...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 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!...
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♫Kraftwerk - Spiegelsaal/The Hall Of Mirrors♫
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July 02, 1778
...
— ...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 alike gold for the Prince, our Highness; those outfits seems to be made of a better and more resistent material than ours.
Guess I'll never be able to wore 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 to hid 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, it's impact, it's sound, whenever 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 in 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 complains, as much as they sound this way. Alexandrians, Lindblunians... they all come from a land where the sun can be seem 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 they. These people from outside, they had been attached of 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 to me. He is some kind of tutor for Gabriel since the birth of his, or so do Clyde or father said. 'Of course am I'. Thought, to answer his question on such way... Clyde's way, I don't think so. I'm wondering why do Sigurd asked, since he should know us since that day he and the Prince had done the personal inspection. We were all on a 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 they came in, to 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 his. Just quiet and on his side. He seems to look at us, but at the same time, he doesn't. He doesn't share of a static vision as Sigurd, or Clyde. Not that he want, but just that he wants to look at everything. His head turns to left, right, to the front, as he stand in there, near the tutor of his.
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 figthing 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 such pitiful state. To think Brandfords like yours stay in there...
— Oh, so you've came here to mock us? – asked Clyde, on the same way of his. At the same time he asked, he already answered such question. The way he asked... as if he didn't cared for what Sigurd intended to answer, because that would change nothing, alike 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 on sleep, 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 they to follow his, 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 on 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, benath the skin of ours, we all have some kind of Clyde, thought we do not manifest on the same way as his, the original vessel. Clyde ain't a childish one, thought 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 it's light.
...But why in the hell do am I paying attention to Clyde on 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 see somehow a look of 'decided, me?' upon the face of his. His frown wasn't fully showed 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 find a way to be the spot for all lines to cross into his.
But he was right. Who decided to be there? 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. On 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 thought 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 another ones, the looks he wished I had of his. We all wished, or so do 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 do 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 himself inside the room. But he sure had gotten the attention, this and other ways, didn't he? A sort of dissapointment 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 find 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 along, and now, seems so quiet... 'Is it asleep?'; 'Is it peak-a-boo?'; 'Is it dead?'; these, those and more are the doubts of ours. Doubts that can be said, on a conversation, or into expressions, abstract as part of what makes Clyde behave on such way, but that is only a part of his, the part meant to be shown.
— You... what are you two awaiting 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 a same male that came in. It was Prescott, the one who woke up before us so he could do us a favour. Not that we demanded of 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 on 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 wore; they are essential as the protector we wore in both our hands, and reccomended as a sheath were 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 thing as a 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 awaiting 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 such for 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 tatoo for a few. Like our ancestors, we paint our body; only our face has such spot to be seen now, since we don't fight against our enemies naked like they used to. For some, they are seem as some 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 tatoos 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? Honour? Luck, perhaps? Idon'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 tatoo... The ones who share of 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 his. To think he become a baker... not bad. Not bad. Suits him fine, I guess. He was never a kind of cooker, 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 of 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.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
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 his, and I just follow, 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 be later fall apart by the hands of it. As they keep on defensive stance, by relaxing their legs and feet, holding of a sword with the blade turned backwards, they are allowed by such 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 to heard such words before. Maybe when I was a child, but I don't seem to remember mostly 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 is always time to learn things once again. Just because we grown up doesn't mean we can carry on the knowledge the same people of same age as ours on those times taught us. Some things are kept forever in our minds, while others just vanish in a matter of time.
— Prescott – I said. As we walked further, my doubts also increased as the lenght of the path we followed. And they ached as the feet of mine as well.
— What is it, Bart? – he asked. Those rocks... Inconsiderate rocks. If it wasn't for those gaiters, I, as my feet, would be done for so long by now. The woe would be abysmal. So, Prescott asked, because I spoke his name. Not in vain, but I said his name, because I had a question. I still have, but because I had been interrupted by these rocks... Forget these rocks, and give him your question for once.
— Prescott... – for a moment, we all stopped. Me, Prescott, and Clyde. As the drizzle kept falling upon us, soft as the rains of April, I had the question ready to be told to the Highwind one – To where exactly are we going?
— Hmmm... – Prescott remained quiet, for a second, before he pointed with his index to the hills, the ones found in front of us – There. Right there.
Those were the Poplos Heights, known by us and the foreigners because of the Grand Dragons that surrounds their entirety. No one without a sort of weapon has ever been related to have returned alive, only a few, but that's rather questionable. Prescott didn't pointed right into the heights, but below then, on a passge, the only that connects our Kingdom to the other lands, and the other kingdoms of such lands. Now, I recall why we are there... that is the exit, or opening from the side we stand, of Gizamaluke's Grotto.
As I said, that's the only way supplies and people from the lands beyond Burmecia can reach. A kind of route, the only one from there to here who seems to be crossed with security. On this side, in front of us, two unites are kept in guard, on the same way other two stands at the other side of the Grotto, awaiting to receive the trade or people to cross the border; people naturally born here, at Burmecia, and a few explorers from Alexandria, Lindblum and other lands besides ours. All the gates inside the grotto can only be opened by a system of bells, that once rang, can open a certain passage, depending of where the unit is on guard. A similar system can be found at the entrances that lead to the Royal Palace.
Now I do know why we are here. It's a custom for each soldier, no matter the rank he carry beng the lowest of all, to be invited into a ceremony that happens on the inside of Gizamaluke's Grotto. The place is called by this way because of the creature that lies within there, an aquatic being by the name of Gizamaluke, preceded by a Master for us, whom it protects, or so does seem to have been told. Either way, the one who protected us from many wars, that's it. I may sound a little harsh when I refer to Gizamaluke by 'it', but that is just the nearest pronoun I could find to differ 'it' from the other Gizamaluk.
That's why they added an 'e' at the end of his name, to separate the Gizamaluk from what he became. Prior today, many centuries ago, at the beginnings of the construction of Burmecia, still with the name of Land/Kingdom of Lucrecia, Gizamaluk, the eldest son of Burmecia's first King, Kain, and creator of our current warrior code. A proud warrior, said to be the one who created the first Burmecian warrior code. Nowadays, we follow a strictly revised code, still based on the manuscripts of the original author, whose oldest document containing the words and guidelines related to be his is being kept since then at the Palace.
Gizamaluk is also regarded as one of the predecessors of the Dragoon technique, alongside his mother, Frigg. The same technique was later taught to and by Cyan, the only son of Nathan, Kain's only son in blood, who founded a school where the fundaments of Dragoon would be taught to other nobles, that used of the technique of quick and agile movements to hunt some dragons in the days of hunt. Seeing this as an outrage, since his mother would never use of the Dragoon technique to hunt dragons only for fun, besides being a privilege for only a few people, that was the start of Gizamaluk's descent.
Since when he was an infant, Gizamaluk had always been fascinated with mirrors. It is said that he demanded the walls, the room, the corridor of the Palace to be polished on a way he could look at himself when he came in such place. Gizamaluk was Nathan's brother in a way, but not truly, like a brother is tied to other by blood, since Kain, the one whom he called by father found his alone and later decided to be with his. Before, other than himself, Gizamaluk had no one to be part of. The fountain that still can be seem at the ruins of Kilde was the only place where he could look at his, and call by other. The only one with the same blood of his was Frigg, his mother, who alongside Kain helped with the foundation of the new civilization that would later become the Burmecia of now.
When Kain's wife, Lucrecia, unfortunately passed away, and Bulumecia was the name given to the land they stood from there until now, Frigg stood to comfort the King and the sudden demise of the wife of his. Frigg never had a sort of relationship with Kain, besides the two being related to the events prior the foundation. They remained together since them; more than to relieve the pain of his loss, Frigg stood with Kain, because that's what he would do if it was her, since he already did the same before, with her, and Gizamaluk.
To make Frigg proud of his, Gizamaluk become a Knight. He would often train with his mother, who taught his the principles of what would today become the same Dragoon techniques learned by Lenneth, and other who since childhood wanted to become such Knights. When Gizamaluk saw Kain, the foster father of his, with Frigg, his mother, succeding the days, as they developed more than a mutual need of finding a way to end the aching of both. Mother and father, Frigg was not Lucrecia, but soon she developed of same feelings, and same way to feel elation. Succeding the days, all Gizamaluk wanted was to see Frigg happy, as much as Lucrecia was when along Kain. However, her uneasiness went far more than Kain's situation, which seemed to had been brought to a fair conclusion in days, unlike her concerns about the usage in vain of the Dragoon taught for the ones who used of such power for mere entertainment, which never had been brought to a desired end.
About the end... Well, came the day Frigg succumbed into the way of all flesh. She would later die after fighting against a horde of dragons into their nest, just for the sake of her people; the sake of being a Dragoon Knight, the true essence, not being recognized as such, being lowered into a sport, instead of a task a Knight carries on. He demanded Frigg and her legacy to be considered this way, but such efforts seemed to had been gone away from his, and had no effect on the many others. Seeing this, that was Gizamaluk's last straw, or so he deemed to be. From later on, he became an unpleasant person. His appearence, once of a noble, now resembled the inner state of his disordered soul and thoughts in conflict. No mirrors were left on his room, only shards, as he only drank the glass full of water with both eyes closed, because he didn't accept what he had become, or what the water told him of his self. Which self? Who he was?
What would Gizamaluk do without the mother of his? It was Frigg who raised his away from herself, to define what Gizamaluk would become. It was Frigg who defined what a Dragoon is, not those who missed its meaning, and pretended to see the work of a Dragoon as a mere way to waste time. She even gave her body to the grave for the sake of them, and for the sake of the meaning of a Dragoon... at least, Kain, and his son Nathan, knew for what Frigg fought for, and the reason why, for Gizamaluk's relief. A brief relief, thought Nathan, who also lost a mother, was willing to carry on the Dragoon technique further and show to others its real purport, a thing his son, Cyan, would do later when grown up, but Gizamaluk wasn't there to see such act. Never was.
Frigg was no mere person to Gizamaluk. It was his mother, and only. The only living part of his that shared of same blood. Mother wasn't there no more, so why he bothered to live with his father? Gizamaluk had a family, but because of his routine, never was there to raise his son. Instead, his wife was. On Gizamaluk's life, there was always another who had gave a step beyond before his. Another to raise of his children, another to be given orders, another to be proud of, another to be given happiness of, another to be filled in by joy, another to love his mother, another to be accepted by mother... Always someone copying what he wished his to do. It was then that Gizamaluk took a harsh decision: to abandon his family, his people, for the sake of what he become, and for the sake of those who become his.
— ...So this is the place where the crybaby rests? – Clyde asked, but in a way he already gave us an answer. His answer, and only, implied on the way of his. I looked at him, with a look that gave him another answer, because I wouldn't with my bare fist.
— Please, Clyde. Have more respect for Master Gizamaluke – I trembled a bit. It's a kind of strange to describe, but I tremble, feel powerless when someone shouts at me. The same happens when I shout to someone. I didn't shouted, neither Clyde did, but I feel on a same way as if he, or me, indeed increased the voice. For some reason, I was about, was willing to punch his face, but the tremble doesn't want to. It's like my body is saying 'no', 'don't do it', and it's right. The tremble still remains, but soon will vanish for good, and return once again.
If we were alone, maybe I would, but Prescott was there, and so the others, like Clyde. What would they think of me after the happening? Isn't that the reason why we don't kill each other? Why am I thinking of such matter, in a moment like this? Now, hear what your body says... Each tremble... slowly dissipating, like the ripples in a water puddle... Don't follow Clyde. Just. Don't. That's what he wants, and always does. To let someone follow his and keep following, to drain all forces of yours to his eyes, to give attention to his, and only his. Geez... I feel like an unlikely hero on such moments. Some mouths may sound different from another, as a mirror may show a distorted side of ours, so does the legend surrounding Gizamaluk and his fall.
He thought his strenght alone would suffice over his victories and failures. Not only he thought for himself, but to others as well. That's what Frigg would do if on his place, and what Gizamaluk would do if on her same place, the place he wished once to stood. Sigurd rang the bell, and so the entrance of the Grotto allowed us to be in. Now, as we found ourselves, guided by the Prince and its tutor into the dephts of the Grotto, that became blue by each step taken by ours, until we reached a room so dark that only the green of the mushrooms glowing inside could be seem, as the aquamarine of the clear pool of water, and its placid surface, from where it emerged beneath us. It was there... Master Gizamaluke.
A giant being, higher than the height of two of us on a vertical position, lower than the ceiling covered by stalactites, cold as the indigo skin, emitting of a characteristic fishy scent, a shrunken-like armor in the chest with a tone of amarantite, a pair of keels on the ridge and below the end of its large tail, a pair of horns in the reptile head of his, both pointy as the tip of each flippers, alike the wings of a dragon, thought Gizamaluke seems to be able to stand in thin air without the need of those. It is already before us, before the ground we stand, as the water who once covered the body of his falls like the dew of the morning flowing into the leafs. From there, Gizamaluke watch us, as we can hear a few grunts of his. Legend say his eyes, once said to be green when alive, like many verdelites belonging to us, glow into a red belonging to zircon gems. The air of the Grotto, the air our lungs breath carries on of such inexpicable intimidation. Perhaps it's fear, a transient fear we all share since the birth. It's a kind of common fear, the fear of trying to understanding the new, the unnexpected who is seem as danger, naturally.
— So this is the Master Gizamaluke – said Clyde, looking keenly at the Master. It did nothing but look, and grunt softly.
— Yes, it is – Sigurd said, looking at the being standing up in the air as well – Gizamaluke is loyal to us, Burmecians, and those we protect. Merchants, travelers, foreigners who decided to stay at Burmecia, who agreed to not harm any of us in the process.
— So he is as loyal as he once was? – I asked, looking at Gizamaluke, trying to find a bit of Gizamaluk. Sigurd said he is loyal to us, as Gizamaluk was concerned about others as well. So concerned that he abandoned his people, and were left on his own. They say Gizamaluk fled, until he came to this grotto we now stand, and so does he, on that form.
— Nothing comes from nothing, and anything is in constant search for nothing, but it will never reach such desired goal, no matter the path taken. Had you ever heard of the mass conservation principle? – I and Clyde looked at each of our faces, then we redirected of our look at Clyde. The faces said to his a kind of no. Not a single 'no', as if we didn't wanted to know, but a 'no' like the one you can see, spot in the face of children everywhere. We have children, and so they have their questions; none of their questions are dumb, but instead, mostly the ones given to us to answer are interesting enough to keep us talking to his, until they are satisfied enough. We, like our children, expressed such 'no', and a need to be satisfied by his answer. So did Prescott, on the way he found to fullfill the empty of our both doubts. Sigurd expressed nothing of sort, but the Prince was on same doubts as we, still looking at that being.
— Don't know? Very well. This principle, theory I've learned from a friend of mine, who studies at the library of Daguerreo, the finest ever seen by now, states that materia, physical one, like the objects you can touch, feel, share of a certain amount of warmth, does exist, and it will ever exist. In sort, materia can't be destroyed, but adapted, converted into something new. Nothing in this world we live can be destroyed, but turned into something else, like a mountain can become crumbles of sand, or a deceased tree as a rotten corpse become one day part of the same soil such living beings had been raised together.
— Yes, we are dealing with the physical aspect of it – Clyde said, after he, as me, showed a face of 'we understood, somehow' – People change for no reason at all...
— Who said that Gizamaluk changed? – asked Sigurd, now interrupting us after he stood in silence. A brief silence, until Prescott came with this principle – If Prescott is right, or half-right, then this Gizamaluke is nothing to be compared to the knight Gizamaluk once was. Well, this Gizamaluke we see, but what about the soul, Prescott?
— Yes, the soul... – Prescott briefly paused, thinking of an argument that contradicts what Sigurd asked his. So he did came up with an explanation – I told you about the material side of the matter, and how does materia we can see with our eyes can be transformed into another, that has no resemblance to the original format of such. But the soul can't be considered as a physical object, can it?
— So, if the conservation principle doesn't apply to objects we can't see and interact with, then the soul remains the same, isn't? – the Prince asked. Maybe he understood far more than us.
— ...Does that thing has a soul!? – Clyde asked. It was as if he was surprised by our questions being the same, so he came up with his own – Does a soul ever exist for his? Please. Gizamaluke is merely a slave of ours, I say. The reason why Gizamaluke protects us is because it needs someone to protect, or so it does believe to be like 'he'. Gizamaluk is dead, and this Gizamaluke that now stands beyond the grave of the another who deserved to be dead? Wasn't that the only way the child would be with mother once again?
No one refuted Clyde. He was kind of right. Not fully, but sort of. The legend about Gizamaluk ends on this way: After finding this grotto to rest, Gizamaluk came up into this same place, this same room that once was only a cave, and the entrance led to a pool of water, and only. When Gizamaluk saw this water, the clearest water ever seen, clear than any mirror or other water belonging to somewhere else. Even when a tear just felt in there, the vision he had of himself in the surface of the water remained still, with the ripples surrounding the expression of his face. Was he happy? Sad? Upset? Worried? Nobody knows. Not even Gizamaluk knew what he felt. Days passed, and he felt no hunger and no thirsty, not even fatigue, as he only watched his being reflected at the water. He tried to hold with its arms the water that soaked his arms and always found a way to came back to same pool below his.
Then, came the day Nathan, followed by a few soldiers of his, came to find Gizamaluk and bring him back home, but he refused to be at home. The image of his at home already had been damaged, and distorted by ripples, dirtied by the crumbles of rocks flowing into the river. There would be no Frigg at home, but there, on that water, that vision of his... Seeing the image of his mother, Gizamaluk jumped in the water, and drowned as his body went underwater, until it emerged, as he was already dead, with a smile upon his face, and in the surface of same water that become his grave. Well, his body may be the one that drowned in the pool, his body is the one thing that is dead, but the soul, the legacy of his...
Master Gizamaluke stood before us, and so we stood. Gizamaluke looked at us, before it came back to the place it belonged, since his death. The soul of Gizamaluk may be inside that body, or so that's what I understood of Prescott's words. As we left the grotto, we being the last soldiers to do this kind of ceremony, to contemplate the one who protected us... who needed of protection as well. Now that Gizamaluke flows into the water, quietly as the grunts he emmited on our conversation, quiet as the agony of his. Yes, I may had been the one who saw it, but those eyes... they looked at us, pleading more than security. They were pleading for death. Gizamaluk may had died; well, the body of his may had been the one who drowned and were buried, but the soul, that same soul that once inhabited another body, the human body of his, like ours, no longer ours... and the cell of it is the monster he became, or thought to be.
Still is unknown to where souls go. But that souls remain the same, that may be true, for us and Gizamaluk. Master Gizamaluk; a slave of ours, and himself. Or maybe the himself he once was, and never was.
...