A/N: This was supposed to be four chapters long, but it got longer than expected. It happens. Got inspired by Guardian1's Thirteen Ways To Say Goodnight this time. I do really like that story, wish it was complete. That was my first intention, 'oh hey! Let's make an unofficial sequel!', but then I ended up making my own story. Life is strange...

Also, how long has it been since I updated this story? Nevermind, here it is. I hope it gets complete, but everything on its own time, okay? Okay.

Final Fantasy IX belongs to Square Enix (always wanted to do this, feeling so nostalgic right now! Right, enough babbling and let's begin already...)

Luck... It can save a life, or destroy one in the process.

And you can't fight it, no matter how strong you are.

Freya Crescent...

Each time I remember her, she stays alive. But, no matter how much you have, it ain't enough. You were willing to give her a cure, while you had already filled her life with your poison.

She'll never forgive me. She's gone.

...

—Wake Up—

…

No, don't think about what's ruined and lost. Think about the details.

Think about Lindblum's wind, how it carries the scent of pine and rose out a funeral store up there. Pine and rose... How I'd like to be buried in a grave filled with these.

Think about the mourness, contempt and grief underneath. Even the clouds look so sad, so dark and morbid to watch. A storm is about to crash, but it never does. It's afraid of doing what's of itw own nature. It never cared for the trees it burned, why would it care about doing any harm right now? There's nothing left for me in this city. Nothing, but revenge. No, don't say that. Think about how details live in detail. Oil, grease, coffee, sweat, tar, anything that comes from below. From normal people.

Look at these, passing by as if the world never ended before them. As if those windows haven't broken and cut their kids in a half. As if roots and seeds of evil haven't sprouted once at the middle of the street.

And they never did. They never cared. Why should I? It was all a dream. I know it was not, so do Freya. She was the woman of dreams, not only mine. She could jump heights, right? But always landed on the same floor instead of flying away. Fly away, like the dove. Hair white as a dove, falling each day. I might be crazy. Crazy ain't the best of words, but fits. Another one of these nights spent without closing your eyes, for sure. It's easy to blame something, someone other than you... you have power, enough to fool yourself to make the rest feel better. The rest be damned. She cared for the rest, was born in a land of rests.. damn! Each time of the day, these thoughts come back to you. They're back, so what? I share the only size of a double bed. Soon as you roll to the other side, you still remain empty.

...I can't take it anymore. It's time.

…

Radiohead - Planet Telex

…

Well, it is time.

From the window, only the floating rivers are seen, and the water who once poured at the window meets your face. So does the wind. To go upstairs, almost vanishing in thin air... You moved so fast out of bed, without dropping or pulling anything on your way.

— That was quick. – She said. You didn't even have time to even sit on a chair and eat your breakfast on that table. See her face. How much time do you have, if you could do this anytime? Payment only comes at the end of the week, while for others it never comes. She wants to be a Dragoon because it's fun.

Fun? An only week feels like a month for you. What about those five years? Yes, five years walking around the world, and I couldn't change anything at all. The things I left behind didn't change either. She will be alright, living in her own world, without caring about time.

— Don't tell me that you're going to prepare another bowl of yellow syrup and call it food, dad. – She said, frowning at me. What can I say? I can't even prepare an egg without witnessing its shell bursting. On my face. It used to be funny, I made her laugh all the times it happened. I didn't laugh, but knowing someone was happy was enough for me, now that everything feels rather dull and dreadful.

It's been years since Freya passed, but I can't ignore this feeling of grief, that for years has been swelling these walls. The walls of a legendary knight's home. Me? I'm no such legend compared to Miss Crescent. I used to be, I was her hero, and it took a long way for me to recover from my own losses, the feeling that one day I will forget everything haunts me. My childhood, my dearest memories as a Dragoon, my first mission, my first kiss, my identity altogether, simply gone. Had it not been for Freya's support, I wonder if I would still be here, talking to myself as my daughter… Our daughter.

— Thanks. – Heather said, amused as always, as I handed her the soup. I believe it's soup. She takes a fork and pokes at something floating on the liquid that resembles a dead frog. I don't remember there being any frogs in the recipe. – Hmmm… Is this mushroom?

— Shimeji. It tastes good.

— I hope so. It looks disgusting. – Heather stabbed the shimeji, who has seen better days. – At least it's not alive.

— Eat before it gets cold. – I said, sitting on a chair with a bowl of what my dear has named "Fratley's Yucky Stuff", a mixture of yesterday's leftovers and everything edible I could find. Perhaps I took "nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed" too seriously.

— How the heck did you manage to make chicken taste like rice? – Said Heather, stirring her bowl enough to make a whirlpool that drags all the mysterious traces of food to the bottom.

— I have no idea. – I said, as I challenged my taste yet again. A good side of amnesia, in an ironic way, is that I forgot about the dislike I had for certain kinds of food. Sure, it won't compensate for all of the losses, but a man should be allowed to be optimistic.

— Quina would be devastated by your lack of culinary flair. – And, as you may know, Heather is in a brightful mood today.

— There is no need to wear your cloak at home.

— I like it. It makes me feel somewhere else. Somewhere distant… – I can count on my daughter to have some fruitless conversations with a kind of poetry. – After all, we live in Burmecia, built on the blood and bones of innocent lives… You figure that's something to be proud of.

Now it takes more than a spoonful of soup to keep Heather in good spirits. I do remember when a good sleep with the blessing of Mother Reis was enough. "Here comes the dragon! Open up… Open up for the dragon spoon!"; I used to do that a lot at mealtimes. This kitchen used to be the place where Heather bred creativity, unleashing all sorts of food on the walls, the ceiling, the carpet, myself, all covered in food remains by the act of a rebellious young artist.

If only I cared for her innovative artistic expression of smearing bean paste on the walls, or the imagination of a child with the habit of scratching the couch with her nails in hopes of digging for treasure underneath…

We finish breakfast in silence. There was not much else we'd like to share other than ourselves. In older times, I would celebrate my dear finishing her meal with a wave of claps and goofy remarks, as she stared at me with a "Who is the child here?" kind of stare. I walk upstairs to my room, reminiscing about a past that feels close as the slightly dusty pike in the corner.

It's a tradition of the Knights of Burmecia to feed their children for the first time with food found at the tip of their weapons of duty. Heather's first food was a tiny anchovy. When I look at my spear, most specifically its tip, I can already hear them say anything related to toothbrush.

"Here he comes, the toothbrush knight… Don't you prefer to carry a mop?"

"Sir Fratley, former Burmecia's dragon dentist."

"I wonder if your spear had an important role in making Freya fall in love with you."

"You know what really is unforgettable about that guy? That he carries a toothbrush the size of a cross on his back."

"Are you gonna use that to brush a Grand Dragon's teeth?"

"I see why you're part of Burmecia's elite warriors. You are so confident that you can kill someone with a toothbrush."

"Wipe their buttocks really good!"

"Hey Frat, there is this ugly girl who calls me a weirdo, can I borrow your toothbrush to brush her teeth off?"

"The purpose of a toothbrush is to clean mouths, not make them bleed."

"The only way you can scare me with your spear is if I happened to be a germ."

"Look at the good side, your giant-size toothbrush combines with your stupid hat."

"Nevermind, folks, hygiene comes first for his enemies."

My weapon of choice became an object of ridicule due its rather peculiar shape. The intent was to resemble a shark's teeth, but to many people, my daughter included, it became a toothbrush. Go figure... I was only 15 years-old when I came up with the design, give me a break. It was not as stupid as jumping from the top of Burmecia's cathedral in a thunderstorm afternoon or entering a dragon's nest full of bats infected with rabies.

A change of outfits takes less time than a change of character, or a job. I wear this tassel with a feather on its back upon my head once again, same for these green like mud clothes. Bandages wrapped on the soft spots belonging to your hands, gaiters wore on your feet, buckles wrapped around you, tightening your outfit, the only shield you ever shared, but the weapon... It's only a tool, but the man had to be taught. From training woods to flesh, I learned how to slash through barriers. Practice makes perfect, and within time, you learned how to hold this thing without breaking your arm, right?

"Dad, did you almost break your arm because of a toothbrush?"

She laughed all day.

I, too, laughed, even knowing it wasn't funny at all. I did it because of her. My dear deserves the best life she can. The pieces within your skull healing, of old memories left in blank, and new ones arriving each day to fill in the cracks... I wish Freya was here to see how well I am doing. Freya Crescent... Nothing in this house reminds me of her. Why would the clothes worn and weapons maneuvered by a goddess be inside a house as common as this? She saved the world, didn't she? And I don't even get the credits for teaching her all I knew. I am known as Freya's love interest, the guy who got amnesia... how shameful, but that reputation I had is about to be over.

Past is the past, we live in the present.

— Leaving already, dad? – Well, won't you say anything? Like "I'll come back" to Heather? She'll be fine. I always come back for her, but I refuse to be a memory.

— Well, don't come near the fire, my dear. There are apples upon the table. Enjoy… – I said, ready to go.

— And what if I am hungry? If I'm queasy about eating apples and just apples? Shannon taught me how to prepare tea. I can do it by myself. It won't hurt...

Shannon... that's the maid's name. Most of the time, she's here to take care of my little one. I trust her, one of the few people I do. One of the survivors from Cleyra. I was at Cleyra, and yet, couldn't do anything. I don't even know how I survived, none of them do. I was inside the cathedral when Odin's impact happened. He ain't my god, no such god would bully people with its power. People already do it to themselves. Nations are made of people.

''...They don't care who they destroy! Long as they have their stupid fight! And over what? Probably nothing! Like two bullies in a sandbox, fighting over a piece of turf!...''

I don't know who said these words, if a survivor of Cleyra (kind people, they would never), a survivor of Burmecia (they would, but how many left to say?), a survivor of Lindblum (good people, but when it comes to disaster...); or a survivor of Alexandria (they suffered as well). Well, what matters is that there's someone home to take care of Heather.

— I have to go. I'll be back sooner than you think. Send my best regards to Shannon. I love you, Heaty. I do. – Instead of a bold goodbye, a brief embrace feels more genuine. Then, I stop thinking for a time, allowing myself to jump outside the window and move, to simply move…

For a moment, I'm happy.

I remember Shannon, wasn't she a dancer? A beautiful dancer. The Cleyrans danced for eternal harvest, and to keep the sandstorm surrounding their home. A huge sandstorm, for a huge tree. They had the privilege of living upon a tree, without fearing any thunder. They lived above clouds, like angels. They never went to war, who to fight with sitars and harps? It's so sad seeing these people and not knowing who is from Burmecia or who used to be from Cleyra. We are the same, but so different from one another. I can't blame that I feel weird when I see a cleyran on her usual self, while in the rain. Rare thing to see. Peach dresses like autumn, flowers in the middle of cobblestone, while Burmecia lives in green like moss dresses, its fallow lands soaked by mud.

Shannon's country may be dead and dry like the desert who once surrounded it, but her traditions are still alive. She is alive, I know it. But Freya won't come back from knocks made at the front door. Even if she did, I won't be there to hear any of them, because I already left for these streets.

…

— ...Does God forgive anything we do? Just ask him and it's fine? Cool! – Heard a kid at the church. A place I've never been at.

— Yes, God will always forgive you. No matter what you did. – Heard a woman. Old, kind, been here for a long while. – And the beauty of all forgiving love will inspire you, until you no longer need forgiving for what you do. Sometimes, all you need is someone to believe you, and you shine.

— Nah. And the devil? – Said another kid. One of them who has no fear, or hesitation to talk. – Didn't God kick him outta Heaven?

— God's love embraces all beings, including the devil.

— That 's stupid.

— It ain't, child.

— It is. The devil's too bad and mean to be forgiven. – Enter the devil. It's cold here. – Ooh!

— Don't be afraid, children. Don't fear this man. Anything you need?

— I... I need help. – Except for the nun, they look at me as if I'm about to devour them. I would never do such a thing to kids. Even someone rotten as me has principles to carry on – I don't have a religion, nobody to trust. But I feel like talking.

— Of course you do. – She touches my hand, stares at my blue face, and points to a box. – He's waiting.

So I get inside a wooden box, filled with incense and piety. Holy water out a drain. He's here, listening to all sins, quiet.

— Father. – I sit, and begin to talk. The weight of the world at my back. – Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Many years since I confessed to someone. Over the years, I have used my fists to beat men. Used my fists to get what I want. I... I am guilty of many crimes. Crimes of my ego. I feel powerful, and I've used that power to anything. Yet, I am weak, and betrayed. I have no enemies, but I plot their ruin. A dangerous thought came to mind... To break the law to have justice. I want to step over the law, tear it into shreds. Nothing else would make me feel better, except for a drink. The only way I can control these impulses is give myself in, for either revenge or a casual beer. I haven't shaved my beard for a while, there's blood in my hands that ain't mine.

— ...

Pause for breath. I feel less weight in my mind. The many things this man has to hear. The silliest things popping out its ears. He's still quiet, doesn't even move.

— My life... It all began with a dream. A dream of helping the weak. I grew up on streets, and have seen no justice except mine, coming out with these fists. Violent, bloody justice. The satisfaction I had for every broken tooth and bones... I just want to beat everyone, Father. That's all I do. Beat justice and people around me. I once tried to be someone in life, stay out of this senseless and violent past. Didn't work. I was made a fool by a brat, who's now a King. Kinda. He, like the rest, walks on streets made of gold, While I am still here, wandering like a ghost on streets paved by rage.

...

— ...What are we waiting for?

— Patience, Frigg. Have patience.

Darkness doesn't fall in Burmecia.

Instead, it flows through the stretched alleys and tenements found between the luxury gap. How high I can reach with this jump, and for how long should I remain there, staring at those dots under bright lights. To where I am going nobody holds any candles. A candle soon to be blown away, but not on my turn.

— Why did we stop here?

— To listen...

— Listen to what?

— ...The dark cries of human nature.

Rain flows onto my clothes, penetrates through my fur, touching the naked skin below with its fingers. It hits my face, cleansing my sight, but all I see below are ruins. Everybody at Gaia lives in ruins, but the Burmecians are kind enough to admit. It breaks my heart knowing that nothing changed. Nothing, really. I've been fighting for years, only to know that my fists are made of nothing. Problems pour in this city like the rain. You can't punch rain, only faces. Unknown faces, what do they have to do with this? I wonder, so do Frigg. My partner, my company, is one in a million.

— A hydra only dies if you cut the head in the middle.

— There is no middle in any of this, Sir Fratley.

One of them tried to stab me with a bread knife. A bread knife! His mouth tasted the silver edge of my spear.

Buildings can be fixed easily, but the people and their minds... No, it's wrong to punish them. Defenseless, fragile as this world of paper we all live into. Watered papers that won't get dry. No, these people... they did nothing wrong. They're out of their minds, who wouldn't be? They lay on the streets because this kingdom is meant to be their home. They attack because we've asked for it. Anyone passing by. Youngs like me, Frigg, my dear... she's at home, I have nothing to worry about. She won't see me like this. I can say the blood is from a dragon. I am a Dragon Knight, after all. A dragon pouring its flames on the wrong people.

— Dear God... what am I doing? – The spear in hand feels heavy, so does my back.

...

— Revenge... I think about revenge all the time. My enemy has no face, everyone suffers because of that. Freya suffered enough to understand me. The only woman who ever understood me, other than mom. Once again, I tried to be someone by saving this world near doomsday. It still feels like it's near doomsday, my efforts were useless.

— Hmmm... – Now he makes a noise, any sign he's listening at all. Bones, legs, arms, legs... everything hurts. Better continue.

— ...I fought seeking rewards I could never attain, Father. I punched men and beasts, without bothering who's who. No, it wasn't all in vain. I had her at my side. To have Freya's company meant something. I never liked to work carrying potatoes on my own, as much as I never liked someone to be my company, to be judging my actions all time. But Freya was different from the other women. She treated me like I was the girl inside that Dragoon armor, and I treated her the best I could without it. Without that thing, that shell... Armor that could withstand anything in this world. She was invincible inside of it. Anything in the world couldn't touch her inside that armor. It kept everything out as it kept her in. I think that's what it means to be a prisoner. Whoever designed that armor, I wonder if such thoughts ever came to mind. Why would a genius design a human shell that keeps you in, and everything out?

...

...What would you do in my place, Crescent?

You were so young, years below me. We were children, who loved each other without feeling any pain, or sharing of any duty. As the nations of Gaia were powering themselves before the conflict, for this world waiting to see more blood than sense, I wanted to put an end to this. My young self. I wanted Burmecia to grow, to show them that you can't despise rats that belong to a nation, to a market, to a law. But in the end, you forget. Already have lost your aim as soon as you slipped out of the shore. You couldn't get out of her heart, where it hurts most.

To love an only person instead of making this world and its people love each other, even from a distance... that wasn't my goal. But the hope begins here. The surgeon is waiting in its room, but the prosecutor is here to fight for justice. To interrogate these souls. The rain that penetrates on the shadows of any alley isn't enough to make them clean, but these people are the cleanest of them all.

— The wrong people... we're fighting the wrong people. Some of them want us dead, but that's not fair... to fight against common people and their knives, while we fire with bullets made of fire and ice... it's not fair.

— You're right, Frigg. It ain't fair for any of us.

— It's like I kept fighting because I enjoyed the thrill, but there's none and nothing to enjoy. Anything wrong with me, Sir Fratley?

— No. Nothing wrong. We've been fooled. – We're using the right methods, yes, on the wrong rats. Where are the rats in business suits? – Frigg, answer me... If someone helped you when you needed it the most, is that person a friend, or a foe? If someone gave you a drug with the promise that it would make you forget about the reality around, and the thing really worked... would you take it?

— Fantasy is tempting, but you have to live the real world to understand it has it's ups and downs. – Frigg gets tired of standing up, and comes near me, as we share a doorway.

— The rain only falls down. – Here, at Burmecia, and anywhere else in the world.

We've received a report of these addicts attacking people nearby, stealing money. I haven't seen any of them steal, other than our sight. There's a moss garden, where I liked to step and lay above moss like a carpet, like I was standing on some sleeping giant's back. I felt like a giant whenever I stepped over ants, swallowed worms out of the earth, good old days. These people, laying down on the road, almost kneeling for us... Who began the attack? Did they all attacked us? Were they savages as we did? Who knows. What's said, it's said. Is that how you've felt, Freya? You hated receiving orders from above. From me. But that's different, I was born in the same crib as yours. Wore the same rags. You'd give me roses, and I'd share the thorns.

Reinforcements come in to take the garbage pile elsewhere. I wouldn't say Burmecian hospitals are the best place to be at. Try to stay only night at these, and you come back wretched.

...Why are they cheering? We did nothing important. Anyone stupid enough can do it with its bare fists.

— Look, mommy! Dragoon!

— Yes. They are Dragoons.

— Oooh! Cool!

— No, my dear. That's not happy, it's a sad thing. – Mother says to her child. Yes, really sad. But I appreciate you've taught a good lesson, instead of clapping.

Who knows if we're crying or not? The rain is here for this purpose. To hide our tears.

...

— ...A part of her died inside that armor, while the other screamed in pain. This, Father, quiets the screams, dulls the pain, drowns any sorrow out. Yes, I drink. What can I say? With all the water pollution, I'd rather have this. I carry on a bottle for emergencies, like if it gets cold. It feels cold all the time. I felt no such thing at Freya's side. She wore cold armor, but inside, kept all warmth to herself. Even her tears were warmer than mine. Now she's gone. My fault. She got close, too close of the flaming Amarant here, and for every flame, comes a burn. Stupid woman... What has she seen in me to get this close? I don't need this. I want to beat away everyone who ruined my life. Everyone who tried to fix it too.

— My son... I'm sure there's good in you. So much good you are unable to show at the moment. But, with a bit of effort, the best of you can shine. And God is very forgiving. – Enough about that talk...

— No! I can't be forgiven! – My verdict.

— You must control the urge to hurt, beginning with yourself. – Revenge is pointless, as well as being here.

— Sorry. I really can't be forgiven. – Not for you, or anyone else. Not even god.

To think I felt her last, pitiful heartbeat. At least I was at her side when it happened. She wasn't alone. Freya... you had a plenty of life to be shared later on. Her lungs to be filled with far more than dead air, her ears to listen to the birds sing instead of any sobbing. Her white strands meant to be combed each day, instead of falling out of her head each day. Each day near winter.

I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors, but I think that god's got a sick sense of humor.

And when I die, I expect to find him laughing.