♫Peter Gabriel - Lead A Normal Life♫

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July 10, 1778

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[https://i.vgy.me/5vc2XZ.png]

Society as a hole. It's insulting how an alexandrian soldier came right at my back. We fought, as usually we did on random encounters. That's what happens when you go five or more miles away from your tent. Looking for danger, you street rat? There ain't no single street on this desert, only the trails and bones left by any animal who lives there, except the Libers, who are known to not let a single relative to be eaten by the desert, alike we all are struggling to not let such thing to happen. I didn't even knew that fat's name, or face, since it had been hidden by that helm, unlike me, whom he didn't knew, yet my face had been shown to his, thanks to the sun, and thanks to this idiot, who dropped same helm belonging to this fragile face in the grounds. That helm almost sinked as it stood atop the dune, alike how he broke my spear as I used its wooden part to protect me.

Heh... It sure worked, though, he broke my spear, but not my claws. I would like to rip that bastard's face, if he hadn't fled like a... forget it. Even a young chocobo and its beak are far more dangerous than that shallow figure. Pathetic... then, I threw my dagger on its leg. Sure, he had to fled, but at least, he ended up tumbling on those dunes, letting some sand pour on that wound belonging to his. I'm sure that father is proud of me, seeing how much of my efforts I had brought into such quick battle, alike these same legs, whom I didn't put to ran away, alike that coward. Before father returned to the army, whom he enlisted with same age as me, althought I only assigned those papers as an easy way to fled from that place, by hobby, he was a timber. To chop a willow down is as easy to cut some grass, with a knife, or with the teeth as well. Mother always told for her sons to eat vegetables, and grass green like that couldn't had been only used to be stepped by our feet. Bart know it, because he swallowed some leaves belonging to that ground. Against his will, not against mother's will, ain't that right, Clyde? Yes, it may be. Bart didn't seemed to agree with me, even on that age, but he always agreeded for whatever mother said to his, father as well, even thought he was already dead. A tombstone, gray like he was, was ergued, like he used to do every day, from that bed, that sleep he shared with mother, to do some work.

Nipples... they do not have any function on male such as me, besides of making us remind other people than ourselves. A brief carreer as fisherman, that happened to mainly stabilish the amount of gil given to his pockets, as soon as Bart, and other three, were born in sequence. Father needed to feed us, since we couldn't, no one can eat wood, except those termites who ate our crib. So, he needed to feed as any mouth as he could, mainly those tiny mouths, tiny unlike those yells thrown by little Bart to mother, that poor thing. Me as well, but mother endured more than she could; well, more than I could, if I was the father of that thing. Thankfully, I had been chosen as his brother instead, a sort of father if you're older than the young one. Of course, I had to be older than Bart, and to take care of his as well. My brothers as well, but mainly me, the favourite of mother, or maybe the favourite of father, whom she missed, we all missed him. That kind of validation of being the main child only increased with his sudden death at the field.

But I knew I wasn't the only child of the family of Burmecians of my kind; with those pants stinking like shit and pee, even grown up to be five of age, phlegm flowing from that nose, a yell so painful that I'd rather have enjoyed letting the wax grown up to relief my ears, or to let a tomato slip on that mouth, to shut it for good. Maybe it wouldn't work, seeing how much Bart had been hungry, he would just swallow that fruit, even without the teeth needed, only two instead of thirty and something to make a jaw. Only me seem to have thought about Bart on that way, since mother called that thing, besides the name Bart, by 'adorable', or by 'cute' instead. Not even I am able to understand mothers, mine and Cynthia as well. Same also happened when one of my sons, maybe the little one who came... Aoife, right? I don't care about the name. Well, she cried a lot, but since that thing was my daughter, though I wanted a son instead, but that shared of me, so I and my ears let it pass. It began, it happen and should end soon.

I don't know if it did ended, since I've left home to be here, on this mess they call by desert. There's not even a single chocobo to take out a single yellow feather from the legs to make a pen and write a card, althought I would also need of some paper, and ink... but, seeing how these moogle messengers only keep sending of tragic news to home, I guess I won't write anything, just to not scare my wife. Only the mention of the word 'card' is enough to make someone like her to faint in a second. And what would you write to her, Clyde? These cards are confiscated by thirdies, so you haven't got a chance to express yourself, like you did in those times. Heh... We were childhood friends, or maybe I just allowed of her presence because I didn't felt that same anything for mother anymore, nor I did felt the same for Cynthia, only when she grew up, alike I did as well. Not only in legs, but in hair as well. Tied by that ponytail by her parents, until she learned to tie that ribbon by herself, and to wrap some male as well; that is Cynthia, and the sort of hair I like mostly, though I seem to be appreciating of those wooden strands atop those pretty Cleyrans. Sure, I never saw them with the eye, only heard of them thanks to Hyuuga, Prescott, whatever is his name.

That Highwind is gone, not sure where, but maybe he wanted to go to his nearest home. Bart is so sick of that thing that he couldn't even talk to me in the morning, but now that the sun is almost settling down, and the red seems to cover the skies and my hands, maybe he'll be alright. But, well, stubborn as he is, I'm a bit like that too, Bart decided to do a walk after the lunch, and he didn't even ate anything for breakfast; you can't eat water, or saliva, though. I'm so sick of this too, but everything will soon be on its right place. I didn't saw anyone dying yet, but many of them, people that I don't even know, just stood on the beds instead, with those bandagas wrapped around the arms, the legs, the necks... Mostly those injuries had found a way to be there because of ourselves. They keep uttering it was the fault of those alexandrians, but it's all the fault of those spears, and those who end up harming themselves with such tip, harming themselves, and who wouldn't, with the weight of that thing, and this dagger who sometimes is carried on by an only hand, but the spear needs of both hands to be useful... anyway, I'm glad that I share of some knowledge from the Royal infantry, even though I despise them, as people.

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...All roads lead to Alexandria. that's what they say. The people, the merchants, the stones carved around this continent...

— These alexandrians... – holding of a Gram, the finest sword I've ever saw, Sigurd came near me – instead of shooting with those barrel of guns, they now have decided to fight with the old-style, whom Cecil, their commander, appreciates – well, to poison an entire country isn't that fair, as much as it had been to steal of our powder to kill us with same; who thought there would be some examples of alexandrians that are so stubborn, confident of their own flesh, their own swords, that would reject of their own past, made of the disgraces commited by other's pasts, that defined us into this now. How much I had been so off of patience... I thought there would be some fights, hand to hand combats, not the ones against ourselves.

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— I wonder why they came to this pitiful place as much as we – I said to Sigurd, still polishing that same sword. I'm not akin to this desert, alike those Libers do. I am a prince that demands of water, althought the clouds used to give it so for free. I want some water to be into my throat, and whenever I am near of some cup, or some glass, I just take it to be into me. I'm sweating, but never that I will drink such. It stinks, and is meant to be like that, though I saw some people in there that don't mind to drink the own blood flowing from a bitten lip.

— Do the Cleyrans have any defence other than that sandstorm of centuries? – he replied, still polishing that same sword, as much as he used to change my pieces of clothes whenever I dirtied them. Not that Sigurd washed them, we had maids and guards to do it so for us, as much as they had the water of the rain to clean anything. The sweat is the cleansing of the soul, who have found a way to be gone out of this body. Sure, whenever a breeze comes, and with my entire body soaked by this liquid, I feel a sort of relief, but that ain't enough, since my soul ain't blown by such air. I can feel the breeze flowing into my body only without wearing such armor, with that heat on these days enough so that I could fry an egg, or even this finger atop such.

That would be funny to see, if I was a child. On those days, I wished I could see the sun on its glory, not that I wanted such to dry me like it did with this desert, but still I keep standing still. Today is a day of movement for these legs. Sigurd and I, we are the few ones who move less than others, as if all the members of our family had the will to sit like a King on its throne everywhere, while others move restless as we don't. The dinner table is set, but the meals had been struck with our own forks; I thought that I would be killing people with this sword. Not that I never tried such thing, but since the training I had on those days with that wooden sword still hurted like now, but there, Sigurd used to give me a chance to hit his. There is no chance in this wasteland, or any kind of luck, even thought we had been spending all this time elaborating a plan, a strategy to scatter the camps around this place, like the tribes of ancient times...

I'm hungry, but I have to do something, other than ask for food. Sigurd used to feed me with the tip of that Gram, hoping that I could turn into a knight in the future. Well, I'm wearing of its same clothes, and sharing of an only sword, like a knight does, but... there is something missing. A knight can't harm the peasant, can't harm the priest and its followers, peasants as well, a knight can't harm a lady, a dame, a woman of any age... A knight can't harm another knight, except on a joust. There are a set of rules for everything I do, and sometimes, I am the one who makes of my own rules. Anyone does, but nobody else follow of them, except when you are a King, or a commander, or a father, like Sigurd does. He ain't a King, but that he ruled over my entire life, Sig sure did. Same for Edgar, my brother, who's a King as well, but nothing alike father; the father whom I used to share of same flesh, and only.

How did I got into this mess? Sigurd says, and keeps saying that these soldiers need of someone tied to the Royal family to make them all feel recognized by such efforts, a sign of being near the masses, instead of walls secluding us, even if they lead themselves to more than slight injuries. A man I met once lying in a bed inside a tent northwest of here was glad that I was there to see his, and glad as well because he killed an alexandrian with his own claws; though that head of his was almost cut away from the neck, he gave a smile as well. I'm sure that I'll never forget his, alike the others I saw too. A sort of nightmare that it'll never be forgotten by this mind...

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— Weird, isn't it? They seem to be popping out of the sand, like antlions ready to suck our leg's blood... – I said to, well, there it is, our Highness, the Prince, whatever is his name, other than Gabriel. The child my father knew about, and so does Sigurd, once my commander, still he is, even into such dry place. I'm not sure why, but I saw a helmet sinking in the sand, same for the person who went through it.

— There seems to be a ladder in there – he said. Of course there would be some, don't you agree? As our Highness stood in there, like a statue that he should become someday, my head... damn, this helmet is frying my head. I'll take it out and... no, I'll need these fingers for later, unlike those alexandrians. Without them, they wouldn't be able to climb up the 'ladder'; we can't see it because of the sand siking in the hole, but I'm sure, alike the Prince, pardon, our Highness, that there is something in there that serves as a device of climbing. Like, these alexandrians can't jump that high, as much as a Dragoon Knight does, or a toad as well.

— So they had been dugging some hidden tunnels into the underground? – I asked. Not even I could dug such hole as big like that. A worm wouldn't do such thing as well. Damn, these men sure are smart, or submissive enough to do anything for their leader. I'm sure that we could do the same, though many of us are injured, mainly by ourselves, so I guess that would be impossible to do, in time. Time?...

— That may be the main reason of the current water shortage on this area – the alexandrians... they came out of the muddy hole, and now they are stealing our water too? Wait a minute, Clyde. This doesn't make any sense. Of course it doesn't. But maybe...

— ...You know, my Highness, that everything takes some time to be done, even bread. So, this means that the alexandrians had been around this desert even before we came in there? For what reason they should do it?

— It may be part of their strategy. 'Deception is the key of winning', isn't that the same thing mentioned by Gizamaluk centuries ago? – in a short, yes. That's the first thing I've learned back when I was a Royal Guard. Still I wear of such blue, but once a Royal Guard, always a Royal Guard – I think we should report this to Commander Sigurd – yes, I nodded. So, let's have a talk with that Sigurd, shall we? It's been a long time since I didn't shared of a talk with his. Even when I was a child, he was there, like anyone else, on father's funeral. I met with his when I went strolling inside the Royal Palace to find Bart, who left the scene without moving a lip, but how much he moved those legs. I also wanted to get out of that place too, but not without mother, or without Bart.

A young Prescott made a presence there, I guess it was his, sure he looks as young as I do, even though he is as old as father was, when he died. But I didn't knew him already, only when I grew up. Same for that little Prince, this same one there; we never had been friends, still we don't. He was there, hiding as a silhouette behind the shadow of Sigurd, holding of that leg taller than his, and where else to hold, other than those hands so high alike a vine of grapes? Bart's finger went slight cut by a Guard's spear; maybe he could have shouted a single 'you aren't allowed to be there', but words are meaningless when you hold of a spear in your hand. 'Don't put your finger in the mouth'... unless it has been cut. I didn't had any bandages, maybe Sigurd had, but well, whatever. At least, we were sure that he wouldn't hurt us, but at least, lead a hand, as much as he led a leg for the Prince, to the nearest exit, our mother, of course.

What a pain of a child Bart was. Even grown up like that... at least, he is quiet as usual, unless when he starts to complain about those headaches in the morning. I had nothing to complain, because 'deception is the key of winning', right Giza? Who said that he became a monster? Only a beast that knows how to eat its prey without its knowledge knows of those wise words. I also had chosen of many words throught my life, and mainly them lead me to this place, and others places as well, such as the Palace, Mother, Cynthia, and I also tried to visit Lenneth, but a gray stone in my feet blocked my way. I stepped over it many times, and yet, such thing gets stucked with me all the time.

Why is it so pleasant for me to share of a Bart like that? I don't know. I am older than his, I am taller than his, I am clean like his, yet he's as kind as I do try to be. Maybe he tries to be the same as me, or father, who knows. Who knows why he had gotten there, on that tent as well...

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