David Bowie - Moss Garden

June 05, 1778

Two Months Later

...

...A phenomenon... caused by an intense state...

The shape... abrupt changes of character...

...Only humanoid beings... no reasoning... emotions...

For now... To enter the same state... overcome by its own emotions.

...Berserkir units... past... evoke the spirit of animals.

Spirit... to be discharged... massive energy... in Trance...

Triggered... death... anger... sorrow... despair...

...Bravery?...

Traince... It naturally ends... all energy is discharged...

Atmosphere... Mist...

...

— My Highness... – I heard that voice.

I came across these documents Sigurd has kept to himself, and I have read the words in bold, or those that had caught my attention. More than the words on the paper, I also caught the attention of the commander. He found out who was the one who went looking out for his personal stuff. Me, of course, who, even at this moment, had been holding the same document, page five, to say so.

And what should I say to Sigurd, in that state? My state, as well, counted. Caught by surprise, who wouldn't? I had been caught by that hand so many times, the same hand who taught me how to lift a sword, or the correct fork for any kind of food. Swords, and spears as well, do not share the same shape, yet they can be put in any hand, and the edge of their blades can be used to do anything, to make life easier.

When I was younger, I once saw a Royal Guard, no, two of them, in the garden, as they lifted their pikes to chop down a tree with a swollen trunk. It was a dead tree, unlike many winter trees, who only lose their leaves, to later make them grow when other seasons arrive, but that tree would never grow again. That trunk, afterwards, had been turned into fuel for the fireplace, because that's the destination of all poor prime materials.

Not even a chair could had been made of that wood, but then, at least, it could burn, like all trees do, and are capable of doing. People also burn, in a way; by fever, or by mere reaction, a single reaction that, may, end up catching the attention of anyone near its fire. A pile of dry wood burns well, and quicker than any kind of wood; now, a pile of dry people... they all burn, and no one knows who started the fire, after all.

— Oh, Sigurd... – I said, as if I had been surprised by his presence. I'm not that kind who's skilled in lies, seeing how much I do not even trust myself. To truly lie, you must believe that your lies are the truth. Yet, all I had been learning, by Sigurd and others, is that it's wrong to lie.

Why is it wrong to lie, and rightfully acceptable to tell the truth? Is it a lie to tell others that the truth is better than lies? What should I choose as a better way to avoid any kind of question belonging to that frown? Anyway, there is no truth, as much as there is no lie.

There are circumstances, perspectives, and presumptions of what happened, and what shall, or not, happen. Even if I admit, with words or a single quote, the truth, my truth, my body will say otherwise. And how does it keep saying the contrary of my words.

Sweating, a bit crestfallen, no words to be uttered, even if they were, they might end up stuttered by this tongue, about to be bitten, in a chance of two added up to a full percent, and this confusion I created, as I intentionally seeks of more of same, unlike Sigurd, who stands there, seeking of a clear answer, with that wicked frown, arms wide open around that waist, unlike those who gravity keeps pulling to any kind of direction, alike the words I planned to utter, already being uttered.

Other words, by that royal navy blue clothes hanging on that body, alike this one, who also share of same blue cloth, yet ripples are delivered, instead of the static, and calm sea, who seems to be quiet… until a tidal wave comes abruptly, from the middle of the unexpected time, as unexpected I thought about the appearance of Sigurd, who looked as mad as father when he found out that I broke the urn containing the ashes of the first 10 Kings who went by the name of Kain. They may have shared the same name, but they were not of the same kind, except in blood.

— Who granted you access to my stuff, my Highness? – Sigurd asked in his cold demeanor.

I had nothing to say to him, yet I needed to tell him something. When Sigurd asks in that way, he also demands an answer, and silence, if there's such, isn't acceptable, as much as a single 'yes' or 'no' can't be validated as well. Just because is an answer, but an answer belonging to the ignorant ones, and I am no such, in blood, or in words.

— I'm sorry, Sigurd. – I said, lowering my head in shame. Apologies are accepted by the Commander ever since I've learned to talk, and to lie as well. When I look at Sigurd, since the times I had learned to bear the light with the eyes, I can see if my words had made the effect I desire.

— And what else? – No change could be seen on that downtrodden face, because of how vague a mere apology is to Sigurd.

It used to work when I was learning the alphabet, but given how much I grew up, a sorry is the only answer, in the same way as 'yes', 'no' or 'just because'. Besides sorry, I also needed to come up with an explanation, enough to make that frown disappear, because that's the maximum I can get to soften a bit of Sigurd, as I am no longer a child of a pillow.

— Sigurd, I'm sorry if I went snooping into your stuff below your nose without your approval... – I said. I'm really sorry about what I did before. 'To snoop' sounded too informal, but since only I and Sigurd were in this tent, it didn't matter, with the eyes of the public away like the troops, scattered around this dry, empty desert.

A sort of guerilla tactics, adopted by us, and not officially adopted by the enemy, the Alexandrians, who adopt a sort of phalanx defensive stance, or 'granfalloon stance', when they all are gathered on a same site, sharing of a same identity and purpose, although meaningless, or so it makes us believe to be is meaningless when you share of a defense, the troops, and supplies, the food for the troops. Given the assistance of Libers, there is a sort of advantage on our side, as much as there is disadvantage as well.

The sun of Vube, despite being the same sun who shines the entirety of this continent, or the factor that scattered away the Mist from this desert, maybe it's meant to be unexplained, alike how the rain of Burmecia keeps pouring for what seems to be an eternity; so, the sun may have settled down by now, but the nights here are worse as well.

With the heat comes sweat, and dehydration, and maybe death, but when comes the night, the cold, the intense shivers make you wish for the heat of day, and when daylight comes in, you think that you might had chosen the wrong answer, yet good, although you feel bad.

This comparison between the heat of the day and the cold of the night suits how I feel about Sigurd, and the way he acts by each word I speak. These intentions of mine are unlike the results, most of the time. You can't wish for a tree to turn into paper immediately, as much as you can't make Sigurd laugh for any joke, no matter how funny it is. Just because it has been funny to you, it doesn't mean that'll be funny to someone else. I know it, because I once told a joke to Sigurd, that one about why the chocobo crossed the road, when I was a kid, to some like that one about the pregnant woman, and how grass doesn't grow on beaten soil. I'm sure that Sigurd understood them, I know he did, but I couldn't even see a single smirk.

— Tsk, tsk. It seems you had been prying into my personal research, didn't you? – He asked, with that same disappointment in face I saw many times ago, and once again.

Briefly before as well. All I could say was the truth, and an apology, again. Only a few times I had to apologize twice to Sigurd, and only because I had done something that was much more than a single 'wrong', and too far enough to be even 'right'. Breaking glass in the room again, drawing something awful in the carpet, swearing to the Priest, or the Duke, or anyone else in words, and prying into personal files belonging to Sigurd, as I did, and I am sorry if I had done it.

— Yes. I'm sorry, Sigurd. – I said, as if it wasn't enough to keep saying it. Did I had to knee over and cry as well? What I once thought to be an easy escape route to all sorts of problems, this turned out to be one of my many problems.

— You don't have the need to be sorry only to yourself, my Highness. I am another one who shall need to be sorry as well, seeing how I had given such vulnerability to these documents, even for someone such as you, and by result, someone below you, or us, as well.

I... am speechless. I never heard Sigurd say such a thing. Well, only once, when I asked him about mother. 'I had a mother, didn't I?'; that's what I asked him, after hearing from Edgar about his mother, but what about mine? I recall I had said it to Sigurd, about how Edgar treated me, still does the same, but seeing how I fell asleep later that night, I don't know for sure if I had said to Sigurd about it. He didn't even bother, did he?

Anyway, I gave these documents to his, as I left my room. Not a room like home, but a sort of room, better than any common tent from inside. I know it, since I saw one before, many who seemed to be one when I and Sigurd decided to check the troops. That's what he would do, when followed by father, most of the time.

So, I asked Sigurd about Racquel, her name, to Sigurd. That garden, the same mother used to be, so Sigurd told me once, two, three times, same subject of his conversations, was her favorite place belonging to that palace. I wasn't even born, or had an existence yet, but mother had a tie to trees, and their trunks, where she used to rest, to lay under a tree's leaves, with the head and back near the trunk. No matter how stiff the wood, she always felt a kind of comfort near one.

Sigurd also told me that Edgar used to play hide-and-seek in the same garden with mother, as he kept an eye on both. I also played hide-and-seek when young, but not in the same was as Edgar, the main brother, used to. When I played the same game, I was the one who was left behind, the last one to be found, not only because I used to hid well, but Edgar was the one who seeked me.

There was a time I played hide-and-seek with my brothers, and Edgar had found my other brothers, but he couldn't find me. It took so long for him to find me, that I got hungry. It was then that a guard heard me, because of the noises belonging to my stomach. I was starving. As usual, I had been feeded by a banquet like another, and the same for my brothers as well. But when Sigurd seeked me, it was different.

Behind the curtains, behind the plant pot, under the bed, under the table, behind the throne... a few times, I used to hid behind the guard's leg, because they just stood there, like statues, unfunny ones, who only seemed to get alive when ordered by father, or Sigurd, who always had found me, no matter where I was, or when I told the guard to not reveal where I was. They always disobeyed me, but obeyed Sigurd, and father as well.

But there'll be a time when they'll have to obey me, instead of taunting me with the rules, or anything. Edgar used to be the same kid as I had been once, but now he's the King, like father was. He can do anything, always seemed to do anyway, even young, as we were once. Still we are young, and act like such. Sigurd may had been young as well, certainly he had, yet, at least, he's one of few who grew up. He knows how to grow up, besides the height. And, like many grown ups, Sigurd also shares many secrets, or personal stuffs, ether problems, or solutions, as it seemed to be written on those documents.

The King can meddle in any situation, unlike the Prince, yet I do what I haven't been told to do. Curiosity is one of my flaws, and apologies for succeeding with the same curiosity as well. Not that I had been grounded by Sigurd, never I had been, not because of my behavior, but my status. I am the one who shall ground others, or so I had been taught this way.

Besides the punishment, a King also needs to balance the same punishment with rewards, gifts, something that makes someone valuable of their efforts, though many die without being acknowledged. Mother passed, even before I could look at her, or feel her, yet there's a statue of her hanging there, somewhere to be noticed. There'll be a statue belonging to me as well, as much as I do something other than keep saying apologies for any kind of bad situation.

At least, I do say an apology, unlike my brother, who still hadn't said anything to me, besides ordering me what to do, against my will. Though, I took care of his sons not because he demanded, but because they demanded something I had, but my brother had lost it long ago. Same could be said about how Sigurd took care of me all this time, not only because father ordered for him at first, but because he had a commitment, like how his sister, my mother, had with Edgar, and my brothers.