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 in the 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 it felt for me, when I hold that hand, a weakling's hand...
Be stronger.
I couldn't keep telling it to myself, so I told another. For those who departed, and those who came. Nobody is born to change the place of another, despite sons sharing our appearance. But their personality doesn't come already. Sometimes they scream, others not, like all animals do. And to think even the worthless 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 person who lives in a less than perfect world. Everything is perfect in heaven, but that only matters when you get tired as I do. Walking on 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 it's 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 you, slowly you've accepted that's it. Sometimes, to be a Dragoon is as if you were fighting the symptoms without the cure. And most of the time, you are a disease itself. My dear doesn't know what a disease is, or what they are capable of. Her nose drools like that mouth covered by spit. This time of day, when I back at home, Freya already knows it's time to be feeded. Learn 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. The one with caramel fur and ragged clothes. That one who bumped into me before I went to the Jugend. I thought he was just a passerby, but no. How the hell did he come 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. It's something 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? – As soon as I said it, he looked at me with that stare of dead fish. But fishes do not smile like that. – Eugh… Forget it.
— Hey, aren't ye 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 believe 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… Hold me tight? 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 dirt 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 flaccid at all. The boy used it as 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! Smell ya! – And the last thing I heard from that little bugger was his laugh, before both faded from a distance. Well, Why did mom wear this helmet, if her head didn't fit? Not only to make her ears dry, as it seems.
In 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 have been prevented, had I not given a chance to his, but I did anyway. Me and my big heart for all living beings.
— No wonder why they call that kid by Puke... Uh, Puck, I mean.
— …Jack? – I can hear my brother's voice all of a sudden. Not that I ever had an appreciation for it, or that it mattered much for me. He had the same voice of every child, although a few of them shared laurel strands. – Where are you?
— I'm comin' at you, sis! – Said Jack. Yet, I can't see him. But to 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 in 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 fixed job, so he took opportunities before others could.
— As far as I know, only you 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 do I do it to get some precious gil, but because I care for other rewards. I am a Dragoon too, sis!... Well, kind of. I clean the mess nobody sees as mother used to. Guess I always wanted to clean the mess when hunting basilisks in 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, like Bwah! Bwah! Bwaaah! It's rather annoying. – 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 as soon as he took his son in 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 the 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 to familiar faces?
— I don't think so. Hrist was there.
— Hrist?... – Jack scratched his head with surprise in his eyes. – 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. Where are you going, sis?
— Back at home. – Though, there is this address Hrist offered me. I took it out of my pocket and showed it to Jack. – But there is this place I would like to 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 address.
— And that's the name of an old friend of mine as well. My, that weirdo… Has he returned? – For Jack, it's always good to meet childhood friends, even if times change. – Since there aren't a lot of Fratleys hanging out, it must be him. Though, Irontail... wasn't he a Highwind?
— How would I know?
— Oh, you were too young to remember. Like two.
— I still remember who my father was.
— Sure. I mean, you haven't even been born yet when I knew Fratley. I wonder why he changed his surname, but I guess a lot has happened since he left this place years ago. And so, I haven't seen him since then. 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 pajamas, Jack?
— Try to get a night of sleep with this prick.– He was referring to Freyr, who slept like an angel. What a deceitful little boy… Just like dad.
— He's a split image of the father, indeed. – In other aspects as well. I know Jack used to sleep well, without making a noise. Guess that same can't be said about me, or Freyr. He might soon wake up like a bomb to our ears.
— Why couldn't he take something other than mother's pretty hair?
— You haven't told me who's the lucky mom yet. – Honestly, the idea of my brother having sexual intercourse with someone is both terrifying and alarming. If he is allowed to reproduce, to make little Jacks… No one's safe.
— Have I? I mean, that day... You two met before.
— Have we? – Why does Jack look so nervous? As if he's unable to spit it out, and to think he was the champion of a spitting contest. This is so stupid to see.
— Of course.
— And what does she look like?
— Well... older than me. – What a relief. I don't want to be the Kraken of drama.
— How old?
— She was... I mean, she is... Beautiful. Right, beautiful.
— Not enough information to make her stand out from the rest. – I am glad she's older than Jack, but how much? That worries me…
— 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 are plenty of ways to love someone. Like, I love you, sis, as much as I loved mom, pops...
— Did you love 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 drop the ducks for geese. – Why am I insisting on this? Is it because I have nothing else to do? Nothing, but have a talk. I also love my brother's dumbstruck face.
— To be honest, I felt something for Learie. But not the same I felt for her. She took care of me, knowing 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? Yep, he did. I feel a bit ashamed thinking about how Jack looked at her that way, and she was, like, a friend of mine, nothing else.
— …I knew that you liked Ottis, but not this much.
— She likes children. – Our nursemaid, Jack… She had almost the age I have right now, and when Jack felt these things he said, he was only six. He waited until he became older to understand, as it seems.
— We all grow up someday.
— To only see another grown like we did before. I wonder how 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 a 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 mirrors tend to distort the 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 any complaints. 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 the country air. It smells like the city, but the only dirty things to be found are piles of mud, or a piece of grass in your clothes after you take a fall. It used to be funny to keep rolling down a slope.
It wasn't funny when we hitted the Ha-ha. They keep putting these walls around, 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 care that much as soon as I grew like a tree, flourishing of its flowers, while still tied into the 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... The 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 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 like a worm throw in sunlight. So I couldn't be kidnapped by an envious mom, or in the worst way, for my little corpse to be recognized by authorities.
Orange is a color like tangerine. It depends on 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 knife? Only adults hold knives, burn their hands in our places. With money, mom could afford health for the family as well. Dad also worked a lot, and sometimes he received things. Didn't care 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, from the perspective of a million others, counting those who cross those straight corridors, filled in with portraits and statues. In my neighborhood, despite the size of a large street which 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 like 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 run 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 cross the road?...
...Don't know...
...It's 'because 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 at 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, traveling 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 as 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 sound that painful, except for me. Maybe that's why nobody wanted to adopt 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 in 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 Oglop. Mom thought it was cute, but if I called her by Oglop, well... It depends on the tone of your voice.
Now, anything said today seems like an offense. Except if you're a 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 held 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 address? 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 to 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 water fall in a puddle where white and orange carps swim... How fancy.
But the reason for the chicken's weather is that I can't understand. They are always pink. And look, they still sell this green syrup for today. Same children, standing near their homes, although I've only seen one near Sir Fratley's home. A kid with spiky hair like a cactus which reminded me of Jack. He prepared a bunch of cups, sold for a price cheaper than sawdust. Maybe it tastes the 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, nor does he know who I am. Advice can be delivered by anybody who's interested to see another improvement. They're that young, with more chances of getting better. I was young, heard many words, and only a few remain to this day.
— Hey.
— Did you like 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 prepare 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 from drinking these. Spearmint... It's cold, refreshing. I do not feel that I saw any tamarind, other than its color. As for pineapple, there's only its yellow lints floating like spearmint leaves. – Did you like it?
— Yes – a lot better.
— Want more?
— No, thanks.
— Want something else?
— I would like to know if this is Sir Fratley's address. – I asked the boy, to which, after cleaning a cup with a red tourniquet taken out of his pocket, which made it hard to know if it was dirty or not, he 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 he looks like 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 will I be able to see this Fratley. Sir Fratley, 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 to each other, but that time was one of the few I could lend my hands free of. While Jack catched them, not bothered by the size of the tree and those spikes, I stood down with a basket, waiting for them to fall in the right place other than my head. When mom went out to the market, I used the cap to collect them instead. Some rolled down the path, to never be seen 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 to light, on the other hand...
...
...Want some lemonade, dad?...
...Sure. Let me see...
...Don't you mean prove?...
...Oh, right. Well... It tastes like water...
...Water doesn't 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 made lemonade, I swear!...
...Can you prove it?...
...With these hands. I made 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...
...
