June 25th, 1778

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At least, we settled a temporary camp. Our tents were already prepared and distributed by the rookies, who had been carrying them around since we left Burmecia by daylight. I'm currently inside one of them, writing another page. If it's for a diary, a travelogue, whatever; it's only me and my thoughts, for now.

I'm so distant from home. A miles away from my family, and there's no window, no furnitures, nothing that resembles home, except me. Grass and land are on the place of whenever there was a wooden floor, or its carpet. Only two organic beds, slim as the tip of a kingpin. Almost medieval, but leastwise, they're comfortable. Pieces of cotton, straw and wool were gathered inside. Way better than sleep on a soaked and muddy floor. All that I felt, for now, is tranquility, even if it lasts this only night, laying on this bed later.

A miles away, my body says, but my memories says otherwise. When I look at Clyde... Well, Clyde's one of my siblings. The eldest one, the one who came to this world first than me, he learned what is to be responsible first. Clyde is such an optimistic person, always near the future ahead. Shaken under the bed, after father died that day, Clyde were the one who stood stand beside and comforted my thoughts on those dark times. — If someone is about to faint, a phoenix down is enough. If it isn't, then there's no hope. Like, you can't ressurect the dead if his soul had already left the body. That's just the way it is – Those where his words once said to me.

When Clyde were once a kid, he wished to be like a Dragoon Knight, so he could defend people as defenseless as he once was. Instead, At 16, he enlisted on army. A reserve soldier, like me, only called to his post whenever there's a disturbance. When he's at reserve, he works as a baker. He later married a woman, called Cynthia. Clyde said to me he found a way to conquer her using his culinary skills. I don't think so, but I know Love sure's a mysterious thing. Who ever thought I felt in to a left-handed? Not that I care about it. Whichever hand she's fine to use, Lenneth is still my darling wife.

But I'm not here to think about Lenneth – maybe later –, because this time is dedicated to Clyde. To summarize... At first glance, he's such a formidable person that is there to help whenever who you are. Now that I know him... I'd say he changed a lot. From the Devil to a Saint, Clyde can't hide from me, his brother, the past. Nor I can't do the same, either.

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♫The Velvet Underground - Sunday Morning♫

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Clyde, Clyde...

Damn you.

To fill in the gaps of our conversation, he talks bullshit. Like a writer, whose work is based on improvised subjects with enough blabbering so his text is rich in argument, but in fact, it isn't. I would say Clyde is the Lord Avon of this specific topic. His meaningless words are often rich in absolutely nothing relevant – at least, for me. From his tongue-in-cheek flavored low-down shorts to chronicles to his childhood, featuring me and our siblings as deuteragonist figures hidden under his back, felt like they belonged to an epic poem than from an ordinary's mouth. Heck, he even asked me about the day our father beaten him as a punishiment for something we did in the past.

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I still remember it, somehow. A fainted memory, not clearly as water, but still a visible thing to see. Once there was a willow tree nearby my house. Me and Clyde, we climbed and we showed our turkeys at the people walking nearby by. In other words, we pissed on them. In the ear, the nose, the head... We laughed for a while, in silence, until the fun ended, eaxctly when a soldier's mouth got caught by the warm waves of regret. And I can only blame Clyde for his stupidity. Nature called me by surprise on that day, and that stupid idea was his. At least, that's what I said. And father heard me. And Clyde suffered instead. After that day, even a bit injured, he was fine that he took the place of blame for me, because he was my elder brother, and he also described the pain he felt as something I couldn't even describe.

From this dark evening to an unpleasant morning in the past... Those were dark times like these, but I was just a kid to understand it. It's a thing only boys, like us, could (and not) comprehend. We were reckless young rat kids back in that day, and we had nothing else to do except obey what our parents said – phrases often ending with 'this' word, like 'eat this', 'wear this', 'clean this', anyway – or go play outside. Boys jumping rope on a wet pavement, waiting until someone slips and falls; little girls, like my little sister Theresa, singing nursery rhymes, and whenever they forget some lyrics, they sang that annoying 'lalalalalala' instead; our other siblings, like Martin and their friends, hunting and killing wild Basilisks with pointy stones as ammunition for their slingshots; and us, atop the willow tree, to shout rude names and spit on people without noticing and watch anything else than the clouds gray as we.

Clyde would often call his other friends as well to stand on that tree. Or behind the brick fence of a neighboor friend of his, where we – boys only – reunited once in a week to decide whose pecker was bigger. I never won any points, to be honest. At least, a lot of male friends I made throught this life were my competitors. Like Josef, the barman; Charles, the architeth who later constructed mine and Lenneth's house at the countryside of the kingdom; and Paul, who became a friend of ours on an unexpected way. He said once to us his pecker were as big as one of his father's cigars.

We laughed at him. Of course that mice was a pretty liar, but he had a look of plenty confidence over something before he ran away. Minutes later, Paul brought to us a pack of cigars from his father. Did he asked his father's permission to carry that seemed rather odd, given that before he showed us the cigars, they were hidden under that boy's cap. I knew, in fact, that he stole it from his father. Besides being a liar – about his small whip –, Paul was a thief, but that didn't matter. Those cigars were no cheap things. That boy later told us his father were a merchant, and the tobacco he went carrying to us were imported from the plateaus belonging to Alexandria itself.

While Clyde and some of his friends climbed up that tree, the weeping willow, to try out a legitimate Alexandrian cigar – I don't smoke, and I refuse to do it since that day –, one were to stand next to the trunk and send a signal if whenever an adult, parent, were next. Me, as a task, was to find a way to ignite the cigar. I brought a candle I found in kitchen to the outside, carefully avoiding the rain or any relatives of taking away the I climbed that tree, Clyde burnt one of those cigars in his mouth. Smoke blew from his throath, accompanied by the melody of our coughs. Cough, cough. Then, after some friends refused to try – like me – and disbanded to their houses, Clyde stood upon that tree, to look at the clouds he manufactured with his breath.

I despise cigar, yet Clyde has a taste for such a nasty thing. He at least ain't addicted to smoking, thank god, but often I see he and a pipe, next to each other's heart. As it seems, siblings aren't exactly the same person. They only got the skin as something in common. Beneath the skin, lying within the flesh, there it is your soul. Your experiences, your character... Clyde's strokes aren't my strokes. Even if my path is a divergent one than his, I feel fine, because it's part of us. Althought, the same path of blood left by father remains the same within me, Clyde... and Jack.

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