♫Bark Psychosis - Absent Friend♫

July 06, 1778

2:00 P.M.

...

The air is heavy. Heavy as a drug.

The weight is enough for his lungs, his kidneys, his relief. Bart woke up, in the middle of the night, a cold night, like many had said to him before. The light coming from the candle wasn't, and isn't enough to bring some heat, outside his body. Yet, Bart is sweating, as if he woke up from a sudden nightmare, where he dreamt of himself, as always, in a third view, like now, when contemplating of his nature. A leaky boat, he thought, in the middle of the sea, storms coming from a distance, he looks at the moons in the sky, because there are no or a few clouds to be seem, the same also happens when comes daylight. Bart wonders why there is a blue, and a red moon. Why couldn't there not be a gray moon, like this? He thought, holding of more than sand pouring down on his palm.

Blankets as well hadn't attained the same purpose of the candle, to bring comfort into the nightseven if the sleep of Clyde, his brother, and Prescott, a brother of his in a way, as he looked up to that wounded arm, who, at least, still was there, instead of being inside a jar, or worse, in his stomach. This kind of thought ran throught Bart's mind, and almost went outside the throat of his, if he wasn't occupied yet, with another leakage. The draining went well, as Bart stepped into the sand, dry to his feet, and watery like an oasis to a short distance, but what's important is that his feet went dry, unlike the days where Bart, alike any child, would be wandering across the wet plains, the roads soaked by the rain falling from the skies. Bart would usually do it in the morning, cold as well, but not like this same cold.

Silly things ran into his mind, but since he is on his own, it's natural to think of those. Clyde often do, anyway, but he ain't the main focuse of Bart's thoughts. If he was, then he would be the perfect aim. His wife and son are far more important, and kind, and lovable than his own brother, a scoundrel that may had made the entire Burmecia taste the bread made by his own hands. Only the hands, Bart thought, briefly looking down, to his both feet, and claws. Then, he looked to his both hands. They shared of many similarities, besides the skin, and the size, the location, and the use. The amount of dirt also had been noticed by his. Bart's hands were clean, the feet as well, althought if sand could be deemed as a kind of dirt, both his limbs are meant to be dirty by now. Bart also noticed that his wounded arm, the right one, was still wounded, yet it was numb, unlike his tail, whom he holded with the other arm, until that work was done. Half-done by now.

Ants walking throught his right arm, or so Bart felt a kind like this. Furred spiders wrapped alike octopuses tentacles sucking his blood like octagonal-shaped men would be more adequate, if not truly adequate. Birds pecking his skin, that tea drank before and its side effects, or maybe those were just speculations, worried ones coming to Bart. Since others, in worse conditions than his arm, drank of same tea to relief the pain, then maybe they are feeling the same, or not. There is pleasure in killing as well, as seem with that assassin, and the way Prescott immobilized his, althought he didn't enjoyed that. Never that guy would enjoy killing a flea, Bart then looked to the tent, same where his comrades were sleeping, and he was just there, asleep, and outside, and left-handed. And daydreaming, or worse, traveling without moving.

By using constantly the left arm, Bart thought for a moment about Lenneth, of the Crescent Clan, and the way she used that hand to ergue the spear, to hold of his hand, to do everything. Wind blew onto his. A nice breeze, he thought, and pretended to say, but the distance of his to the tent wasn't enough for a shout, so all that Bart could do was to appreciate, in silence. With silence, and ears covered by his fingers, he could hear his own blood circulating throught the body, his heart pumping, his patience starting to become meaningless as anything Clyde ever said, or thought to say, or just thought.

The wind who blew before, fortunately carrying on no relative amount of sand reminded Bart of the day that hair waved, freed underneath that helm, red like that coat, and the blood who pumped inside his, and more when she revealed to his those eyes, a purple stain as intense like a headache, yet not enough to make him faint. Even that name, Lenneth, was uncommon like her whole appearance, besides the face, the first of many things Bart had noticed to belong to his dear Lenneth. He swears, and who else wouldn't notice that red coat before the ribbon tied into that tail? Such thing present after the birth of many that doesn't get any attention, any kind of affection, any kind of love, like Lenneth.

Finished, halfway through the way to the bed, and Bart knew more about Lenneth, and who she was, besides being a Crescent in blood. When with Lenneth, Bart used to forget which one weared the trousers. That bothered him on the first days, since she was a Dragoon Knight, a skilled one, of course, but a Leviathan Knight. Many, including Clyde, thought with the eyes, and gossips, that Lenneth, not Bart, went hanging on with Bart, only because of his family, the Brandford, and not the contrary. Even if that was the story, about how Bart supposedly fooled Lenneth to be with his, only because of her family and legacy of same, Bart would never be into a relationship only for this kind of interest.

Maybe Clyde would, since he only married with Cynthia because of her attributes, or maybe Bart is wrong. He might be wrong, because Cynthia was his brother's friend since childhood. It was the only woman Clyde allowed, besides mother, to be closer to his. Because they were childhood friends, and because she grew up to become that beauty, so they married, or maybe they don't. Anyway, Clyde got what he wanted, even if he did refused to want at first, but deep inside, he wanted her. Laying down, Bart had drawn a comparasion between his brother and himself, on the way his brother had gotten Cynthia to his, and how Bart had gotten Lenneth to his, or how Lenneth got Bart to her. She was just another woman, pretending to carry on the family name, he thought when they first meet, even before they knew each other by the look, and the days that succeded the first look, the vision that slowly didn't remained the same anymore, althought the shock of a first impresion had made the effect already, and never on same way as before.

A Dragoon Knight, Leviathan class, and me, just someone who can be found anywhere, doing anything... who thought that Bart and Lenneth would end up, with each other? It may not had been on same way as father ended with mother, Bart thought, with his head, as he thought before, once again, about Lenneth. She is his favorite topic, not in conversation, but thoughts. On conversation, he talks less than the words he thought to talk; not too quiet, but not too liveless, althought many see him as the 'quiet'. There's no such a thing as silence, Prescott said, when talking about how grass grows, speculating as well about how silence is just a term to describe the sudden lull of the sea, and how the ear focuses on kinds of sounds, a few sounds instead of a thousand being the 'silence' all beings appreciate.

'If there is silence, then why the wind exists to break such?', Prescott learned this, and many others, statements when on a traveling across Gaia, or so he intented, and still does have the intention to do it so. Of many places belonging to the world, Prescott had been on Esto Gaza before. Known as a sacred settlement for pilgrims, being isolated from the main world, located into the cold lands of another continent, many, mostly religious people, seek Esto Gaza to find of the meaning of silence, the lull of the stormy sea, as Prescott would say. Half of the world still needs to be explored, he would say, as all he can do is to choose, between walking in the world known, and to face the unknown of the world.

Burmecia, in general, is unknown for many, yet that Kingdom and its people belong to the known world, the Mist Continent, althought mostly the population of the continent reside atop the hills, plateaus, where Alexandria, Lindblum, even Treno had been founded, prior the sucession of many wars between themselves, and the creatures who resided below, still do, in the depths of the valleys covered by same Mist. For Bart, who changed like many on these days, there is no such Mist, not because he, or the others, are currently settled on Vube's desert, where there's no Mist, possibly due to the sacred grounds, but sandstorms coming from Cleyra, secluded of the main world on same way as Burmecia remained secluded, by the rain, and the Mist as well.

Grey like the clouds, grey like the dead, grey like the Mist; the Burmecians, for Bart, are the Mist of the entire continent. Same Mist who obscured the history, and the vision of many, in general. Not lices, or the lack of sanitation, but rats coming from the sewers below, the slums above, are the ones who caused of many plagues, and many wars as results of mistakes commited by the blind ones. A Kingdom to be called their own, and a God to be called their own as well; they, both sides of same table, one who stood above the hills, and another who stood below the rain, to seek their own kind of God, a God who is three, and three who are seven, a conquerer of many cities whose name is the name of Alexander; up in the sky, the wet of dry lands, the rain falling from the sky, dragon or not dragon, a savior by the name of Bahamut, and the demigod Leviathan. Alligators aren't born of the mud, but flies can be born of the exposed meat, because that's how they, alike many living beings, are born: Born of the flesh, dirty as the mud, or clean as the feet of clay.

'One thing at the time'; those words echoed for Bart, words once uttered by his father, his mother, and Prescott as well. Bart could even hear them all saying such thing, except that the same couldn't, and cannot be said for everything, like the financial point of view. Prescott also told to his, including Clyde, before this day about Lindbluniam people who work in the factories belonging to the industrial district, or sell things in the market district, and how production, including anything, from clothes sewed of silk to barrels where cucumbers turn into pickles, increases in the factory whenever there's light, or not, and about how the price of same products later sold at the market lowers when there are less products to be sold, unlike how the price increases to such great heights when there's a surplus of, for example, cereals, the basic of the foods.

Only because these people are part of an experiment, and because they want to improve with themselves, as a whole. This also counts for the army soldiers, whenever their ratio is reduced, no anger is seem, but improvement over what the main commander see as a failure. Now that Komakino's work is done, Sigurd took his place, but that meant nothing, since Sigurd was the one who mostly gave orders to Komakino, who repassed them to the remaining soldiers, alike Bart, or his brother, or his cousins. Everyone is a cousin when it comes to be a Burmecian, but some with same blood are more closer than those with another blood.

Since Bart, alike many soldiers, had been on this desert, the diminished ratio didn't mattered, like before. Only their relationships between the local Libers, and the enduring of that heat, and this cold, that comes every night. Blankets would be there, awaiting for Bart at home. Since he was young, and since the youth and its impulse overcame his, as a whole. His entire life seemed to be an experiment, and all Bart had to do was to improve, and still he does. Not only he do improve, but Bart also helps others to find a way of improvement. His main job, or used to be back at home, was to find anything he could do, no matter how hard such task was: To grab some lemons out of a neighboor's spiky tree, to fish some tilapias out of the lake, polish some dirty windows and nails, to kill some Basilisk before they petrified another child; anything so he could be recognized by its efforts, and to feel proud of doing it so.

Payment sometimes came into his hands, mainly due to the fishmonger's demand to many mouths, including the ones belonging to his own offspring, only to slip away from his. They call it by solidarity, althought Bart also intends to promote solidity, in many ways, mainly the ties between people, and their relationships. Even when he doesn't, they still happen, yet what guides Bart to do it so, if there's another that could be on his place instead? Another...Clyde was already his another. This also counted for the Dragoon Knights as well. They all would be there, on the streets, doing a favour to the people. Instead of turning out to be a Dragoon Knight, Clyde had a short career as a Royal Guard, but seeing how much he despised those at the palace, or so that's half of what Bart can understand about his own brother, he them became a baker; from the hands that killed to the the hand that feeded.

A thought about all kinds of breads eaten once came across Bart's mind, whom he replied with nothing but swallow the food into his throat. For Bart, it was wrong to waste any kind of food, or so his mother told to him, when alive, like his father, Clyde's father as well. But, forget about Clyde... He already occupied the void of his thoughts, his recognition, his hopes, his own soul as a whole, until Lenneth came to his life. She already had a life, like him, before. 'A life without a sort of pain can't be considered a kind of life', she told to him, as much as she told him of her many secrets, or slices of situations that already happened on her life, all seemed to be related to pain, including happy moments, if there was one. One of Lenneth's past life moments Bart mostly recall about was the one when she, as a child, broke her right arm when she tumbled with her feet downstairs. By her descriptions, it all seemed, and also ran, as a funny thing, to laugh with.

Her mother had already told to her before to walk in the stairs by holding the banisters, but did she agreed with? Which kind of child would listen to his parents before knowing by themselves the injuries left? Of course, Bart never laughed, or ever thought such event to be considered funny, not even Lenneth, seeing how she forced that smile upon his face, same smile that happened to be there whenever she was ready, she never was, to bear a burden right at the face. Seeing her face as well, anyone near could notice that she was lying, except that she wasn't, or so half of her told it so. Half of Bart also used to believe she was afraid of telling the truth, by turning a tragedy into a comedy, or so that's what all we do. Clyde mostly, but his kind of humour ain't the one to laugh with. You are the one that shall be laughed by his, but damn, can't Clyde be away from a single moment of my life? That's what Bart would tell to himself, except when he starts to think about Lenneth.

Bart, on that age, never wondered to himself if she, that lady, that pretty, that rat, thought about his, from that moment and onwards, if there was at least one onward for both. There wasn't, as they were just less than friends, but more than talking heads. Tastes like fish; Bart recall saying it when he was a child, after his brother, always Clyde, came to be into that lake, those kinds of lakes, pretty shallow ones, where orange and white, any kind of carp with any kind of color for their skin lives, but even a bowl of soup isn't small enough for a kid who ended up drowning into one of these. At the lake, and that bowl of soup, to choke with his own saliva as well; Lenneth would be laughing out loud, but not that loud, a rather shy laugh, hidden by those claws, that palm, those cheeks... They didn't turned red, but instead, they stood grey, alike how they stood for Bart as well. He used to wonder if Lenneth could choke with her own laugh...

...Was that funny? Bart didn't bothered about that, though he had kept that same doubt. When the suffering of another turns out to be something funny, like how Clyde once felt inside a manhole, and got stuck in there because he was too fat, or so Bart said to his, whom Clyde answered with a slap on his face, and a kick in the eye, and so the grey of his face turned in red, not because of shame, but the red of same blood. Once again, Clyde... It seemed as if he was his only brother, though Bart had others. Martin, Stuart, Arthur, Jack, Dario... they weren't that interesting. Just common rats. Though they had their own lifes, interesting ones in theory, Bart never had been able to interact that much with them. Some were too old, still are, some younger than his, not that young by now, since they are all married, or surrounded by possible affairs. They do not interact with each other even now, only Clyde, as it seems.

In short, Bart doesn't care about his brothers, neither they do for his, and Clyde... well, 'the one who laughs mostly is the one who suffers the most', or so that was what his father told to his. Lenneth also had some sisters, and a few brothers, but they were all a bunch of brats, except one. Lenneth didn't seemed, as always, to be interested in that subject, about her brother, or so that thing was meant to be one; that's what she said, and always said, before the silence comes in. How awful the conversation they had became, after the mention of that 'brother' by Lenneth. Awful was the silence as well, when they walked together, and on their own as well. But when tomorrow came, they had already forgotten about that, as they kept talking as usual.

Sometimes, instead of two, a third person would be there as well. Clyde used to walk between his brother and Leneth, for whom he had an eye, even thought he had been making out with Cynthia since the childhood. Cynthia often would be horrified to see two young kids in a fight, not because of her, but because of themselves. She would be playing with her dolls instead, alike Lenneth, and her sisters. Luckily, for Bart, most of the times, it was Theresa, one of Lenneth's sisters, equally beautiful, like any lady who resembled of his own mother, that would be there, to follow both in their walk, and their conversation.

Althought Theresa was a better option other than his own brother, Bart would be a bit bothered towards her, and that habit she had, to stop between the walk, only to talk. Maybe she still carries on of same habit, but that's only a guess of Bart, since it happened a long time ago, when they did meet each other in a walk, other than tea parties, or chai parties, or baby parties, whatever is the name of the ceremony other than marriages that makes women glued, attached to each other.

Speaking of things attached, that spear used to be on her hand. Bart has its own spear, and dagger as well, alike any other man belonging to the army. The Dragoon Knigths are a sort of army as well, he thought, however, they can't be seem beyond the boundaries extended across the Kingdom, where they live, alike any other Burmecian. Instead of a dagger, they only use a spear, a pike, a javelin, anything that resembles a wooden piece with a blade on its tip. Althought swords are heavier, spears can be holded by an only hand, but that doesn't mean that they aren't that heavy. Lenneth told to his once, that, because of that same childhood accident, she could only use the left hand to do what the right one had done before that.

Even thought Lenneth can move both of her hands, she and her main movements had been attached forever to that left arm. And how could she become a Dragoon Knight then, with the spears mainly made for the right-handed? That was another of many things that Bart saw on that lady, and had been admiring her for that since them. Maybe it was a family thing, but the efforts Lenneth had to manuever that spear with the left arm, even thought the weight, the pain, the fear had been trying to difficul her task on the way she had been following since a childhood dream, other than the brave men, and a few women, running throught her family's blood.

But families aren't just made of pure blood, as much as any kind of water ain't pure. There are lead vines everywhere, of course, but Bart wasn't one of their kind. To help Lenneth more than she had been doing to Bart and people of their kind, he 'made' a spear to be carried on by that left hand, on same way as his own hand did, or so he desired to be this way, for both sides of his. Truth to be fair, that was a right-handed light spear all along, but Bart just had to say to her it was special, that it became that special. A sort of deception, but for a good cause, after all.

As soon as Lenneth learned to hold on that spear on her left hand, by following of the trust she had with that kind man, it took only a month for other spears, made of better material, like iron, copper, brass or mythrill crystals, to be carried on by same hand, with less mistakes made and the performance slightly improving along the days. Anyone could had given that same light spear and ordered Lenneth to hold that on her left hand, but the only who had done it so was Bart, and which effect could had happened if it was someone instead than his? He knew Lenneth, not alike Theresa, or her mother, or her father knew her, no one knows who she is even now, mainly the Dragoon Knight she had become, alike any person belonging to that family. Some had tried, others succeded; Bart was the only one who fitted into both alternatives.

...Only to be recognized? Only to conquer her? Only to hold more than her left hand? Bart had been doing everything for Lenneth since them, as much as she had been doing a lot for his protection as well. On the days that came after, he delivered more than mere gifts for that Lenneth. It began with flowers, calla lilies, her favorite, then yoshinos, blossoms followed of those redish fruits, blueberries, red and blue, purple, alike her amethyst eyes, hid by that silver, maybe its white, hair, and its white strands, his laurel strands, her colorless strands, unlike that portrait he painted for her, wearing that lime dress, okra, orange trousers, orange ribbon, nice tail, nice ears, grey ears, grey body, gray tail, purple eyes, wine, white strands, chamomile, red coat, strawberries, cherries, pomegranates, plums, opuntias, rhubarbs, radishes... until he had found himself preparing the dinner, to be later laying on that same bed, inside that same house, staying with that same Lenneth.

Her, the Burmecian, the Crescent, the Dragoon Knight, the child, the maiden, the mother, the love of his life, thought to be gone, yet brought in not by his arms, but a single thought, as usual. And that wound, left on that right arm? Well, the pain, almost gone, didn't mattered, as much as it didn't for Lenneth, and her own arm, or Bart's arms, or those tiny hands belonging to their son, Jack.

...