face, and only. There's a few of them on his naked arm, thought, but those resemble more the cuts of a blade, not that I guessed his own face's scars had been made by the cuts of a knife as well. Jigsaw pieces that felt apart from the table seems to be a more adequate description about Zephyr's face, and this feature being mostly noticeable around the eyes of his, where the raw meat has been exposed, in the shape of wings, yet, for some reason, he doesn't feel the pain, even on such place with skin tore apart. The sand may be burning the skin and gaze of his, yet no pain seems to be felt. That's a kinda of stubborn assassin, if I may say, or maybe not, just be quiet for this remark...

— Enough already. Your tricks won't work with me anymore – Zephyr said, as he stood with the feet of his above my face, pressing futher as half of my head is covered by sand, unlike the whole of that man's face, who just ignores it. Zephyr couldn't hold me into thin air, as Bart did with his, but could kill me right now, on a way a tomato is squeezed, or so one of my kids had done, ending up covered by its seeds and smithereens. I imagined myself into such tomato, who had been eaten later that night, drank within the soup. Damn... I thought. I thought again, and everything changed, back to my control. It needed to.

— Heh – I smirked, purposefully. It seemed that I could talk, even with half of my face swollen by the sand – why you do keep doing this? Only because you are an assassin, it doesn't mean that an assassin is someone that kills. It's just a word, don't you know? Had been you who wrote for all people that someone who kills is meant to be called by 'assassin'?

— What the hell do you think you are doing? Another trick, I see... It doesn't work, my pal. It won't – of course it worked. I caught your attention with an uncoherent triviality, after all.

— Then why do you insist to hear me? You seem to share of a curious sight, for an assassin. Am I a kind of victim to be appreciated, or what? – I asked, staring at his, on a way unlike his. His eyes penetrated into mine's, like the fear a beast naturally instigate on its victims, before they became his flesh.

— Morbid curiosity of my part, you see. People say many funny things when they are about to die. Some are entertaining, others don't, some don't even utter a word... A sort of desperation move, like yours. There's no way you can't convince me to not kill you, right now.

— You had the opportunity to kill me many times ago, even the opportunity to kill my friend Bart was wasted by you – I said, reluctantly trying to split from his hands, carefully trying to move, without him noticing of such movement. Yet, he noticed of my voice, and only did – you can kill me now, so why do you insist to waste such time? Now, answer me: how many people had been killed by you until now?

— Had you ever made an estimate of how many times you have breathed in your life? – I had a short vision of Clyde saying the same thing, and that was rather strange, yet truthful to the way Clyde do often talk. Either way, I can't be distracted by his world. He should be distracted by mine's instead. Just a bit further...

— You seem to find pleasure at killing, seen the way you speak of the matter so gratifyingly of doing it – I said, now realizing for once why is taking so long for me to die already. Not that I want to die right now – you are proud of being a blade artist, don't you are?

— I enjoy murder as much as you Burmecians do – he answered, with same cynicism from before. Maybe he and Clyde could know each other. Now I see he's not the only cynical here...

— Had you ever killed a Burmecian before?

— Of course. This if you count those rats who live at the sewers, but yes, I did kill some. Mostly they were immigrants, denizens who mostly inhabit the outskirts of Lindblum. Some are rich, some are not, but that doesn't matter to me, althought I am paid by those who hired me for the 'service, I also steal some of my victim's most precious treasures. It's useless for the dead to carry on of money, because they can't spent on afterlife, and... – as he kept talking, like I predicted, I carefully moved my left foot, right where my dagger had been lying, trying to hold it's tip with my toes. I had been trained to do it so, and I never imagined that I would do it on this kind of situation. Just a bit, and you'll be fine, Bart. I guess he can't hear anyone else. It's like he's already dead, since the moans coming from his lips stopped. Please, keep hanging on, in the name of Bahamut.

— Which kind of treasures? – I asked, to extend his fault of attention towards my feet, to instead pull it on my words, spoken by the lips above my feet. Almost there...

— You know, money, furnitures, dresses... Heh he. A girl with a sweet dress. I met her once, and only. She and her parents, whom I had to kill, were once alike you, and your species. Rats wearing clothes, or at least, mostly they wore, like her. With her parents dead, those who I had been paid to take care of, I told you that the dead have no need for treasures, as much as dead parents do not need to take care of their living child as well – bastard. Rotten bastard. Son of a rotten bastard, rotten down the core. How could you... I don't know if I should grit my jaw of angry, or if I should cry with same anger. I choose to do neither.

I can't let him see throught my anger, or throught my pain; those are my weaknesses, easily to be exploited further. I can't even wonder how many ways he had found to take those lifes. or ruin then as a whole. Truth is, the truth hurts. It's a painful aching that goes deep within a heart, and it goes on and on, until it stops. But how could you, a reckless machine, understand of such? He can't feel pain, nor even cry, or feel of this same aching we, and those you were ordered to kill, felt, and still feel, like Bart here, and me as well.

Even assassins share of some honor, unlike Zephyr, who had been programmed to not allow this interference to inflict a number '2' in his own binary system. Maybe those holes, if there's a right word to describe such, on his face were marks left by desperate souls, who had been killed by his. That's a possibility, and I may agree it's a real one, even if there's a bit of overreaction coming from my bottom.

— How many assassins had they hired to kill our units? – I asked, and that was my last question to this 'person' above me.

— Why are you asking such? – he tried to intimidate me, once again. As I know, he is already a failure of both human being and character – if you do want to know, before I turn your skull and brains into mincemeat, I should tell you that I was the only one hired by the ones you call by Alexandrians to take care of you, Burmecians. They do despise your entirety, as much as I do despise them.

— ...The only one?

...

The Post-Funeral Chess Match: Aftermath

Afternoon/Dusk

...

— A Castle may be a special move, but that doesn't mean that you need to sacrifice many pieces of your side to be able to do a single castle. As a King you may be someday, you must know the meaning of each piece. Not only they are in this table for your safety, but the victory that should follow

— Sheesh... – I lost. I know I did. Even when I had done the Castle move with a Rook and a King, Sigurd found a way to take as many pieces as he could, and a way to keep his Horses. Horses are the worst chess pieces to be kept at the table, because you can do anything with a 'L' movement. Not even the Queen I caught from Sigurd can do 'L' shaped movements across the table. The Queen, on chess, is an amalgame of a Rook and a Bishop, while the Queen is just another Pawn, but unlike many Paws, the King is protected by the other pieces. I won't even bother to see those pieces aligned once again. There's a Horse, a Bishop, and the Queen, as the King is left on his own at the border, where he can't escape, and some insignificant While Pawns, who cannot do anything since they had been blocked by other Black Paws of Sigurd, who I thought to have blocked first. This kind of situation would never happen when I was a kid...

— What is bothering you, my Majesty? – Sigurd asked, after we kept playing same game for a while, moving our pieces into each square, 64 in total, as time somehow found a way to move on.

— It's just that... not that I lost for you (again), but... I just miss home.

— You miss home? – he asked again. I know I wasn't fooling Sigurd, neither he thought of same possibility. It has been a few days, but I do wish to come back to home. This place is so much dried up already, unlike my spirit, and my homeland – my Majesty... Do you miss Burmecia, or do you miss the Palace? – that question struck me abruptly. Mostly I've spent my life at the walls surrounding same Palace I was born, being raised by this same man in front of me, yet... I just miss the easy life I had. Not that I do not want to return home. Sure, all of us want the same as well, though. But who else is expecting me at home? My brother, who despises me; my parents, already gone; my people, who don't even know me, besides the name 'Prince'?

The ones who sure are awaiting for me, or used to do, were Edgar's sons, or so they are in a blood matter. I am also their uncle, in a blood matter, but I don't count our blood as the only factor of raising them to become adults. Before, they used to look away from me, but now I realised that they only did it so when their father, or the shadow of same, came across themselves. Their sons must had thought I was like his, but my actions said otherwise, with the days we've spent, when Edgar remained on the throne, even out of same sit. But that brief week happened before I had been invited to come to this place, ending up away from Edgar and their sonst sight, on same way our father had been brought to the field.

Edgar had never the time to take care of his sons, but only their hatred against me, and who can say he is doing it already, once again? We all do the same again, I know. It's part of the blood as well, and the skills such blood is submitted to endure with. Or so I keep asking complicated questions on an easy way. 'Easy questions, to easy answers'; neither are easier, as I thought it would be once again easy to 'win' against Sigurd.

...

Justice Is Might

Dusk

...

— Heh he he he he...

Puff, puff... Damn. I woke up, so sudden after I heard that laugh. Gravity started to pull my wounded arm, on same way it pulled me when I was over the edge, until I felt from that dune, to be kept lying in there. That laugh... It belonged to Prescott, as I could barely see, due to his face being covered by a boot, belonging to that same man who stabbed this arm.

— What's so funny to you to keep laughing like that – that man above Prescott asked, looking keenly at Prescott, who just kept laughing, as if he had no other words to say. But I was too careless to admit of such possibility. In fact, Prescott seemed to share of many thoughts, who would later become words, rightfully chosen by his to be uttered, on the right time. Argh... I wish I could be able to do something, instead of just being a witness of their enduring conflict.

— Funny, isn't it? – he asked, already sentient of what he was about to say, or so I could hear from that confident voice – of all the assassins, scums of this world, do the Alexandrians just needed to hire you? Now I get it. I got the joke that's you; the joke those Alexandrians already found before me. Well, you are either lucky or too arbitraty for reaching me first than the others. I enjoy these kind of situtations, in a way that are a risk to my life, yet, I do not feel such rish, neither yours. It must be very tough to be an assassin hired to kill, don't you think? I do not think, because I can't. You must had been sent by those Alexandrians. Mostly they despise us, you know. They have many reasons to despise us, as much as we do against them, but to be fair, I am not a single Burmecian, my champ. In fact, I'm a half-child of Cleyra; that's why I had been so peaceful with your demeanor until now, but did you forgot already that I'm also a child of Burmecia...

It was then that I noticed, beyond Prescott's words, that one of his feet, wth my toes, succesfully was able to hold of his own dagger, whom Prescott stabbed the foot of that assassin, or so Prescott called that man by such name. He had other names to refer to his as well, or so his concern told me. After stabbing the foot of that man, his equilibrium felt apart, just as both of us predicted, and then, Prescott proceeded to jump into that man, as both rolled up in the sand, until Prescott had put his own hands around the neck of Zephyr, the name of that assassin, who stabbed my arm, I recall further in my own anger, felt less than the one belonging to Prescott, who I once thought to be a calm person, but such persons would never press with such force the neck of someone, to... suffocate his? What the hell are you doing!?

I also didn't expected this. Sure, I would expect to Prescott do something else than stab that man's leg, but suffocate that man to a certain death is something...

— Stop... you... weak... weakling! Weak-ling! – Zephyr pleaded, but those were shallow pleads, and more bottomless threats of his to Prescott, who didn't bothered to stop. Barely, that assassin said a thing, yet I could hear his sentences.

— And why would I care to stop, Zephyr? – Prescott said, or asked. If he did asked, then why expect an answer? So, he said, expecting nothing else than his victory –those last moments of yours... Can you see them? it's time to settle the one thing you've been searching all along at once. You, who had been wandering throught these lands, spreading of the horror of these same weapons you pretended to stab at at us. Once, you stabbed them at innocents, and once again, did of the same. This hatred of yours, this anger you feel heating beneath your skin... it's painful, isn't it? Or, is it rather scarier? You should be, like anyone else, Fear is the key. We all feel fear, it's part of our nature, the nature of all beings, plants and animals. This fear is universal, it can't be expressed by words, it can't be understood by a single manner. You... you, off all beings, can feel fear, and you can't admit it, can you?

— I... don't follow... your orders... you filthy rat...

— And who do you follow, those who pay you and only them?

— I...can't feel fear... I-I am... fearless... I... am... the fear...

— Yes, you're right. You ARE the fear. You had been made to be such. But, is that who you truly are? Who has been the one who told you to be such? Was it your creator, the one who gave you the name Tommy, or Zephyr as you prefer to be called by? A reason to kill doesn't exist by yourself, Hellship. They, the society, your family, those who insist to hire you, told you to be this. This fear, the unnexpected we feel, tied with no boundaries across this universe... you are it, and had been told and instructed to be.

— ...nghh...

— And what do you win when your dirty job is done? A recognition of their part. Not only Alexandria, and the ones who follow of his way claps their mettalic hands each time this spectacle done by yours is finished into the same way you had been ordered to, but they see into you an unique potential, or intend to behind the curtains. Thanks to their relationships estabilished between other kingdom and themselves, Alexandria could had hired as many assassins, or 'hunters', they could in a single day, but to avoid this mistake of leading a harm to your obssesion with such individuality you share only with you, this 'talent' of kill was kept exclustive to yours, because each one of us carries on a weakness. No one is allowed to be perfect in this material world. Whoever who created such world, such space... it never allowed the beings that reside to be perfect.

— ...grrr...

— Heh. After all this talk, all you can do is 'grunt'? Had you realised the loss of your own words against mine's? Or do you never talked to anyone besides those who paid you to do of such dirty job? Do the Alexandrian commanders talked to you face to face, or they just ordered you to do a favor for them? You never dissapointed their orders, don't you? It's because you feared to be not recognized, left behind by them? Why can't you be recognized beyond this murder machine? Fact is, your will, this 'resolve' to agree on others is failing with you. In just a single generation, you'll be forgotten, vanished into the void you allowed to be taken in. If you believe a 'Zephyr' is a 'Zephyr', no matter the place this same element is kept, so be it.

— D...d-dirty rODent... wHen I Am DOnE with yOu... yoUr nAme w-will be al-l-l arOunD t-th-the world... to s-s-Ay nOthiNg of your eArs, SnOut, TaiL... and SPLEEN!...

Those were the last words uttered by Zephyr, before I could hear a 'CRACK!' coming from the sound of this bones. With his own hands, Prescott broke that neck, as much as he broke that man apart. After he had done such thing, Prescott Highwind finally lifted up, stooding on his both feet on same ground he layed for a while, and the same couldn't be said for that assassin, whom the fellow Burmecian looked in despise, and somehow, same despise had overcome the image of himself as well.

— Can't you understand? This world we live may be a trash heap, or a pile of shit that stinks for those with noses. But now, consider this as your surgery table, and you... you should call me by Surgeon instead.

...