Sword of Destiny

Chapter 4: Resistance

18 years ago

This was his favourite book. He stared at the volume resting in his grubby little hands with nothing less than wonder. There was a ripe bruise across his lower arm, a gift from the last beating, but it was just about fading. Just.

He focussed back on the book; the fine article that it was. It was plainer than the copies, barely more than a chord bound collection of yellow and crumbly papers. There were two coarse pieces of card sandwiching the papers, but there was no spine, and so the pages had a habit of muddling themselves up. And indeed, any sort of indexing was completely absent from the volume, meaning that there was a very real risk of it being rendered useless.

But that didn't matter. He could recite the entire thing word for word.

They were Queen Delfin's words, by her own hand, and he was in awe of her. What she had done meant that anything was possible. He had to cling to that. And these were the original documents, by her own pen, and the experience of reading the volume was all the more powerful for it. There were smudge marks where she'd cried; sharp deviations where she'd hurried away; crossings out and annotations. The very basis of Delfinia's foundation was in these pages, and he was in awe of being able to touch them at all. Such a glorious privilege.

He walked towards the clerk's desk but couldn't resist. Not with this volume. He opened the front board and started reading. He didn't even focus on the page, and still he whispered the words with a practised rhythm. The first page, a preface, may even be his favourite.

__________

I am the enigma. Even to myself, I am the enigma. Who am I?

To half the near-world, I am the traitorous bitch who has unravelled the Empire and sent the continent into chaos. To the other half, I am the saviour; the one who freed the world of tyranny. But which persona do I think fits best? That is not an easy question.

They say that history is written by the victors, but that is not true. History is written by those with a quill, and more importantly, those that can write. Many great deeds have gone unwritten, and they now fade into myth as a consequence. There are, similarly, many examples of sore losers and their well-documented excuses making it into our core learning. So, what should we believe?

Well here's an idea. Let's listen to the first-hand account. If I achieve anything revolutionary, then it will be this idea. Unfortunately, I fear that this is myth already.

As you may have already gleaned, my life will be painted by two people: those who worship my shadow, and those who hate my existence. If you are reading this, then hopefully you have already concluded thus, but I say to you now: pay no attention to either party. History is not written in absolutes – it exists in shades. The concepts of right and wrong are meaningless, and there is only the terrible toil of the journey. What's right for one is wrong for another, and so it is that the world exists in balance. All that we can do is strike a fair path through that equilibrium, and I look back upon my life and see that this is what I've tried to do.

Did I do it perfectly? I do not believe there is such an outcome. Did I do it well? Better than some; worse than others. I am not exceptional. I am merely average. It was only my circumstance that was exceptional, and I say this here: I would have given that up in a blink.

I am old now, and I have a favourable number of years behind me. I don't believe that wisdom can be measured in years, but I do believe that wisdom is perpetually accumulating. Until death that is. One hopes then that wisdom is not lost with the end of life, but that it is enshrined in text and passed through generations. But history is not necessarily written by the wise. Look a man in the face and you can see his idiocy. See the same words in text, and it is harder to tell. Well, this is me unloading my wisdom. Make of it what you will.