That's it... Wave to your fan club. Smile, Silver Maiden. You're as radiant as the sun; and you know it.
But I know the conceit in your heart. It's plain to see, once a person gets to know you. Out in the crowd, you let your light shine. You give them a smile, and receive a score of cheers. And you make sure we all know it. "Oh, this afternoon was positively exhausting, don't you think? Oh, wait--it's me who was in the limelight. How could I have forgotten? You'll never know what it feels like to be a celebrity." Yes, beautiful maiden, gloat. Revel in your glory. Blind me with your shining light.
Now get down off your high horse, perfect woman, and give me your reigns. "Be a dear and take care of my horse for me?" That's hardly a question. It's not even a request. You get to strip down into something comfortable while I wipe the shit off your horse's hooves. Oh, no, milady. The honor is all mine.
Then you'll sit in your fancy parlor and sip your tea, served to you by those all too willing to please you, to do your bidding like the slaves of your divine beauty they are. Enjoy it, fair lady, while the rest of us go to the local tavern, and I'll drink my cheap beer and pretend I enjoy the praise songs that are bound to be sung in your honor. I'll smile as always and pretend to have a good time, even when my buddy next to me has a bit too much to drink and vomits on my sleeve. Unlike you, I know how to do my own laundry.
Eventually I know a fight will break out, as it always does when a group of rowdy males gets together where alcohol is served. One tongue enboldened by drink might actually dare to curse your name, to lament the loss of our recently departed war heroes. Whether it's taboo or bad luck to do such, or simply treason to speak out against our local goddess, doesn't matter. The point is that someone has started a brawl, and before you know it, darts will be flying in directions other than their target boards, tables will be overturned as bodies crash into them, and glasses will start breaking.
Can't a man ever drink in peace these days without hearing your name spoken? Why do you have to ruin everything? I'll have beer bottles flying over my head, where just earlier today you yourself had rose petals gently sprinkling over you. They call you a hero; I'm just "one of the Six Zexen Knights." But you know, there aren't really six of "us." There are in fact only five. Five Zexen Knights, and Chris--no, Lady Chris. The Silver Goddess. Why is that? We do the same job, work the same hours, earn the same pay. But why is it that you're the one who earns all the respect? From what I see, the only difference between you and me is that you're a member of the weaker sex. The weaker sex. Just what about your being weak is so appealing when it comes to respect? Haven't I the same right to the same honors?
People give me a lot of crap. You, they adore. I don't understand it. The rest of us pale in your presence, get pushed to the wayside while you bask in the sun. You shine as brightly as new armor while the rest of us rust and rot. You don't care; you just look through us as though we don't exist, like we're merely shadows that dissipate in the glory of your rays of light. We argue in vain about who receives the most attention from you, but the end result is always the same: none of us wins. You don't care about anyone but yourself, about nothing but your own reputation. The only one you even turn your head to speak to is Louis, and that's because he's the one most eager to please, the one who would lay down his life to save you from a paper cut.
What do I have to do to earn a glance from your most beautiful of eyes, lick the dust from your boots? What would I have to do to earn your gratitude? I don't understand why it's so fucking hard for you just once--just once--to say to me, "Good work, Percival."