♫King Crimson - The Sheltering Sky♫

May 1778

...

Kill... or to be killed?

I ask, to this self in the mirror. My back is killing me, as much as they tried to do with me, as a whole. Not only me, but the country from where I came from, and their people, who stand in there just like me as well. Mirrors of me, of the country, and their prosperity, now gathered in this other land, these wetlands of Lachenta, found miles away of Aerbs and its hills, higher than these plains, dry than this land of marshes, and their inhabitants. Mainly frogs and creatures that eat of such, known as Qu, who can be found living in their natural state into one of these marshes. The sound of frogs coming from outside the tent vanish into bits of massive tongues stuck in the mud, the ponds of grenish water found anywhere on these land says of feet stuck.

Their symphony sounded alike the organ of the early morning brought by Alexander. On that day, and those days before that day of departure. Days of flowers for them all; for my wife, on the day of our marriage, for my sons, on each day one of them felt the water of baptism flowing throught their skin, like the spirit of Alexander guiding us since that moment, and for father, and his funeral. He was a farmer of Dali, a town of granaries filled in by corn, who sustains the main populance, as food, and mainly funds.

Airships fly and land on such place to move people, and their corn, to Alexandria, who needs both, besides already sharing of the azure of the skies, the white of the sun, those I and father used to watch, instead of the grimmy belonging underneath the Mist, for whom I once stood above, like these other men, like their families still stand. Unlike my both legs, once sustained by the itchy ones.

Dirty boots of mine lie in the corner, as the feet that used to wear those are currently being treated of a collection of ringworms I had gotten with the years. I may not be an athlete, but I had gotten of such burning in both feets. Leather boots aren't effective, as water and heat gathered together, favouring the proliferation and amount of fungus into my skin, either peeling or burning, like a frostbite gotten by the hold of a thick hoarfrost. They say a kind of fishes are used for a treatment, supposed to heal people from such disease inflicting my feet, currently. These fishes, said to had been found into hot springs near the settlement of Esto Gaza, seem to appreciate the taste of dying skin, thought Qus seem to appreciate the flavour of a dead skin as well.

I'd rather eat fish than let then eat me. Qus only seem to known about how to cook and eat of such cooking. Few words are enough for a whole mouth, who's only able to eat, even words as well. Broken words, as this world, unlike those bones, who once were broken, by rocks and debris falling at my back. I guess I am lucky, or guilty of such misfortune, brought by others, brought back by same others, who cannot be brought back to their families, only in conversations, and thoughts. Father used to tell me about this kind of feature belonging to each one of us, this mechanist of praise for the dead ones.

When someone dies, they're recognized by a whole as a man with values not belonging to his, in many times. Soldiers who die on a war, or a civil outbreak are praised as good beings, brave people with blood running throught their family, while prisoners often are associated with murdering, even thought most of them had been in a cage because of thievering. So, why can't I be a murderer, or a thief instead? Father may had been a thief, but because they stole from him first. Father may had been murdered, yet he had been once the butcher of young calves, numb to become the veal my dear wife appreciates that much, as she used to enjoy finding painted eggs stolen by their Chocobos on Easter back before I knew her. I am older than her, who's just a child, even now.

'It's soft', she once said when eating of veal on dinner, an opinion that would be uttered by me as well, this if I had never been a farmer's son, who knows of the way such flesh goes from the farm to ther dish of porcelain. I never told her, and I insist to not tell her, and I have no time to tell her. I never had time to anything else, besides her protection, and the protection of many, that go and came alongside us. I only lost a finger, yet such valuable ring as well, but I had not lost her, and the sons that came from her. Despite my uniform, I'm not a estrangled being for the duty I had been born with. As father used to plow the soil of his plantations, virgin soil awaited to be taken in, and seeds of mine to be buried within.

Stormy seasons often would came, and I would fall like an orphan to her arms. On top or underneath, I would even try to pinch her skin to see if she was real, more than I could feel her, and the role of servant of mine in the game of unequality. I may be smart, but that doesn't mean the others who are less smarter than my capacity are unworthy, or pathetics. Not are we perfect, but we share of this imperfect we had been born with, and by learning of such imperfections, each day we improve, we try our best to feel better with ourselves. As imperfect ones, we seek into the other the 'perfection', a mere act of solidity.

However, in just a single generation, some will be forgotten, vanished into the void you allowed to be taken in. But this hard work of mine may save my soul, may be more than a reward in gil, because, like father, I'm sure that I did more than enough I could, yet I can do more, or so this body says otherwise, althought my body only works contrary to my thoughts due to its nature, unrelated to my thoughts.

But my thoughts, however, aren't mine either, alike this body, and the soul that maybe resides within, on same way these thoughts, of mine and others, had been spread into this mind, put in there by voices, mostly commands. I am the one that seems to command others, yet someone else controls me as well. I wasn't willing to put these herbs on my feet, for the treatment of this disease already inflicting the damage on my skin, and maybe more, as it seems to go deeper and further within me. I struggle to such thing to not happen, never happen, however, it already happened. I am not the kind of a careless being, but one against the crowd has its results, and most of the times, the one who wins is the crowd; same could be said for the advices taken from my subordinates, who insisted to put these herbs beneath my toes.

A few burmecian herbs for a burmecian treatment, a treat to my feet, and a threat for my image; as if their image could even stand out. I could even draw a comparasion between a mere dragon hunting painting, to a colorful stained glass belonging to a baroque church, built in for Alexander to reside, as much as there is enough hearts to be his home. While they dance barefoot for the harvest, in the rain or in the sand, I stand in there, safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye, or so father had one, and so do I share of one, as much as Save the Queen, who do not share of eyes, but a blade whose light can be seen by one, and felt as well.

There is a passage near this marsh, that should be able to guide us into their territory, or so the advice of the 'messenger' came up to be truthful once again. And, to think he's one belonging to same species...

...

June 05, 1778

Two Months Later

...

...A phenomenon... caused by an intense state...

The shape... abrupt changes of character...

...Only humanoid beings... no reasoning... emotions...

For now... To enter same state... overcome by its own emotions.

...Berserkir units... past... evoke the spirit of animals.

Spirit... to be discharged... massive energy... in Trance...

Triggered... death... anger... sorrow... despair...

...Bravery?...

Traince... It naturally ends... all energy is discharged...

Atmosphere... Mist...

...

— My Highness... – I heard that voice. I came up across these documents, and I have read the words in bold, or those that had caught my attention. More than the words on the paper, I also caught the attention of Sigurd, same attention belonging to him, after he found out who was the one who went looking out for his personal stuff. Me, of course, who, even at this moment, had been holding of same document, page five, to say so.

And what should I say to Sigurd, on that state? My state, as well, counted. Caught by surprise, who wouldn't? I had been caught by that hand so many times, same hand who taught me how to lift a sword, or the correct fork for any kind of food. Swords, and spears as well, do not share of same shape, yet they can be put in any hand, and the edge of their blades can be used to do anything, to make life easier.

When I was younger, I once saw a Royal Guard, no, two of them, in the garden, as they lifted their pikes to chop down a tree with a swollen trunk. It was a dead tree, unlike many winter trees, who only lose of their leaves, to later make them grown when other seasons arrive, but that tree would never grown again. That trunk, afterwards, had been turned into fuel for the fireplace, because that's the destination of all poor prime materials.

Not even a chair could had been made of that wood, but then, at least, it could burn, like all trees do, and are capable of doing. People also burn, in a way; by fever, or by mere reaction, a single reaction that, may, end up caughting the attention of anyone near its fire. A pile of dry wood burns well, and quicker than any kind of wood; now, a pile of dry people... they all burn, and no one knows who started the fire, after all.

— Oh, Sigurd... – I said, as if I had been surprised by his presence. I'm not that kind who's skilled in lies, seeing how much I do not even trust myself. To truly lie, you must believe that your lies are the truth. Yet, all I had been learning, by Sigurd and others, is that it's wrong to lie.

Why is it wrong to lie, and rightfully acceptable to tell the truth? Is it a lie to tell others that the truth is better than lies? What should I choose as a better way to avoid any kind of question belonging to that frown? Anyway, there is no truth, as much as there is no lie. There are circunstamces, perspectives, and presumptions of what happened, and what shall, or not, happen. Even if I admit, with words or a single quote, the truth, my truth, my body will say otherwise. And how does it keeps saying the contrary of my words.

Sweating, a bit crestfallen, no words to be uttered, even if they were, they might end up stuttered by this tongue, about to be bitten, in a chance of two added up to a full percent, and this confusion I created, as I intentionally seeks of more of same, unlike Sigurd, who stands there, seeking of a clear answer, with that frown, arms wide open around that waist, unlike those who gravity keeps pulling to any kind of direction, alike the words I planned to utter, already being uttered, other words, by that royal navy blue cloths hanging on that body, alike this one, who also share of same blue cloth, yet ripples are delivered, instead of the static, and calm sea, who seems to be calm, until a tidal wave comes abruptly, from the middle of the unnexpected time, as unnexpected I though about the appearance of his, same who used to belong to father, when he found out, that day, that I broke the urn containing the ashes of the first 10 Kings who went by the name of Kain. They may have shared of same name, but they were not of same kind, except in blood.

— Who granted you acess to my stuff, my Highness? – Sigurd asked. I had nothing to say to his, yet I needed to tell him something. When Sigurd asks on that way, he also demainds of an answer, and silence, if there's such, isn't acceptable, as much as a single 'yes' or 'no' can't be validated as well. Just because is an answer, but an answer belonging to the ignorant ones, and I am no such, in blood, or in words.

— I'm sorry, Sigurd – I said. Apologies are accepted by Sigurd, ever since I've learned to talk, and to lie as well. When I look to Sigurd, since the times I had learned to bare the light with the eyes, I can see if my words had made the effect I desire.

— And what else? – no change could be seem on that face, because of how vague a mere sorry is to Sigurd. It used to work when I was learning the alphabet, but given how much I grown up, a sorry is an only answer, on same way as 'yes', 'no' or 'just because'. Besides a sorry, I also needed came up with an explanation, enough to make that frown dissapear, because that's the maximum I can get to soften a bit of Sigurd, as I am no more a child of pillow.

— Sigurd, I'm sorry if I went snooping into your stuff below your nose without your approval... – I said, really sorry about what I did before. 'To snoop' sounded too informal, but since only I and Sigurd were on this tent, it didn't mattered, with the eyes of the public away like the troops, scattered around this desert.

A sort of guerilla tactics, adopted by us, and not oficially adopted by the enemy, the Alexandrians, who adopt a sort of phalanx defensive stance, or 'granfalloon stance', when they all are gathered on a same site, sharing of a same identity and purpouse, althought meaningless, or so it makes us believe to be is meaningless when you share of a defense, the troops, and supplies, the food for the troops. Given the the assistance of Libers, there is a sort of advantage on our side, as much as there is disadvantage as well.

The sun of Vube, althought the same sun who shines the entirety of this continent, or the factor that scattered away the Mist from this desert, maybe it's meant to be unnexplained, alike how the rain of Burmecia keeps pouring for what seems to be an eternity; so, the sun may have settled down by now, but the nights here are worse as well. With the heat, comes the sweat, and dehidratation, and maybe death, but when comes the night, the cold, the intense shivers make you wish of the heat of day, and when daylight comes in, you think that you might had chosen the wrong answer, yet good, althought you feel bad.

This comparasion between the heat of the day and the cold of the night suits well how do I feel about Sigurd, and the way he acts by each word I speak. These intentions of mine are unlike the results, most of the times. You can't wish for a tree to turn into paper immediately, as much as you can't make Sigurd laugh for any joke, no matter how funny it is. Just because it had been funny to you, it doesn't meant that'll be funny to someone else. I know it, because I once told a joke to Sigurd, that one about why the chocobo crossed the road, when I was a kid, to some like that one about the pregnant woman, and how grass doesn't grow on beaten soil. I'm sure that Sigurd understood them, I know he did, but I couldn't even see a single smirk.

— Tsk, tsk. It seems you had been prying into my personal research, don't you? – he asked, with that same demeanor, saw many times ago, and once again. Briefly before as well. All I could say was the truth, and an apology, again. Only a few times I had to apologize twice to Sigurd, and only because I had done something that much than a single 'wrong', and too far enough to be even 'right'. Breaking glass in the room again, drawing something awful in the carpet, swear to the Priest, or the Duke, or anyone else in words, and pry into personal files belonging to Sigurd, as I did, and I am sorry if I had done it.

— Yes. I'm sorry, Sigurd – I said, as if it wasn't enough to keep saying it. What I once thought to be an easy escape route to all sorts of problems, this turned out to be one of my many problems.

— You don't have the need to be sorry only to yourself, my Highness. I am another one who shall need to be sorry as well, seing how I had given such vulnerability to these documents, even for someone such as you, and by result, someone below you, or us, as well.

I... am speechless. I never heard Sigurd say such thing. Well, only once, when I asked to him about mother. 'I had a mother, didn't I?'; that's what I asked to his, after hearing from Edgar about his mother, but what about mine? I recall I had said it to Sigurd, about how Edgar treated me, still does the same, but seeing how I fell asleep later that night, I don't know for sure if I had said to Sigurd about it. He didn't even bothered, did he? Anyway, I gave these documents to his, as I left to my room. Not a room alike home, but a sort of room, better than any common tent from inside. I know it, since I saw one before, many who seemed to be one when I and Sigurd decided to check the troops. That's what he would do, when followed of father, most of the times.

So, I asked about Racquel, her name, to Sigurd. That garden, same mother used to be, so Sigurd told me once, two, three times, same subject of his conversations, was her favorite place belonging to that palace. I wasn't even born, or had an existence yet, but mother had a tie to trees, and their trunks, where she used to rest, to lay under a tree's leaves, with the head and back near the trunk. No matter how stiff the wood, she always felt a kind of comfort near one. Sigurd also told me that Edgar used to play hide-and-seek on same garden, with same mother, as he kept an eye on both. I also played hide-and-seek when young, but not on same was as Edgar, the main brother, used to. When I played same game, I was the one who were left behind, the last one to be found, not only because I used to hid well, but Edgar was the one who seeked me.

There was a time I played hide-and-seek with my brothers, and Edgar had found my other brothers, but he couldn't find me. It took so long for him to find me, that I got hungry. It was then that a guard heard me, because of the noises belonging to my stomach. As usual, I had been feeded by a banquet like another, and the same for my brothers as well. But when Sigurd seeked me, it was different. Behind the curtains, behind the plant pot, under the bed, under the table, behind the throne... a few times, I used to hid behind the guard's leg, because they just stood there, like statues, unfunny ones, who only seemed to get alive when ordered by father, or Sigurd, who always had found me, no matter where I was, or when I told the guard to not reveal where I was. They always disobeyed me, but obeyed Sigurd, and father as well.

But there'll be a time when they'll have to obey me, instead of taughting me the rules, of anything. Edgar used to be same kid as I do had been once, but now he's the King, like father was. He can do anything, always seemed to do anyway, even young, as we were once. Still we are young, and act like such. Sigurd may had been young as well, certainly he had, yet, at least, he's one of few who grew up. He knowns how to grow up, besides the height. And, like many grown ups, Sigurd also shares of many secrets, or personal stuffs, ether problems, or solutions, as it seemed to be wrote on those documents. The King can meddle in any situation, unlike the Prince, yet I do what I haven't been told to do. Curiosity is one of my flaws, and apologies succeding of same curiosity as well. Not that I had been grounded by Sigurd, never I had been, not because of my behaviour, but my status. I am the one who shall ground others, or so I had been taught this way.

Besides the punishment, a King also needs to balance same punishment with rewards, gifts, something that makes someone valuable of their efforts, though many die without being acknowledged. Mother passed, even before I could look at her, or feel her, yet there's a statue of her hanging there, somehwere to be noticed. There'll be a statue belonging to me as well, as much as I do something other than keep saying apologies for any kind of bad situation. At least, I do say an apology, unlike my brother, who still hadn't said anything to me, besides ordering me what to do, against my will. Though, I took care of his sons not because he demanded, but because they demanded of something I had, but my brother had lost it long ago. Same could be said about how Sigurd took care of me all this time, not only because father ordered to him at first, but because he had a commitment, alike how his sister, my mother, had with Edgar, and my brothers.

...

On Another Place...

...

— ...We must go back, before the sand loses the heat at the peak of night – I said, after I took care of that creep, with these own hands... same hands that I'm using to ergue Bart, who recovered slightly, yet not enough, seeing how that wound left by that knife, still stuck on his skin, I better be careful to not remove it, or else... I know what happens.

But I don't want it to happen, again. Many things that already happened before, I do not want them to be shown anymore, in front of me. That's why I had to take care of these two men, in two kinds of ways. I was very kind to both, yet I do regret of my manners with the one who stood, laying in the sand, awaiting, because of me, and my actions, for the desert, home of Antilions and nasty scorpions, to kill him instead, before his own body, suffering from dehidratation, does. These are both painful ways to kill someone, I know. More painful than the known, it's the unknown. Many fear the unknown, as much as many fear those alike us. Me, Bart, Clyde... Mainly men of our kind.

— So, Prescott... – I heard Bart, saying his name. He's currently being holded by me, my back is holding me, in a way, as his right hand can be felt atop my right shoulder, his head lying above my left shoulder, and that left hand had been left numb, unlike the pain of his. Many shed a tear when they felt pain, but Bart seemed to feel nothing, yet I knew how he was feeling. Not only feelings, or doubts about the knife, as it seems – are you a Cleyran? – he asked to me, as we walked closer to reach our tent. Before, I had been watching the sandstorm that secluded my home from this world on a distance. Like a spinning plate, it kept twisting, for what seemed to be an eternity. And I wished, from the moment I saw such familiar place, that the sandstorm were kept on the way it was, and luckily, still is.

— Of course I do – I only said, truthful to myself. Yes, I am a Cleyran, or used to be. Still I am, yet the rain and these clothes say otherwise. As I keep moving my feet throught this sand, pigs don't sweat, but horses do, feeling the heat of the dusk, and the sweat flowing into my body, refreshing my skin with the breeze, these and other things makes me feel in a kind of home. A home I used to stay, unlike the Libers and the Cleyrans.

— You don't seem to be that much of a Cleyran to me – he said. Bart may had heard from Clyde about my past life. No, I guess he heard it with a single sentence I uttered to that assassin, whom I'm not that bothered, unlike Bart, who keeps watching me, as if I was a stranger, more than I was on our first sight. I do not speak that very often about my past to other people, so it's understandable for Bart to carry on of this doubt, of many.

— The rain and these clothes do made me into another person, don't you think?... – I said. I may had asked it to Bart, but I already knew the answer. It was a single question, per se, but nothing is as simple as it appears to be.

From that and many other moments, I am still wondering to myself why I had gotten outside the sandstorm, that used to protect me, to walk into the rain. I may be a little confused about who I am today, with the who I was back into the life I've spent at the settlement found atop the Yggdrasil, known as Cleyra, or the 'city of Illusions', though Cleyra ain't big enough, or even share of economics to be called by 'city'. So... am I a Highwind, or not? Maybe. The Highwinds from the legend can be related to me, this if I had some document to prove that.

My words, alone, aren't that much of a document. I'm am an only person, unlike the many Kings who reigned over Burmecia, whose story is mixed with the history, both who had been mainly made by words, and only a few documents, written in archaic symbols, not words belonging to the standard alphabet, as they were translated centuries after, into compact books. From a thousand parchments, came an only book, with a hundred pages, and this book is a collection of manuscripts written by Gizamaluk, when he was a Burmecian. Our warrior code, written in a book, once gross enough, heavy as double swords on both hands, can now be compacted enough to be fit in our pockets. If many rolls of ancient parchments can be later revised into two hundred fifty pages, then why not can't I tell my story in a single sentence?

No, maybe not. A sentence isn't enough. To share of my history while I walk isn't a good option either. The memory also counts, as I can only remember a few things. My father, Richter Highwind, was a Burmecian, a warrior like I am disguised into, same for his. Before, he threw away the youth belonging to his, to become a street rat, roaming in the kingdom for some fights. He was not that good of a person, and neither a puke to be thrown into the street. It was then that he became a member of the army, as much as I, and my uncles had become soldiers as well. How ironic, seeing how much father despised soldiers, even went on trouble with some Royal Guards once, and now, from that moment onwards, he had became one of them. Father also never had commited murder on the scoundrel days of his, until he came to be a member of the army, where any enemy killed by his became more ratio to his bowl.

It was then that, during an expedition, a training on this same Vube, that father got lost in the middle of a huge sandstorm. Many who had gotten lost on that same day dissapeared as well, only for their bones to be found near the Antilon's traps, or some alive, in the middle of the dunes, or what they thought to be a sort of oasis, with their mouths filled in by sand, same who took away their throat's moistures, and hope as well, until other soldiers came to their aid. A friend of father, who shared of a few, ended up on that way, unlike father himself. That reckless behavior of his became his salvation, somehow. At first, it was a single trunk, but when his sight recovered, father was in the presence of the City of Illusions, also known as Cleyra, the settlement secluded from the main world by that huge sandstorm, same I saw before, and so many times I had, inside and outside the same.

As the sun settles down, and the sky turns orange, I recall the days I used to live inside the sandstorm. A thing Cleyrans usually do is to lift their heads to look above, where they can see the day, or the night. On a same way a stranger in Burmecia awfully notices the rain falling into their clothes, father must have felt the same as many who lived outside Cleyra must had felt as well. I said lived, because many who stay for a week enough, they also turn into Cleyrans as well. Even with the secession, and the ties severed with our Kingdom, the Cleyrans accept those souls who came there, no matter from where any kind of people who came across such place was born, or lived into.

Negotiations between the Kingdom of Burmecia and Cleyra usually happen year after year, King after King, Priest after Priest, and their results don't seem to be that optimistic. Althought, Cleyrans still hold of same intent to purify the disturbance of the wandering souls, who ended up on those sacred grounds, like father. That's their kind of nature, unlike the one belonging to the Burmecians soldiers, many of those who would be later converted into Cleyrans after a few days they stood in that settlement. Same also happens in Burmecia, as it happened with me, and the first contact I had with the Baptism of the rain who blessed my body, and changed more than my wardrobe.

Prior that, father stood on that place for two weeks, where, besides knowing about the main fountain, whose water is pulled from deep beneath the underground reservoir to those heights, the observatory, who is able to see the main desert throught the sandstorm, the chapel, where the people pray for the sandstorm and its strenght, and, more than the air that made his lungs a bit breathless, Rhiannoa, or the woman that later would become my mother.

For my father, many kinds of women were candidates to be his wife, but none of then shared of the same to be compared with mother. She was the maiden whose task consisted on watering the plants, all kinds who resided into the settlement, even the poison ivies that causes of many rashes around the skin. That's part of their belief to accept all the things, no matter how hard they say otherwise, but there's always a way to give a second chance, instead of apologies. The Cleyrans accept of nettles and ivies in their gardens, as much as they accept the presence of Burmecians on their grounds. Their ancestors were also Burmecians as well, who shared of the taste of war, whom the Cleyrans deny solemny, to all living beings. Their only protection against the enemy, if there's one to them, is the sandstorm, who kepts then hid from the main world, full of good people, and assassins as well.

They, the Cleyrans, say that those who stood on Cleyra always return on same place someday. To make that happen, father became one of them, when he married Rhiannoa, for whom he felt more than love, in a sense that stood before he met with Rhiannoa, and the dance of Pales executed by her, and others like her, but he only paid attention to her, and the way she danced, waved that hair, inside the chapel, with the sound of a harp playing its chords.

It's interesting that, in Burmecia, and in other countries as well, except Treno, the full exercise of prostitution is harshly condemned, due to its nature be against the public morality, and, considering Burmecia, because it deviates from the main purpose of reproduction, and besides being a banal and improper way to feel plently of pleasure, it also contributes for many cases of sterility, diseases, and children without fathers, althought the same couldn't be said centuries ago, even prior the foundation of same Kingdom. Before the monotheism of an only God, the civilizations that came before Burmecia shared of many gods. A god tasked for anything; the sun was the god who brought they the heat, the water was the God who brought they the oasis, and so it goes on. Idols that represented the image of gods were also made by other tribes, who also shared of their rituals, and their gods.

Mainly the women participated of same rituals, due to their attractiveness, varying from tribe to tribe. While some women belonging to a tribe were attractive to the male ones due to their fat, unlike today, others had their nipples mutilated, alike how the Vastitas belonging to their kingdoms used to do, on their temples, same where the act, the contact the devadasis had with the goddess, and the mortals, used to happen. Same kind of ritual, now deemed as prostitution, used to happen in Burmecia as well, before Kain and his descendents successfully erradicated and prohibited of same cults, mainly made by those who once were Vastitas, or so that's described by the many pieces of well-preserved codices and manuscripts left from that century.

Besides the codices, the clothes and dances the devadasis whore back in those days persisted as well, with the Cleyrans. Richter decided to stay at Cleyra, until his wife gave birth to two of his only children: Me, and my sister, Niamh. When infant, I was raised in the outskirts of this settlement, until I turned 7, when father came back from Burmecia, to retrieve me from that place, the heat of the desert, to the cold brought by the rain, or so I felt that cold, before father changed of my clothes, and name as well. You can give Kain as the name of your son; though he won't be remembered by anyone else, besides his family, the family he created to be his own, alike the friends of his when alive. But if you are a King, and the Prince's name becomes Kain, that's another story.

But, you know, legend is legend, but unlike legends, people do change with time. As much as Cleyrans are kept hid by the sandstorm, Burmecians are kept under the rain; the others above the Mist, and the Mist kept our world hid from our sight. Once, I had been called by Hyuuga, but since there's no ounce of sunlight around Burmecia, unlike the one I used to see at Cleyra, I became Prescott since then, as my father became a Priest on the way back to home, his home. When Cleyrans come to Burmecia, they are forced to change their names, some luckily still maintaning the original meaning, yet all their names are spoken in full new words. When I grew up, I decided to return to Cleyra, my first home. Mother may had passed, unlike my sister, who grew up as much as me, and how she had grown up, alike that hair.

Since children, the female Cleyras learn to comb their hairs. If their hair isn't grew up already on youth, then she ain't a woman, but a girl. As they grown up, they start to wear less clothes, until they reach the maturity, when they wear those dresses, peach alike the fruit, gentle as the petals of a flower. Others garments include jewels wrapped, instead of an only neck, in both feet, a circlet around the neck, alike the bracelet in both arms, but those are details, unnoticed for those who only perceived of their dance, their dresses, and hair as well. The Cleyrans wear those dresses when preparing, or when they do the ritual dance, althought many wear of same dress like today's clothes.

When pregnant, or older, these women hid their bodies, on a same way they used to be when children. Naturally, the hair and its strands tend to fall on such age, as their remaining task left is to make a girl's hair belonging to her offspring to grown down, as the child grown up, until she becomes a woman...

...

— ...Yes, yes. You already told me that before. Isn't there anything else you might share with me, instead of bad news? Or a bad wound left on my brother?

— I'm sorry about that – that Prescott said, looking at me, while sipping of a warm tea. The sand of outside sure was that hot, seeing how a bit of sand poured down to his tea. He didn't bothered, as if the sand was part of his life, and why wouldn't? He's a Cleyran, after all. Half-Cleyran, to be fair, and also half of what me, and Bart, are, since birth – I didn't wanted that to happen with Bart. I failed once again, didn't I?

— Of course not, Prescott. You had the bones to carry on of such weight others wouldn't do instead. I'm glad that you brought Bart safe, at least, not in the arm...

— The arm doesn't matter. The wound will heal by itself – he said, sipping another drink of same tea. The smoke came to his face, as much as a sensation of failure came to his as well, even thought Bart is alright, unlike that arm.

— Yet, Bart will still feel a kind of pain, don't he? I don't want to hear of his moans... – this statement makes me remind of the stormy nights, where Bart, afraid as he is, used to hide, not on his own blanket, but mine instead. Not only he was near me, but that kid also cuddled with his arms onto me, as if I was his pillow, and whenever a thunder struck, with the lighting included as fear factor as well, Bart hid in the blanket, cuddling me as well. I guess he used to chose me because I was the one who lied to his, yet when I said that 'it'll be alright', followed by a 'brat', 'mice', or a 'dick' in my thoughts.

Yet, I liked him, still I do like him, not only because Bart is my brother, but because, I don't know, maybe its the responsibility I had with his, since father was gone, and Bart began to piss on the bed as result. I would slap him in the mornings when my nose had found out the smell of his in change of my own smell. Damn... I can smell Bart, on that bed, agonizing of fear, and I can't do anything. Anything, until Prescott stops sipping that tea.

With that mouth, he could sip an entire bowl of soup and the carrots as well. Bart dislike carrots, unless they're prepared by Lenneth, though any food prepared by that lady is pretty, same goes for my darling, prettier than any pretty, unlike the favour I had with Bart, when young, as he offered the carrots to me, and I had to eat them, only because he disliked them, even thought father liked of their taste, or so I told to Bart, who later had eaten them all, whenever mother cooked them to fill in the bowl of soup.

Only because father... how many times I used of the name of father to avoid of Bart's closure, or to approach that brat next to me as well. He said once, and only, that only stood near me, mostly me and mother, but unlike mom's, Bart said that I looked like daddy. I got fooled by that kindness, as much as the Bart when kid was fooled by mine as well. With a single word, I knew I could make him do anything for me, or as I said many times, for father.

"Father was brave, you see, so why don't cha you climb up that tree, damnit?"; I would say, maybe I said it clearly to Bart, back on that day where we climbed that tree near home, same tree where Bart had suffered from a pretty incontinence, same who also happened when he sleeped on his bed. The rain was pretty sour that day, heh... Now that I look at Bart, it ain't funny anymore. Only because he's hurted, I see. When younger, I would be hurted on his place instead, with father, or without his. Mother had her own way to punish me, althought the maximun she would do is to ground me, instead of slapping me.

She didn't had this kind of force, physically, and spiritually as well. Since father went gone forever, mother felt bad each time she had to punish one of her children, including me. So all we had to do was to behave well, even if our thoughts said otherwise. "That's what father would wish of us"; I had to say it, from a time to another, to make them behave well. Only in a few stances, like that one, I used of father's name to do something good, not only for me, and my safety, but for mother as well.

— I can't hear Bart – I said, certain that I would be hearing of his moans. A word, a tantrum, a scream threw right at he nearest one being... anything, but nothing came instead. He was still lying there, like a, a... I would say that he looked like a corpse, but at least, I could see him breathing. Pupils kept close, unlike that nose and mouth belonging to his. Since that age when many start to talk, and many teeth start to fall, the monologue has been Bart's favorite kind of discurss. Same could be said of father, and me, as well. Prescott too, seeing how he just sits there, drinking and drinking.

Many drink to forget, I know it, by proper experience. In the pubs, in the taverns, at home, before the day, after the night... There are even some who drink the water of the rain, althought their intent shown is to remember that the rain, blessing thy skin, exists. Instead of beer, those religious people, devotees Of Bahamut, drink wine instead, and eat bread as well; the blood and body of Kain, as they say.

How many times I had been there, on that bakery, only to prepare of many Kain's bodies, whose spirit, they say, would be there, inside those breads. And the wine turns out to be his blood, because the spirit also flowns into the liquids. I might be wrong, but maybe that's the reason why those bastards name their own sons after their father's names, because the spirit of the old flowns into the liquid. Speaking of liquid, Prescott has finished that sipping of his tea, and I can see that he's now prepared to say something, instead of thinking it.

— You won't hear anything, Clyde – Prescott told me, as if that wasn't the obvious.

— I wish I could... – I said, a futile, meaningless sentence, alike my face, dull like a rock. Prescott couldn't describe if I was sad, upset, or even happy, due to Bart, and the suffering that knife brought to his, before Prescott came to his aid, because I couldn't. All I am doing is complaining, instead of Bart, who should had been complaining about the pain on that arm, as naturally the things should had went, or not. Maybe I'm bit too upset, see, Prescott? Of course, he can see it.

— Well, if you can't hear your brother and his complains, then the sedactive had reach the desired effect – Prescott said, turning to me, after he came near Bart – you see, the seeds I had put on the tea I prepared for Bart to drink before were poppy seeds. Don't worry, because I recall I had administrated a small dosage of this drug before. Your brother, and the brothers of many may had felt of its effects before. He couldn't even understand what we were talking about, could he? You see, all soldiers and their legs had been tired later that day, the one that came before our departure from our homeland. After all that walk, and fights along the way, against their own kind, among themselves as well; some small injuries, others bad ones. Painful aches in the head, a few slight cramps in the feet, we all missing our families, our friends, that was a shock that happened so sudden, alike the pain felt by the hands, the feet, the arms, the body as a whole.

— ...Oh, I see – I said, sure of myself, instead of Bart, whom I knew it was in good hands. Not mine, but, at least, there was someone other than me who was worried about his, and also cared for his safety. Someone who's near him, unlike the homeland so far from there – it was his first time, wasn't it? It seemed so, seeing how his head wasn't right that day. I thought he was fine, because, you know, that's how Bart is.

— I see. His first time numb like that... It reminds me of the day your father stood on same way. Then, he stood like that, for an eternity... – Prescott stood there, next to Bart, and that arm belonging to his. I thought, for a moment, that he was about to complete of his own words, but none were uttered as that look of his went on that knife.

Silence, breath... Prescott just stood quiet, alike Bart, like me as well. He looked at that wound, me as well, but he was near of that arm, and that wound seemed to be near his, sprouting into his own skin. When he looked at that wound, it seemed as if Prescott blamed himself for such to happen. I also did the same, but Prescott blamed himself more, since he was near Bart, unlike me, who stood inside this tent all along.

I didn't even had a chance to protect Bart, even thought Bart is grew up already to protect himself, but Prescott was there, near his, and he had the chance to protect Bart, the son of the father with same name, whom he had to protect once as well. Then, that knife and its tip were pulled out of that arm, and... Red. That's all I can say about Bart's blood. Red alike the coat wore, or used so, by his wife.

My brother, and his arm, felt nothing. Just nothing. Even when I squeeze a pimple, I do feel a sort of pain, no matter how big such is. Well, that's the effect of the poppy, though, each effect has its cost. And I know about them so damn well. As much as there are walls to protect the boundaries of a Kingdom, each individual has a a self-defense mechanism. In order to secure themselves from a fear, for example, they just forget what happened. Though, this sort of thing usually takes many years to happen. For example, the same happens when someone, at the end of a year, like when my wife Cynthia usually says that same year lasted so quickly, because they compare a whole year with the last day.

Yet, this doesn't seems to work with some of us, like Hyuuga, or Prescott, it's the same person anyway, Burmecian as me, or not.

...