...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...That dawn... I can hear the sound of the dawn. The sound of the rain falling upon us. The sound of that boy, and his drum. Reluctantly drumming a pattern. This same pattern I can hear from outside. I can hear... the drums being hit, and see the number of times they are hitten by the sticks.
The sticks that boy carried with his drum... the drum... the drum of triumph. This drum... that drum... That boy. I was... that boy. I was playing with my drum on that dawn. I played the same drum on the dawn my father left. They played the drums again on the dawn I left. The rain we left. For my father, I played the drum, and the song... for their fathers, the children sang, with the drum that sang...
Triumph...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...One... One, two...
...One... One, two, three, four!...
...
Simple Minds - Premonition
July 02, 1778
Daines-horse Basin
...
— ...Excuse me. – I heard a voice. I was sleeping as Clyde within this tent of ours, and I wasn't expecting such visitors to arrive near our place.
Yes, that voice... It was Sigurd, the one who follows the Prince, Gabriel, who is also standing there, near his. Light came into the inside of the tent as they opened it, so did my eyes. Unlike me, and Clyde, and Prescott, who doesn't seem to be there, maybe he awoke earlier and is now wandering outside, these people... They wear some kind of shining armor, silver for Sigurd and a beige-like gold for the Prince, our Highness; those outfits seem to be made of a better and more resistant material than ours.
Guess I'll never be able to wear one of those. Currently, I'm wearing none of sort, so do Clyde. The only piece of cloth in contact with my body is this blanket I am holding with both hands, so as to hide myself from others, like the ones standing in there, and from the cold outside. There are only male people in there, so why worry? Don't know. Not sure why.
The only thing I'm sure of is that it's drizzling, as it seems. When it rains, you can feel the tent being hit, struck by each drip falling from atop the sky, its impact, its sound, whether you are on a sleep or not. But when it drizzles, you feel nothing of it. The water still is falling from below the clouds, into such skinny drips, unlike those constants of my homeland.
The rain of Burmecia... there is some kind of mystical to it. I can't explain, not even the legend, but you must feel it, smell it, walk under it to know. I do know, unlike many. When there is strangers wandering around the kingdom, mostly caravans of trade, they say the climate is awful, the rain keeps their shoes moist, the people from there do rather ignore the sad atmosphere of tones of gray, from the clouds to our houses to the skins; mainly their complains are this kind of banality, such as rain keeps watering over my head, to a matter of nescience, such as one said that there is no sun around Burmecia. There is, but only a few times, and if you're lucky enough, a shard of the same sun for everyone can be seen, and so do the rainbow near it.
I do understand the matter of their complaints, as much as they sound this way. Alexandrians, Lindblunians... They all come from a land where the sun can be seen so easily. It's there, up in the sky, blue sky. There is no such blue sky at home, but the sun remains the same, for us and for them. These people from outside, they had been attached to the sun and its light since the day of their birth, unlike we, who had been attached to the clouds and its rain since we had been blessed to live since our birth.
— Are you... Bartholomew Brandford? – Sigurd asked me. He is some kind of tutor for Gabriel since the birth of his, or so Clyde told me.
'Of course I am'. Though, to answer his question in such a way... Clyde's way, I don't think so. I'm wondering why Sigurd asked, since he should have known us since that day he and the Prince had done the personal inspection. We were all on the same horizontal line, same erect position from our legs to the chest, as they watched us as one.
— ...And why do you ask? – It was not me who asked. I would never, but Clyde... I knew he would.
Clyde was listening to what Sigurd talked briefly, laying on another bed, another sleep, unlike mine. Why did they come into our tent? I also wanted to know why such formality and coincidence colliding within each. Not on the same way as Clyde, on the way he looked upon Sigurd and the Prince, but I wanted to know, on my way.
— You see... – Sigurd paused for a while. It seemed that only Sigurd talked to us, but the Prince, well, he stood besides his tutor. Not behind, not so far, not in front of him. Just quiet and on his side.
He seems to look at us, but at the same time, he doesn't. He doesn't share a static vision as Sigurd, or Clyde. Not that he wants, but just that he wants to look at everything. His head turns to the left, right, to the front, as he stands there, near the tutor.
Father fought alongside King Stephanus, who once was Gabriel's father, the only remaining parent of his. The Queen Racquel died at the same time he was born, her last son, and the King stood fighting outside the palace, while his brothers were taught by tutors, including Sigurd, his and only until now, the one who speaks when he doesn't
— …We are rather surprised to see you in this pitiful state. To think Brandfords like yours stay in there...
— Oh, so you've come here to mock us, huh? – asked Clyde, in the same way of his. At the same time he asked, he already answered such a question.
The way he asked... as if he didn't care for what Sigurd intended to answer, because that would change nothing, like the monarchy above us, and the armors they carry over their bodies, or something of sorts. Ever since I was born, or if I recall the day I learned to talk, Clyde was that kind, not this kind, but the seed that became the plant he is now.
The kind of kid in constant activity, all little Clyde wanted was attention, either by the words of his or by things that can't be rightfully expressed into mere words. To be awake into the nights where we used to sleep, to warm a bed with the piss of his while sleeping, to cover himself into mud to let mother wash his, invite us to measure our sticks back in the alley...
All Clyde wanted was attention, and still he does. With words of his alone, but when others are gathered near or distant of his, besides attention, Clyde wants them to follow him, by words or actions same as his words.
To force others to do the same as his, conditionally or not; mostly Clyde fooled me and our brothers to do what he intended in a way we didn't even know what he was about to do. Most of what I do and what I became for other people was thanks to Clyde being born before me, and other brothers as well.
I know, beneath the skin of ours, we all have some kind of Clyde, though we do not manifest in the same way as his, the original vessel. Clyde ain't a childish one, though sometimes he is. More like a plant that wants to live in the sun, his and only. We all know the sun is above us, always keep shining upon this and other lands, no matter if there are clouds or the thick layers of Mist to block its light.
...But why in the hell am I paying attention to Clyde at such a moment? And am I the only one who is doing this by now?
No more. Anyway...
— Certainly not. – Answered Gabriel. We all went into a moment of surprise. By all, I mean Clyde and me, maybe Prescott if he was there, except Sigurd, who only stood quiet as the Prince spoke.
He looked serious, as he was about to speak in the same way as his face shown to us. – We are inviting all soldiers who came to this place for a ceremony, in honor of the greatest Burmecian warrior who ever existed, the one who wrote the words in the book, the first and only of his. It will be a pleasure for all us, part of the Holy Burmecian Empire army, and those who decided to be part of it.
I looked at Clyde before the Prince spoke to us, and others as well, since we all had been invited to this ceremony he had told. When I turned to see Clyde, briefly, I could somehow see a look of 'decided, me?' upon the face of his.
His frown wasn't fully shown towards Sigurd and the Prince, but there was a signal pointing of its existence, a brief one that vanished, or seemingly had. After all, who would interrupt the Prince with words? Not even Clyde is this kind of individual, but he always finds a way to be the spot for all lines to cross into his.
But he was right. Who decided to be here? We all had been accepted in the army because we signed the papers when we turned eighteen or sixteen years-old. They could have called us into anything that resembles a war, and we would do nothing than obey. But we had no reason to worry, since the wars went over after the revolution brought by Lindblum came, or so that's what we thought. In those times, we lived our lives, what we decided to do by ourselves, this before we found another to live together with his.
Lenneth, Cynthia, this Sophia Prescott speaks about... we, or some of us, learned to live for the sake of another, beyond ourselves, because they became part of us. What would you say, feel, after years of amends made, to accept a woman once a girl we despised as kids, to come into emotional terms with the partner to anything we desired, to led this someone who cares for us accept of our presence deep into her, a heart of a gold we will never attain, to have and to hold. A 'goodbye', 'won't come back', 'please take care of my son, our son' isn't enough. Never had been.
On this same kind of way as mine, he was right to be a bit upset, and worried at same time, even though the upset side of his was shown in more time than the worried one, who persisted when the Prince and the tutor of his left our tent, to come into another as they had done here, and before, and now.
Now, to describe the look of Clyde in a few words... He disguised the looks he had into other ones, the looks he wished I had of his. We all wished, or so did Clyde. Even when nobody can't see the look of his, some like me can feel what Clyde is expressing, some sort of force pulling me into his, a force shown by the words of his, or by himself as a whole.
What I feel for Clyde can't be truly expressed into words, like when he sometimes can't handle a single conversation, to me, others and even himself, until he collapses into random directions. Directions, paths that can't be taken back, like doors you can open, but can't open once you've found yourself inside the room. But he sure had gotten the attention, this and other ways, didn't he? A sort of disappointment and a need of attention; that is by far the description I could get of the naked side of his.
When Clyde speaks, we give him attention as a baby who is crying for food, or for what maybe Clyde needs, comfort, that sounds unlike some of the words he finds sometimes to express. When Clyde doesn't speak, some still give him attention, as a baby, who is now quiet, on his own. A baby who always had been crying all day long, and now, seems so quiet... 'Is it asleep?'; 'Is it peek-a-boo?'; 'Is it dead?'; these, those and more are the doubts of ours. Doubts that can be said, in a conversation, or into expressions, abstract as part of what makes Clyde behave in such a way, but that is only a part of his, the part meant to be shown.
— You... What are you two waiting for? – Someone asked. This someone's voice could be heard from outside, near our tent. As usual, and only, it was a male voice, from the same male that came in. It was Prescott, the one who woke up before us so he could do us a favor. Not that we demanded such, but he had done it either way – Here. It looks the same as always, but it should be better to wear them.
He was referring to our armors and the piece of cloth we all wear below them. Underneath the armor, pieces of cloth dyed in an azure tone, attached to a kind of green as lime, or just green by a few. Not all our clothes are the same, but they are in a way, like some of us have a brighter or darker tone of gray.
On the feet, gaiters are worn; they are essential as the protector we wore in both our hands, and recommended as a sheath where the blade is hid. For those who don't carry on a sword, a javelin is kept on their back. If not, we are born with those claws, but I think that is a rather savage way of dealing with such a thing as combat. I don't know what others think, but maybe it's the same as me, or maybe not.
— ...Is there someone who died? – Asked Clyde. Seeing the look of Clyde's eyes, it was as if he wished someone to die. Don't know who, but he was waiting for such.
I know Clyde ain't a murderer, of his and others. And that's the kind of Clyde I don't know much about; the one who was raised between the Royal Family, as a personal guard of the Palace and its surroundings, who knew about this Prescott, that found a way to answer the question of his, but not mine, because I didn't asked for his, but I was awaiting to ask for another.
— ...No, but it wished for such a long time.
— It? – I asked. I was intrigued by the words of Prescott. A few that became a whole to me – You... you don't mean...
— Maybe. Now, Bart, Clyde... when you're both ready, follow me.
Now, this armor... Not so heavy, but I thought it was once. Maybe I had changed of idea because me, like we, had been in union with this uniform for all these days, so I just forgot how heavy it is, and again I should, for now.
The only part upper us to be left exposed by the hat are these pair of ears, besides the face of ours, and a kind of tattoo for a few. Like our ancestors, we paint our body; only our face has such spots to be seen now, since we don't fight against our enemies naked like they used to. For some, they are seen as some sort of garments, but a garment is a mere thing to compare with our past.
Some of us also wear earrings, but like the tattoos of our faces, they aren't just there for decoration. So, the skin of a few are endowed with a kind of symbol, but what does such mean... Bravery? Courage? Valor? Honor? Luck, perhaps? I don't know, like we, like everyone. Because mostly our story had been told from mouth to mouth, the meaning of many things left by our ancestors to younger generations of this future had been lost forever, or changed abruptly from its original meaning.
Even Bahamut, our God, had changed with time. For some, he is a Fish; to others, he is a Dragon, a Cloud, the Wind... Some believe Bahamut is the rain itself, the one that falls upon us at Burmecia. We will never know, and that's one positive thing, of many negatives left.
A single tattoo... The ones who share the symbol mostly are from the Royal Division, the King's personal soldiers. Clyde once was one of them, but I wonder what happened to him. To think he became a baker... not bad. Not bad. Suits him fine, I guess. He was never a kind of cook, but I wonder if he changed after Cynthia came. I changed for Lenneth, so Clyde did for his wife, I guess.
For better, or for less better, because he is already a screwed person. Not a bad or worse person, because we all have problems. And there are problems that can be solved, they all can, but for Clyde, there is no solution such as problem resolved, but relief the problems of his is a more adequate term.
Now that we wore all the parts that, combined, make one uniform, me and Clyde followed Prescott, who were watching us from outside the tent, from the moment he gave us our once dirty outfits, who went clean when they came to his hands, to the moment we finished and were prepared to follow where Prescott was going in.
He said to follow him, and I just followed, like Clyde does. I don't question, because it may be an order from the Prince itself, but kinda I wanted. Maybe my doubts will be clarified in the middle of the way. Within a second, everyone else had gotten in the range of the falling drizzle, like the tents we stood at their inside.
For the safety of our camp, a few soldiers stood, the same who presumably went before us, awoke before us, as I could see in their eyes. They needed some rest, but not now. If there was no one left in the camp, maybe the Vices would find an opportunity to steal or even destroy the camp we made with our hands, to later fall apart by the hands of it.
As they keep on defensive stance, by relaxing their legs and feet, holding a sword with the blade turned backwards, they are allowed by such a position to pounce with great speed into any direction if an attack might come from all sorts of direction, left or right, up or down, front and back. Without their armor and hat, like mine, their speed increase on a range they are able to avoid, at the same time they can revidate with an attack of the blade. Interesting...
The rest went into some kind of ceremony, or so does seem to be, as the Prince hinted to us. The greatest Burmecian warrior who ever existed... I recall hearing such words before. Maybe when I was a child, but I don't seem to remember most of it. The tales of past eras told by our parents, maybe it was something related to one of these stories told before we slept in our beds.
Maybe I had slept before they finished the story, perhaps. But there is always time to learn things once again. Just because we grew up doesn't mean we can carry on the knowledge the same people of the same age as ours in those times taught us. Some things are kept forever in our minds, while others just vanish in a matter of time.