Every legend has a beginning.

So do many of the lives I've met. Only a few of them attempt to become something else other than common people, but in the end, they all become the same as they did on beginning. A crib or a bed doesn't know or bother for how much time it'll be standing until the one who used to be there leaves. Meanwhile, she's lying there, staring with eyes that already know too much, except how they look alike to me. What I've felt, what did it felt for me, when I holded that hand, a weakling's hand...

Be stronger.

I couldn't keep telling it to myself, so I told to another. For those who departed, and those who came. Nobody is born to change the place of another, despite sons sharing of our appearance. But their personality doesn't come already there. Sometimes they scream, others not, like all animals do. And to think even the worthless of the animals had a mother. That even a dragon who kills shares of a family. It's a kind of thought that comes and goes.

Stand tall, like your ears do.

And so I've kept telling the same, wondering if Jack could remember when I wasn't here. Same I do for Freya. What can I do? I'm a less perfect who lives in a less than perfect world. Everything is perfect on heaven, but that only matters when you get tired as I do. Walking upon broken glass, watching burning buildings, remembering what you've done. And what you were supposed to do. As for your daughter, well... she sits there, then gets bored. Puts a finger on that mouth, doesn't care if its clean or not, unlike the one who holds her and tell that what she does is wrong.

I wanted to show Freya the way, but since I am lost on my own...

Like clocks showing the wrong hours, but since you lived with one so near of you, slowly you've accepted that's it. Sometimes, to be a Dragoon is as if you were fighting the symptons without the cure. And most the time, you are the disease. My dear doesn't know what is a disease, or what they are capable of. Her nose drools alike that mouth covered by spit. This time of day, when I back at home, and Freya already knows it's time to be feeded. Learned to, of the many things she'll learn.

That there is only you and I.

And that I'm scared.

And how much this love I feel hurts.

♫Ultravox - Alles Klar♫

...

— Hah! Ah knew tat ye would fail at th' test! – geez... that boy again. How he came to be sitting on that dragon's head above? Well, it doesn't matter. Even a child can crawl there, without being noticed by its parents.

— Just so you know, I've passed.

— Yeah, tha explains how come ye look pale as a ghost.

— No, I've passed the test.

— Ye won?... CHOMP! Awright, dae ya wannae this apple?

— For free? And coming out of you?

— Ah made an offer. Ain't that kind enough fur ya?

— Not even a vermin deserves to eat this apple.

— Huh!? Amurnay a vermin! MUNCHMUNCHMUNCHMUNCHMUNCH...

— Don't you have manners, boy?

— Wha urr ye tae ask? Th' table? – now that there is something wet other than rain falling on my shoulders, more horrifying than my own dandruffs. At least, they used to belong to my own body, unlike that spit – as a maiter o' fact, ah will tell ye wha a'm! Hey, whit yer doing?

— I am thinking, a thing you should do more.

— Ah dae not think, 'cause a'm th' Prince – sure. The boy even stood on his feet, as if our Highness wasn't above yet.

— Yes, the Prince of fools.

— Mibbie ye could be mah Queen... Chomp! Ye'r beautiful, Lassie.

— Oh, thanks – I'll consider it as a kind of respect. A bit of, as it seems for us both, but to have a bit is better than nothing at all, though.

— Dae ya have a rainbow fur yer wardrobe? – now is this kid making a pass on me? Not the first time... – know whilk color ye git whin ye mix a' colors?

— Brown? – soon I said it, he looked at me with that stare of dead fish. But fishes do not smile like that – forget it.

— Hey, aren't ye a Dragoon Knight? Hey, listen tae me! Mah foot git stuck, and ah cannae git oot!

— You're lying – his cries weren't convincing enough.

— If ah jump, then ah will break mah bones. That's na lie, Lassie – he wasn't lying, for sure.

— Well, since I can't jump there, you'll have to jump – the boy was afraid. Didn't believed in me. Maybe it was all but an act, but I won't get anyone hurt. He seems so near, despite that height. Five of my height, standing upon each other – I'll hold you, honest.

— Ah... braw. Be sure tae haud me tight, 'kay!? – the way he said that, though. Better than letting the street hold its stains before they get washed away. The boy jumped, and I grabbed him just in time – Heh, yer so cold-AACHHOOOOOOO! – yuck... then he sneezed on my right shoulder. Not a single sniff, but it was like he took every inch of dirty within. Phlegm and spit drooled out of its dark orifices, as money had been taken out of my pocket.

— Why you!... – now I see that his tail isn't so limpy at all. An extra limb, which took out my bag of money. At least I have this cravat tied on my neck to clean the mess that brat did

— HAHAHAHAHA! See ya! – and the last thing I heard from that boy was his laugh, before both faded from a distance. Well, Why do mom used to wear this helmet, if her head didn't fitted? Not only to make her ears dry, as it seems. On my head... That's where I keep another bag of gil. What that kid stole was just the wood out of a forest. This could be prevented, had I not given a chance to his, but I did anyway.

— No wonder why they call that kid by Puke... Uh, Puck, I mean.

— Jack? – I can't be hearing my brother's voice all of sudden. Not that I ever had an appreciation for it, or that it mattered much for me. He had the same voice of every children, althought a few of them shared of laurel strands – where are you?

— I'm comin' at you, sis – yet, I can't see his. But feel a scent other than the rain's own... yuck. Then I heard his voice coming from below. Later, from within a hole in the streets near the sidewalk, rises my brother. More brother than whatever he had been holding on those hands. Other than my own hand with a shake. At least, they won't be attached like glue as they used to on the good old days.

— So that's your job, Jack?

— That's only half of it.

— What do you mean?

— Well, you see... pops worked a lot. He had no fix job, so he took opportunities before others could.

— As far as I know, only you to travel down there for the sake of finding a job opportunity.

— Nah, don't say such a thing, Frida – there, he began it. The equivalent of 'sit down there and listen to my story' – not only I do it for getting some gil, but because I care for other rewards. I am a Dragoon too, Freya. Well, a kind of. I clean the mess nobody sees as mother used to. Guess I always wanted to clean the mess when hunting basilisks on my youth.

— If you care that much, then why did you – ...uh, did he really? Soon I heard cries coming out of Jack's back – I can't believe it. Have you brought a baby to the sewers with you?

— I can't leave him alone. Besides, he already stinks – Jack said it soon as he took his son on his arms, as if he was taking something out of a backpack. I mean, he carefully holded that little, of course. As much as he used to hold me too, a thing I thankfully do not remember, neither Freyr will do – but that's what being a father means. At least, an only son is an only son. Now, think about a father with a family of eight, all born at same time, pinky like sausages, and to keep changing their rags constantly, feeling the same scent all day...

— To work on the sewers was a better choice than raising a whole family, I see.

— Not exactly. I have plans, sis. A plenty of them, but unlike my jobs, it'll take some time, and convincing someone, for them to realize. So, how was the test?

— Just a sign of papers. I haven't done anything yet.

— Well, that's a beginning, don't you think?

— Yeah, sure.

— Do Dragoons really have to say goodbye for familiar faces?

— I don't think so. Hrist was there.

— Hrist?... oh, that's the little girl who used to follow us. Well, anyone is little when near you, as a matter of fact. And with this pointy helmet...

— Enough, Jack.

— Fine then. To where are you going, sis?

— Back at home – though, there is this adress Hrist offered me. I took it out of my pocket and showed it to Jack – but there is this place I would like to pay a visit. Not today, but for some reason, Hrist gave it to me. Don't know why.

— Neither I. Hey, wait... Fratley? Sir Fratley?

— Yes, that's the name of my soon-to-be tutor, and this is his adress.

— And that's the name of an old friend of mine as well. Since there isn't a lot of Fratleys hanging out, it must be his. Though, Irontail... wasn't he a Highwind?

— How would I know?

— Oh, you were too young to remember.

— I still remember who was father.

— Sure. I mean, you haven't even born yet when I knew this Fratley. I wonder why the change of name, but guess a lot happened since he left this place years ago. And so, I haven't saw him since them. A funny guy, albeit a bit strange. Well, we were kids, after all. But it's all shit on the bridge.

— Speaking of strange – other than the fact my brother somehow knows my tutor even before I did – are you wearing a pajama, Jack?

— Try to get a night of sleep with this prick.

— He's a split image of the father, indeed – in other aspects. So I know, Jack used to sleep well, without making a noise. Guess that same can't be said about me, or Freyr.

— Why couldn't he take someting other than mother's hair?

— You haven't told me who's the lucky mom yet.

— Have I? I mean, that day... you two met before.

— Have we? – why do Jack looks so nervous. As if he's unable to spit it out, and to think he was the champion of a spiting contest. This is so stupid to see.

— Of course.

— And how do she looks like?

— Well... older than me.

— How much old?

— She was... I mean, she is... beautiful. Right, beautiful.

— Not enough information to make a stand out from the rest.

— Yes, she stood out from the rest. What I felt for her was something... a bit unusual.

— It's called love, so you know.

— No. I mean, there is a plenty of ways to love someone. Like, I love you, sis, as much as I loved mom, pops...

— Did you loved Dan?

— No way! Uh, well... we were just friends. Cousins, but still friends.

— You had a crush on Learie, right?

— And Hrist used to crush your feet.

— Don't drops the ducks for gooses – why am I insist on this? Is it because I have nothing else to do? Nothing, but have a talk.

— To be honest, I felt something for Learie. But not the same I felt for her. She took care of me, know what I've felt coming from my heart and chin, and most of all, she always seemed so near, more than mom ever did – okay, that's it. I already figured out who, and... did he?

— I knew that you liked Ottis, but not this much.

— She likes children.

— We all grown up someday.

— To only see another grown like we did before. I wonder how do every mom knows what's right and wrong to do...

— Because they had been told by our grandmas what should and shouldn't be done, that's simple.

— Yea, but this means that one of them shared of proper experience – thanks, Jack – well, that's it. See you later, sis.

— Bye.

...

The proper experience...

To be a Dragoon Knight. Wearing fancy clothes. Looking like a triangle, though mirros tend to distort image instead of providing the real thing. If there is one, at least. How do I feel? Okay. It didn't hurt. It will hurt, but I'll do my best to not share of any complains. Mom was a Dragoon Knight, and could afford many things with her duty and wage received by same. A plenty of money, yet they lived together breathing of country air. It smells like the city, but the only dirty to be found are piles of mud, or a piece of grass in your clothes after you took a fall. It used to be funny to keep rolling down a slope. It wasn't funny when we hitted the wall of a ha-ha. They keep putting these walls arounds, which became houses with the time. Fortunately, I only broke an arm in one of my adventures, but I couldn't save that world I lived into. Didn't cared that much soon as I grew like a tree, flourishing of its flowers, while still tied into same roots.

I don't have anywhere else to go. Nothing, but await. Now that I'm sure I'll be working by tomorrow, to do something that means... something. Nobody is forcing you to, but they do. This coat I'm wearing is heavy like a sword, unlike that green dress in the wardrobe. Soft, light as a feather... feather is stronger than the sword. Anyone can carry it, and rarely get hurt. Instead of wrapping my hair, only my tail is wrapped by this ribbon. If it shares of a meaning, or just a small detail largely unnoticed unlike the hips, I'm not sure. They can identify me, but that only worked when I was a child. Less than a child, but a pinky creature that squirmed alike a worm throw in sunlight. For so I couldn't be kidnapped by an envy mom, or in the worse way, for my little corpse to be recognized by authorities.

Orange is a color like tangerine. It depends of your taste to like it or not, to know more or know less. Why can tangerines be open by the thumb while oranges need to be peeled by a knive? Only adults to hold of knives, burn their hands on our places. With money, mom could afford of health for the family as well. Dad also worked a lot, and sometimes he received a thing. Didn't cared for money, but needed it like water, except that money, coins, gil doesn't fall from the skies. So do friends... Learie, Learie... What's the story?... All the boys think ya borin'... Was it bad to do sum lemon corin'... Come on, let's do a pretty pie... Dan ain't here to dry your onion eyes... Childhood friends... how some keep following you to this day. I mean, Hrist wasn't my friend, but still, better befriend someone than make enemies.

It takes a lot of time for your name to be remembered by others, byt the perspective of a million others, counting those who cross those straight corridors, filled in of portrait and statues. On my neighborhood, despite the size of a large street who divided the houses as a river crossing between both sides of a land, we made bridges to cross to another island. A thousand islands in the sea, for a thousand people just like me. Then I got tangled by those curly locks, tight alike the tentacles of a nasty octopus. They seem to grab you even after they got cut, and swallowed. It's like when I saw a chicken ran without its head once. Hah, look at those people walking on the bridge, so Jack pointed out, before he told me a joke. And for some reason, I still remember it as I walk on this same road, heading somewhere else. Rain covers the empty streets with a curtain of water, like that day.

— Hey, sis! Know why the skeleton didn't crossed the road?

— Don't know.

— It's 'cause he had no balls! HAHAHAHAHAH...

— Which balls, Jack?

— Uh... I mean, he had no guts, that's it.

This was before dinner came, so did Ezekiel and his daughter. Mom invited only a few friends for dinner. Parents do not count, except aunt Theresa, or some other sister I haven't heard about, like aunt Mitchell, who lives in Lindblum, or aunt Clarice, who only seems to appear on funerals. There is aunt Squeak too, a tender name I gave for aunt Virginia, who seems to squeak rather than cry. This fact doesn't change the overall mood of someone who's departing. No, I'm not talking about you, mom. Something in me remains unrest like these legs, traveing to distances and they do not get tired like Dan. Remember when he used to pay a visit to your house, because mom and dad were there? And when dad wasn't, Ezekiel paid a visit with his daughter, that same Hrist. Smaller, but the same of today, though she couldn't speak.

Nothing at all, except a breath, or a deep stare, if we could see something growing out of those curly locks. So tall that Hrist seemed to be stepping over their tips. She stepped on my feet too, as Jack told with a statement that didn't sounded that painful, except for me. Maybe that's why nobody wanted to dopt her, but maybe I'm being too harsh. Even without speaking, Hrist was harsh with me, and that smile kept carved as wood on her face. And with the weeks, Jack began to formulate and speak some nonsense, uh... 'Hrist wrist twist feet kiss'; an overly complicated flow of rhymes, hardly a tongue twister, but if there was a way to unwrap Hrist's tongue, we had to find out. Not that I wanted, but if that girl could walk on her both feet earlier than I did, maybe she could talk as well as I did.

Now you know the results. Yes, Hrist Chardonnay came to the Jugend before I did, made a name to herself, speaks and thinks on her own way. Oglop... she said. I thought it was the sound of a cough, but no, it was her first word. An oglop is repulsive as a cough, or anything getting out of you, but anyway, the first of many words I kept throwing at her. It got better when Hrist pointed to her father, and began to call him by Oglop. Mom though it was cute, but if I called her by oglop, well... It dependes the tone of your voice. Now, anything said today seems like an offense. Except if you're an young child, whom you can blame an older child for what you've said. When pissed, Jack began to call his friends by 'mee krob' when he holded of my hand. Don't pour lemon on your hands, unless you want to see them turn black forever, so he said too when selling lemonade.

That was his first business. To help daddy, he said. One of the few times he was being too sincere for his kind. As for Hrist... Why did she gave me this Sir Fratley's adress? I thought she would like to see me handle practice training by myself. Not by myself alone, but with a tutor to inspect me. Us both, since this Sir Fratley is also her tutor. Don't know how they are, or if they are the same in and out of duty. Maybe Hrist likes him, and wants me the same. As I said, better befriend someone than make enemies, though some say to make your enemies closer of yours. Since I had nowhere else to go, or for the sake of curiosity, I headed to this Fratley's location. Sir Fratley, I mean, and what a house. One of those who have a rooster-shaped girouette spinning in the ceiling, a willow tree whose drops of waters fall in a puddle where white and orange carps swin... how fancy.

But the why of those weather chicken, this I can't understand. They are always pink. And look, they still sell this green syrup for today. Same children, standing near their homes, althought I've only saw that one near Sir Fratley's home. A kid with a spiky hair like cactus which reminded me of Jack. He prepared a bunch of cups, sold for a price cheaper than sawdust. Maybe it tastes alike same, because nobody seems to be there. Not that there will ever be a row for those who want to drink lemonade like they eat bread in the morning. Lemonade doesn't get hard to chew and you need to buy it a day after another. All you need to prove a lemonade is a mouth, a gil, and a tongue. Sometimes, you can chew the little bits of lemon not squashed by the feet, or so the boy told me. He's sincere too for revealing it's production secrets.

Oh, what the hell, they also squash grapes to make juice too. But with clean feet, for sure. Maybe not, so I took a gulp. Delicious... tastes like plum... chewed plum... my face is red like plum... Argh!... I already expected for lemons to be bitter, but this TASTES bitter, more than usual. How many lemons had been gathered together, and why can I feel their seeds. Wait... seeds? This ain't lemonade. It's rangpur syrup. My throat is burning. How ironic for a liquid to dry up within me. That's the sensation I have, and maybe someone felt the same. I won't be that harsh with that boy. Don't know who he is, neither he knows who I am. An advice can be delivered by anybody who's interested to see another improve. They're that young, with more chance of getting better. I was young, heard many words, and only a few remain to this day.

— Hey.

— Did you liked it?

— Do you like what you do, boy?

— For sure.

— Well, has someone told you this is made of rangpur?

— What is that?

— Did you prepared these cups with something alike a lemon but red?

— Yeah. A lemonade is made of lemon.

— Not all kinds. There is the green lemon, the yellow lime and reddish like lemons called rangpur.

— Oh, is there a blue lemon too?

— Not that I know.

— Fine. Maybe I can crush some blueberries to make it blue, or purple...

— I don't think that mixing all kinds of fruits into one will be good for your sales.

— I don't do it for sales, miss. It's for fun.

— Do you have any friends?

— Yes, they all ran away instead without paying, except you. Want to prove another?

— Is it lemonade?

— No. It's pineapple which tastes like spearmint which looks like tamarind, but I'm not sure – I hope I do not get sick drinking these. Spearmint... It's cold, refreshing. I do not feel neither I saw any tamarind, other than its color. As for pineapple, there's only its yellow lints floating alike spearmint leaves – did you liked it?

— Yes – a lot better.

— Want more?

— No, thanks.

— Want something else?

— I would like to know if this is Sir Fratley's adress – I asked to the boy, to which after cleaning a cup with a red tourniquet, which made hard to know if it was dirtied or not, taken out of its pocket, replied

— Sure, miss. He lives here, so do I – it must be his son to whom I am talking to. Not that a son reveals that much about how a father is alike. They aren't supposed to be copies, but how he looks alike Jack. Must be the hair, and its colour, or because I saw Jack and now I see him everywhere, like its name.

— Is Sir Fratley here at the moment?

— Nah, he ain't. Do you know him?

— I would like to.

— My name is Raymie.

— Hi Raymie. Why do you live here?

— Mom says that this is a beautiful place. Don't you agree?

— I agree. Well...

— Already leaving? – asked Raymie, quoting one of those annoying words coming out of every host I ever met. I already paid this boy, and we hardly know each other. But they all want to know another, that's part of their nature.

— Know when will Sir Fratley be back?

— I don't. He does not seem to have a clock. Sometimes he is, others not. Must be working, so I am.

— Okay. I'll be back soon.

— See you later.

And so I left. Well, only tomorrow that I'll be able to see this Fratley. The Sir, I mean. Raymie is standing there, still selling his orange lemonade. This reminds me of the time I also sold lemonade like my brother did. We were so close of each other, but that time was one of the few I could lend my hands free of his. While Jack catched them, not bothered by the size of the tree and those spike, I stood down with a basket, awaiting for them to fall in the right place other than my head. When mom went out the market, I used the cap to collect them instead. Some rolled down the path, to never be saw again, or be crushed like bugs. Dad was a recurring client on Fridays. Sometimes, he seemed to be the only one who appeared often to pay for a drink prepared by these tiny hands. They haven't got black, since the sun and its light is almost rare to see. To be brought of light, on other way...

...

— Want some lemonade, dad?

— Sure. Let me see...

— Don't you mean prove?

— Oh, right. Well... It tastes like water.

— Water doesn't have taste.

— Then there must be something wrong with this drink, my dear. What is this supposed to be?

— Lemonade.

— It doesn't taste like lemonade. You're lying.

— No, dad! I did lemonade, I swear!

— Can you prove it?

— With these hands. I did lemonade with them.

— I don't feel any scent.

— So this means you cannot feel any taste.

— You got me. Fine, I'll give it a seven out of ten. Nice presentation, but there's too much water, my dear.

...