Wire - Heartbeat

…

— ...Life is like the dew on the leaves of a tree. Whether or not the sky falls down, it'll be just a fleeting glimmer.

Prescott Highwind found himself under the desert's twin moonlights. He could not sleep because it was stuffy inside the tent. A dreadfully hot day, so much that the skies became purple and warm heat waves could be seen at the unreachable horizon.

The desert, the long and sandy desert... it felt desolate, empty, like a self-reflecting image of its viewer's soul. Prescott reflected for a while, he stood immobile before the great dunes. It was as if the sand had the desire of covering its explorer's footsteps, to eat them alive and take away their petty lifes. The Burmecian tried to not feel insignificant within the hostile environment he found himself in.

Despite the complaints and sweat all over his thin body, Prescott borrowed an unconditional love for Vube and the majestic view he had of it. He began to write a letter for his beloved wife and kids as he cooked one of its own gaiters. It took some time for the leather to be edible. Prescott had no idea what was worse, to cook its own gaiter or lit the fire with a pile of feces.

— ...I don't know what's worse, kids, to eat my own gaiter or lit the fire with poo. Hmm... Nowhere worse as cooking your own fleas with a pan. – With a feather pen in hand, a rustic piece of paper on another and a confident smile, Prescott wrote to his family about his personal experiences. There were things he kept away from them due to their disturbing nature, like when he survived a Carver Spider's nasty bite, or anything related to what happened back in 1770.

Was I really there? Did I witness the horror and carnage brought to every single street of Alexandria? Prescott remembers how he could not even stare at the fire. Any sort of flame reminded him of houses burnt down alongside people who slept at them. He wonders whose kind of person could have slept all the way through that dreadful night.

— ...Evening. What are ya cooking? – Clyde said, returning from the Commander's tent.

— Have one slice. – Prescott said, offering Clyde a piece of his mouth-watering dessert.

— Eat my socks, you mean. – Clyde laughed. The youthful gentleman watched its guest devour the thing that he used to wear on its feet with a single bite. For Clyde, it felt like eating a tough and chewy steak made of rubber.

— Yummy yummy. – That was his answer, as he imitated a Qu with sordid thoughts in mind.

— Honestly, this ain't the worst thing I ever ate. – Said Prescott, afraid of breaking its teeth or worse, having indigestion. The body knows better what is good and what is really bad for you. – You know, the King of Burmecia once invited me to dinner.

— Whose King?

— His name was Stephanus. I was young, my first year in the Burmecian army. I was never the weapons man, or the buff one. I was a nobody, building up my reputation out of... nothing. Anyway, Major Brandford saw something in me and we became close friends. I polished his javelins, served him tea, washed his armor...

— You were my father's maid. – Clyde stared at the flames, and they seemed to increase by every spit. His mouth was dry, except for outrages. – Did something else happened between you and dad? Heh, behind closed doors, anything can happen.

— Clyde... It's your father. – Prescott demanded respect for the great man Bartholomew Brandford Sr. was.

— Yeah, I miss pops. He was barely at home, but me and my brothers eagerly awaited his return. One day he showed up all wounded and we pretended to ignore he had an awful smell of blood at the dinner table. – Clyde felt guilty for what he said earlier. It was a joke, a very crude and unfunny one. – My apologies. So, my dad and you were friends, great.

— Yes. The Major has invited me alongside his trustworthy men to a Royal dinner. He was polite in teaching us how to hold forks and which one to use. I never understood this kind of unnecessary manners at table, and to be fair, whenever I visited the Burmecian Palace, it felt like traveling to a different reality. The walls are cerulean blue, everything is well-polished and almost dull due white. I know my family can't afford a white fluffy coach because the kids would end up getting it dirty.

— In fact, riches don't seem to have a good taste when it comes to home decoration. – Clyde never got rid of its deep-pocketed hatred, although sometimes he was really nice to others at times. – My mother lives in a simple house and she knows how to make a good house decoration. Carpets under the lunch/dinner/breakfast table, wooden drawers, a few porcelain dishes alongside clay ones, flowers above the table... sounds mundane, but at least my dear mother has a taste, unlike the riches and their white rooms filled with emptiness. That, or they want to shove at our faces that we are poor and we can't pay someone else to clean our couches and beds.

— Ahem... Where was I? – Prescott continued to tell about its past recollection. – We ate in the dining room with the King and its family. From the window we could see the whole of Burmecia, to fields where the rain expanded at. A nice view, as for the dinner itself... peculiar, I'd say. We ate ambergris. 'What the hell is this?' I asked. I was a dirty mouth like you.

— Uh huh. – Clyde mocked Prescott's creativity when it came to insults in silence.

— Well, I said and one of the King's sons heard me. He smiled at me and said out loud: Whale vomit.

— Oh shit. – The cooked gaiter hits Clyde's stomach like a pepper's burn. It is too much for him, though not quite as much as walking miles away on foot through the sands of Vube.

— And that's it. – Prescott always wanted to share this funny story to someone. He did it to its wife and kids once, but they didn't seem to care a lot. Fratley asked him how whale puke tasted like, to which he said that ambergris shared a marine, fecal odor. Like poop on the beach? Zaccharias asked. Kids... you can live without them, but soon as you have them, they are everything you have, he thought. Wifes are important as well. Sophia chuckled at every silly thing that came out of the little one's mouth...

— Who was the kid? – Clyde asked, interrupting Prescott's thoughts about his family. How he misses them, the stillness, the rain, the silly things the kids said...

— I...I don't remember. I was very young and I really can't remember a lot of stuff. I think it was Edgar.

— Edgar!? Like, the current King?

— Indeed. But I might be wrong.

— Honestly, I can't imagine Edgar as a child. Like how I can't imagine being excited by picturing myself licking my brother's butthole. – Sometimes Clyde sounded so vulgar, and Prescott wondered if it was a family thing. Or Clyde just being Clyde. – Also, how's Bart doing?

— I checked Bart's temperature before and it has lowered since then. Not too hot and not too cold. He will be fine.

— Thank Bahamut. – Clyde felt a big relief. – I'd be sad to tell Lenneth that her husband has passed in the most idiotic way. Forgot to ask, but why are you still awake, Hyuuga? Or, should I say Prescott? Or... I don't know, Scott?

— I had a nightmare with Master Gizamaluke. – Said Prescott. who suddenly got shaken. – I was naked, inside the grotto. Gizamaluke rose from a crystal-clear water puddle and he stared right after me with red eyes. He then opened its shark jaws and groaned at me. The smell... I swear I could feel the smell of dead people. Gizamaluke wrapped its tail around my leg and pulled me to its lake. I holded onto a rock with my claws and then I felt a tongue licking licking my body all over, it felt so warm and-

— Whoa! Is that really a nightmare, or what!? – Clyde could not believe what his partner just said. – I would not call it a nightmare if you did not mention the teeth, hehe...

— Clyde, please. It's not funny. – Prescott felt like killing someone, but he was a man of Peace.

— Okay, okay... Don't worry, Scott. Gizamaluke is loyal to Burmecia and its citizens. It won't harm you unless you ask for it.

— I am half-Burmecian, if you remember.

— Yes. That means Gizamaluke will only eat half of your butt. – Clyde giggled. He could not take anything serious at once.

— Have you noticed? – Prescott looked upon, trying to ignore Clyde's demeanor. Who needs enemies when you have a friend like that already... – There are two moons in the skies of Gaia. One is red and the other is blue. As the two moon orbits every sixteen days their positions switch, or so a friend of mine from the Library of Daguerreo said. There are special days where the moons appear to overlap each other, kinda like a solar eclipse but at night. We're still deducing why there are two moons. Jupiter has four, as stated by Galileo.

— Galileo... funny name. – Said Clyde, denoting he did not paid that much attention. – I'd call my cat that way, if I had one. Can Burmecians take care of cats? Why are not there any cat people? I mean, why are Burmecians so hated but not the nobles at Treno, those freaky birds? I hate birds.

— I believe the hatred isn't purely because we are rats, but what we did as human beings.

— ...Or whatever. Do you want to explain what can't be explained?

— Well, explain this. – With a rueful look in the face, Prescott took a piece of paper from inside its armor and gave it to Clyde.

— March 25th, 1770... I was a rug rat. – Clyde said.

He rolled its eyes soon as he read the page ripped out of an old Alexandrian newspaper, dated from eight years ago. The main article featured an artwork of a tall Burmecian with a whip standing at the center of the figure, the remains of a wrecked street where humans walked in a row like donkeys carrying very heavy burdens and a few skulls and bones spread across the sidewalk. Clyde was shocked with this narrowed view of the world, but his eyes could not be taken away from the paper.

— ...''Artist's interpretation of fate of mankind if Burmecians are not driven out, as predicted by Professor Gestahl.'' Do you carry this newspaper with you all the time?

— Not really. But when they called for me to join the army a month ago, I had to bring it with me, just so I don't forget... – A huge height of regret dropped upon Prescott's shoulders.

— ...''Prof. Gestahl warns that the superior abilities and supernatural powers of the Burmecians will enable them to enslave the human race, replacing our civilization with their own. According to the scientist, it is possible that the Burmecians consider humans as merely savage beings suitable for combat, forced labor and entertainment... through gladiatorial sport!'' – Clyde read the newspaper out loud, feeling revolted by the misinformation. – Is that how they see us?

— We can't blame them. Not after all the conflicts, and that night... – Prescott raised its head to the dark skies embraced by the wings of night and wondered to himself how he could be more than one person at a time. His father was a Burmecian, a mother from Cleyra, he enjoyed to dance tango with its wife... and he witnessed murder. – All is fair in love and war, they say.

— In war, you can't rub your sweaty balls over one's face. – Said Clyde, finishing the 'meal'. It could've been worse, to eat raw meat from a dead body, for example.

— When did you become so mean, Clyde? – Prescott could not ignore the obscene talk.

— Do not censor me. That's the usual me. – He replied, not giving a damn about his way of talking. – Also... I met Sigurd. I hate that guy.

— Yes. Sigurd has a certain effect on people. I do recall the many times he looked down on me, like an insignificant snail born without a shell.

— I do not hate him, but I always get a bit upset whenever he makes an appearance. Like a mother who caught you with the thing on your hand...

— I see. – Prescott smirked briefly. He was fascinated with Clyde's similes. Somehow, the last one was a perfect fit for Sigurd's attitude. – Why don't we rest now and tomorrow... I don't know what we'll do by tomorrow.

— Stay alive and sane. That's what we'll do. – Clyde said, as he poured the flames with a bunch of sand. The two soldiers walked straight inside their tent. In one bed, Bart was sleeping like a little angel, so docile and innocent, though his brother. – Rest well, Bart. You have a wife and child to take care of, and I won't forgive you if you leave them alone because they're your family. I always wondered what Lenneth saw on you... a simpleton like you. Well, have a good night. And do not disappoint me!...