Under The Crescent Moon: Power, Corruption & Lies/Laughing Stock

Chapter 26: Yulquen

May 1778

...

Kill... or to be killed?

I ask, to this self in the mirror. My back is killing me, as much as they tried to do with me, as a whole. Not only me, but the country from where I came from, and their people, who stand in there just like me as well. Mirrors of me, of the country, and their prosperity, now gathered in this other land, these wetlands of Lachenta, found miles away of Aerbs and its hills, higher than these plains, dry than this land of marshes, and their inhabitants. Mainly frogs and creatures that eat of such, known as Qu, who can be found living in their natural state into one of these marshes. The sound of frogs coming from outside the tent vanish into bits of massive tongues stuck in the mud, the ponds of grenish water found anywhere on these land says of feet stuck.

Their symphony sounded alike the organ of the early morning brought by Alexander. On that day, and those days before that day of departure. Days of flowers for them all; for my wife, on the day of our marriage, for my sons, on each day one of them felt the water of baptism flowing throught their skin, like the spirit of Alexander guiding us since that moment, and for father, and his funeral. He was a farmer of Dali, a town of granaries filled in by corn, who sustains the main populance, as food, and mainly funds.

Airships fly and land on such place to move people, and their corn, to Alexandria, who needs both, besides already sharing of the azure of the skies, the white of the sun, those I and father used to watch, instead of the grimmy belonging underneath the Mist, for whom I once stood above, like these other men, like their families still stand. Unlike my both legs, once sustained by the itchy ones.

Dirty boots of mine lie in the corner, as the feet that used to wear those are currently being treated of a collection of ringworms I had gotten with the years. I may not be an athlete, but I had gotten of such burning in both feets. Leather boots aren't effective, as water and heat gathered together, favouring the proliferation and amount of fungus into my skin, either peeling or burning, like a frostbite gotten by the hold of a thick hoarfrost. They say a kind of fishes are used for a treatment, supposed to heal people from such disease inflicting my feet, currently. These fishes, said to had been found into hot springs near the settlement of Esto Gaza, seem to appreciate the taste of dying skin, thought Qus seem to appreciate the flavour of a dead skin as well.

I'd rather eat fish than let then eat me. Qus only seem to known about how to cook and eat of such cooking. Few words are enough for a whole mouth, who's only able to eat, even words as well. Broken words, as this world, unlike those bones, who once were broken, by rocks and debris falling at my back. I guess I am lucky, or guilty of such misfortune, brought by others, brought back by same others, who cannot be brought back to their families, only in conversations, and thoughts. Father used to tell me about this kind of feature belonging to each one of us, this mechanist of praise for the dead ones.

When someone dies, they're recognized by a whole as a man with values not belonging to his, in many times. Soldiers who die on a war, or a civil outbreak are praised as good beings, brave people with blood running throught their family, while prisoners often are associated with murdering, even thought most of them had been in a cage because of thievering. So, why can't I be a murderer, or a thief instead? Father may had been a thief, but because they stole from him first. Father may had been murdered, yet he had been once the butcher of young calves, numb to become the veal my dear wife appreciates that much, as she used to enjoy finding painted eggs stolen by their Chocobos on Easter back before I knew her. I am older than her, who's just a child, even now.

'It's soft', she once said when eating of veal on dinner, an opinion that would be uttered by me as well, this if I had never been a farmer's son, who knows of the way such flesh goes from the farm to ther dish of porcelain. I never told her, and I insist to not tell her, and I have no time to tell her. I never had time to anything else, besides her protection, and the protection of many, that go and came alongside us. I only lost a finger, yet such valuable ring as well, but I had not lost her, and the sons that came from her. Despite my uniform, I'm not a estrangled being for the duty I had been born with. As father used to plow the soil of his plantations, virgin soil awaited to be taken in, and seeds of mine to be buried within.