———

  Roland

  Long, long ago, when I was still a naive child coddled in ignorance, I dreamed of being a hero.

  I wished to be like those knights in shining armor I had always heard about in storybooks. My own father, himself, was an honored Peer of Francia, as well as captain of the holy Paladin Order. His rank was second only to the Lord Commander of House Dordognes, and it was because of his position that I found myself surrounded by blade, steel, and towering warriors before I had learned to walk. We did not belong to a noble house; nonetheless, my father toiled laboriously to give our family a comfortable life.

  It was in those early days that he would whisk me away to the paladins’ barracks and have me watch their training. To him, the most important teaching in this world was that of Chivalry, and only those who held its doctrine sacred in their heart could grow to become a person worth respecting, whether they be knight or scholar or everyday kin. To be chivalrous was to be kind: to love thy neighbor, to be brave and loyal, and to be a champion of what was good and right against injustice and evil.

  Those ideas inspired in me a romantic vision of the warrior I could one day be. I felt a warmth in my heart, a calling, and from the moment I beheld those great, radiant paladins, I yearned to be just like them. My passion was insatiable. I scoured the archives for any and all fables of Francia’s noble heroes, devouring their legends as I imagined myself in their place.

  In the day, I was constrained to the confines of the capital city, but at night I was out there, in the wider world, galloping onto greater adventures. I rescued townsfolk from dastardly bandits, rescued maidens and damsels in distress, and slew great beasts the size of castles. I was a hero of justice, one whose exploits would be told in song for all of eternity.

  Unfortunately, my mother was not too pleased by this. She always did worry for my father’s safety, and during the months when he was sent off on orders, I would find her—cheeks stained in tears—waiting by the fireside, unknowing whether her beloved was still alive. She hated it, that gnawing fear, and wanted for me to enter a profession free of danger. Yet, I could not listen to her. I resolved to burn bright as a radiant star, even if it meant extinguishing just as quickly. After all, what was an epic without a heroic sacrifice? That, too, was romantic.

  Thus, despite her best efforts, I dashed on ahead to what I believed to be my destiny. I begged my father for a sword on my sixth birthday; and when the city’s gate was less guarded, I would sneak out and venture into the golden fields of wheat beyond our border. A confident child I was, yet also wholly unprepared. Someone like me would have surely suffered an early grave. It was only thanks to the sagely advice of Olivier, my best friend of many moons, and his companionship that we narrowly escaped death’s maw on our countless excursions. Truly, that I somehow lived could only be a miracle from the Lord.

  Time carried on, and my obsession with gallantry only continued to grow. Eventually my father ordered me to attend the imperial academy with the other aspiring knights. Of course, I didn’t refuse, and I even made a vow to him that I would excel at the top of my class. It was there that I would gather a group of like-minded fellows just like the heroes of old, together banded for the sake of justice. Olivier, Renaud, Maugris… yes, they were my precious comrades. I thought we would remain friends until our ailing years.

  Eventually, however, we began to change. Renaud withdrew from our fellowship for reasons I still do not know to this day. I remember distinctly how he looked at me then: the sadness, the bitter, murky hate. Never before had I been exposed to such pure visceral emotion. That day marked the beginning of something dreadful in me.

  Doubt.

  I felt a crack in my once-impenetrable heart. All this time I lived in a dream of my own, embarking on what I believed to be necessary for my eventual grand stake in history. Everything had to be perfect. The values, tradition, the hero’s journey! I pledged to follow it all, so when my merry band slowly drifted apart, and we all went our separate ways, I questioned whether I was truly right for leadership.

  But I didn’t stay as such for long. Every hero underwent their own trials, after all. Yes, that was it! This was but a challenge for me to conquer. I was not deluded. I refused to let this little dilemma sway me from my dreams. Thus, I graduated from the academy and left to join the order. There was one problem to solve before I could do so, however, and that was the nature of my identity.

  My father was, of course, a man of great influence, but I desired to climb the ranks through skill rather than connections. To achieve this, I purposely masked my identity and pretended to be a farmer from the countryside, just as Sir Guillaume from the Stories of Gaul did before me. It was a classic theme in old stories. I felt as if I were following in his footsteps, and I continued my dashing facade as I enrolled into the annual Tournament of Power—an event designed by the twenty-second emperor, Bolivar the Plotter, to find new talent amongst the gentry and promote competition. There existed no greater a stage for my triumphant debut; thus, I donned a full helm and took up the sword.

  The moment I stepped upon the proving grounds of the tournament, I heard a great roar from the crowd around me. It filled my fingertips with lightning and stoked the flame of ambition in my chest. The thumping of footsteps, the sounds of steel whistling through the air… once again, I felt this to be my calling, and I dove headfirst into this arena where I could fight and know the joy of combat to my heart’s desire. It was here that I faced off against many formidable paladins, and yet I found myself somewhat disappointed, for there were none who could truly best me. I had little difficulty advancing the rounds. As I entered the semi-finals, my ego grew to the highest it could be. My achievements here proved first hand that I was truly on the path of a hero.

  Contrary to my beliefs, the next opponent I faced humbled me deeply. She wielded a great, heavy lance and stabbed at my openings with a speed nigh unfollowable with the human eye. The lady warrior and I clashed for nearly an hour, our armors scratched with countless nicks, and it was only when she grew haggard that I seized the opportunity and closed the distance, before subduing her with a choking hold.

  Truly, the match exceeded all my expectations, and I bowed before my adversary and gave her my respects. It time I would come to know her as Lady Bradamante, a paladin who I still greatly depend upon. But alas, the victor had to move onward, and so I advanced to the final round of the tournament, my spirits raised high. Could the next knight give me another challenge? I eagerly stepped forth to find out. No matter who they were, I couldn’t allow my chronicle to be recorded as a defeat so close to the winner’s trophy. I had to win here.

  When the crowd signaled the final cheer of the tournament, I beheld another female knight, one clad in a hulking plated suit. She wielded a shield that stood taller than the span of her body, and in her hand was a spiked mace that oozed danger. I understood it quickly, then. I couldn’t allow myself to be hit even once, or else a broken bone would be the least of my worries.

  We both lined up and took a bow, before readying ourselves with weapons honed. She asked me for my name as a sign of respect. Being the young fool I was, I simply replied that I was a wanderer. That moment gives me great embarrassment even now; but at the time I thought it a stylish answer, and apparently it amused the lady greatly, for she replied with her own. Angelica. Yes, her name was Angelica.

  I fought against Angelica the hardest I had ever done in my life. Unlike Bradamante’s speed and quick flurries, my opponent hunkered down and engaged me safely behind her shield. I had naught chance to attack her gaps. When I drew near, her mace came hammering down with a force that pulverized the dirt below her. It was terrifying, deadly, as well as ever so beautiful. Here she was, a woman even I wasn’t confident in defeating, and so it was that the spirit of rivalry quickly surged inside my bosom. I wanted to beat her, to improve with her as we exchanged blows as true equals.

  If only our match could have gone on forever… nothing would have given me greater joy. Alas, the muscles broke down whether the mind wished it to or not. Our stalemate only began to falter once the suns began to set. My breaths felt hoarse and weak, as if spikes of ice had dug into my throat. My hands burned and my limbs trembled from strain. I could hardly see in front of me with my blurry eyes, yet even so I stamped my foot and kept upright, my blade stable for but one more strike. Angelica was nearing collapse as well. We both glanced at the other and nodded, preparing to end it all here and now.

  We rushed at the other, and swung with every last drop of our strength.

  In the end, I won. It was a victory wrought by the smallest of margins. Had my luck been slightly worse, or Angelica had angled her mace just a bit more into my body, then the one standing would have instead been her. Nonetheless, I had no regrets. I dropped onto my knees and took a deep sigh. My ears deafened from the thunder and cheer echoing from the crowd, but my focus laid with the brave, mighty warrior that was Angelica.

  I remember laughing to myself and collapsing beside her, the last remnants of my being finally spent. She joined me in my maddened fit and we remained frozen there for some time. Eventually, she took off her helm, her golden hair flowing out in long silken strands, and for the first time I saw her face.

  The Roland of back then was completely, utterly spellbound. Her beauty was more fair, and stunning, than any heroine described in Francia’s fables. It was as if she had descended from the starry heavens to steal away my swiftly-fleeting composure. My heart thumped even louder than when we had fought; and were it not for my own helm, she would have seen my flushed, embarrassed cheeks in all my shame. Unfortunately, she didn’t take kindly to being the only one unmasked, and soon lifted my visor before exposing me to the audience.

  My father was among those watching the tournament. Had I not been out in public, he would have surely descended upon me in a fit of anger. For a moment I expected him to do so regardless. I was saved from that dishonor, thankfully, due to the timely assistance of the official judge at the time… a man whose name I would never come to forget: Ganelon. He clapped his hands and crowned me the final victor, as well as offering me an official position as the emperor’s private guard. It was an honor more than I expected to receive, and so I enthusiastically agreed. I had one condition, however, and that was to promote Lady Angelica as well. I wished to serve alongside her, to honor her efforts and, admittedly, stay by her side so that these feelings inside me would one day be given chance to confess.

  Everything went exactly as planned. All that was left to do was distinguish myself amongst his Holiness’s guard, and I would soon venture off to experience adventures worthy of a hero.

  My hopes were quickly smothered.

  The day before my official audience with the emperor, my father pulled me aside and whispered a nervous warning. He told me to keep my head down and to avoid committing any offense that would displease his Holiness. I laughed him off then, for surely the lord we served wouldn’t be so petty a man, would he? Pepin was our God’s avatar, the earthly vessel in which the blood of the first son flowed more pure than any other. He was supposed to be the embodiment of Chivalry, our values, and our hopes.

  Yet, as I walked toward the throne room, my mind began to wander. It was rather odd how his Holiness rarely made a public appearance. The previous emperors were quite fond of pilgrimages and outings to the lands beyond Francia, but Pepin did no such thing and remained in the castle since even before I was born. No one thought much of it; we assumed his duties kept him here. Never did anyone believe his seclusion to be of nefarious cause, for he was our liege. None in the land was more holy than he.

  So why did my father look so afraid?

  The answer to that, I discovered myself.

  Words cannot describe the terror I felt before that thing’s presence. It wore the guise of man, yet I could see clearly the depravity hiding within. I could not face him, not even meet his gaze. A frightening chill ran through my blood; and when he called out to me with that voice of pure, visceral filth, I could only bow my head and pray that he take no interest in me. It was the first time in my life I had ever been so meek. Bravery, courage, strength… all of it meant nothing before that monster’s power. And it was this very being I had to pledge my loyalty toward.

  This wasn’t what I imagined. I was to be a gallant and noble paladin, champion of the weak and paragon of all that was good. But when I came to reality with my newfound position, I looked at myself and saw a deep murky darkness. I saw my future—a life spent in the thrall of evil.

  Yet even so, I refused to give up my dreams. If I became stronger, more influential, surely one day I could bring change to this nation. Just because our lord was filthy did not mean the people were as well, so I swallowed my doubts and pushed on. I believed my efforts to be for the sake of the citizenry, not him. Not Pepin. I followed his orders, yes, but only so that many more would benefit. I was still on the side of justice. I had to be.

  Those naive thoughts would soon come crashing down, for it was only a few years later that the emperor declared war on our neighboring territories. My father and the Lord Commander both had perished because of his maddened lust for power. They were sent to take over Arabia, only to arrive back home in bloodied bags. My mother and I had not a moment to grieve before Pepin relegated the responsibility over to me. He cared not for his subordinates' death. He wished for results, and it was my turn to either succeed or perish just like my predecessor.

  Bradamante and Angelica approached me the eve of my departure. I remember how they asked for my thoughts regarding his Holiness’s legitimacy; and if needed, whether I had the will to commit the unforgivable. I admit the thought did cross my mind many times, but for all his atrocities Pepin was still my liege. For a knight to commit regicide was the greatest sin one could commit, though I suppose it mattered not even if I was willing. The emperor was no mere figurehead. His might alone rivaled a nation’s entire army; what could a mortal man do against one so blessed by God?

  I told the two that I wanted nothing to do with their plots. It was in their best interest to fall in line as well, lest their families suffer because of their foolishness. Even now I vividly recall Angelica's disappointment. The two of them spared me not another glance before walking away, and at that time I simply couldn’t understand. What could they possibly accomplish by themselves? Their petty rebellion would result in only pain.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  This confusion festered in me still as I marched with my fellow paladins onto the sands of Arabia. For many moons we suffered under the harsh elements—lost many to the shifting sands and unbearable heat—and in the rare moments we were spared a cool moonlit evening, the warriors of Arabia known as the Levantine would raid our camps. War was much more exhausting, and dirty, than I could have ever imagined.

  My mind gradually began to unravel as we encountered failure after failure. The emperor was not a patient man. If I couldn’t prove results, it would be my head next to return to my mother. The stress of it all, the anxiety, the constant threats to my life—I found it difficult to even sleep, for oftentimes I would wake to the sound of an assassin aiming for my throat, or perhaps a stray arrow from outside would narrowly miss my heart. It was never-ending, this tedious campaign. I would have surely been driven mad were it not for the presence of my fair Angelica.

  She did not wish to join me, at first. She saw the war as unjustified and against the ideals of Chivalry that we so cherished, but freedom of choice was a luxury in this era. Yes, we were the aggressors. Yes, the fault is fully ours for the chaos sewn in this land. We were the enemy of all. Our namesake, Francia, was whispered only by bitter tongues and hateful snarls.

  But what could us soldiers do? There was no turning back. Pepin started this conflict, and for us to survive, then we had to end it as well. We had to emerge the victor, or else the consequences of our sins would bury the proud flag of our homeland.

  Angelica could not understand this. She fought with me at every turn, criticized my decisions. But even her anger was dear to my heart. Her lectures proved that she did care for me, that I mattered even if in some small part to her. Was it a twisted relationship? Perhaps, but it was all I had. I could not have her love or respect, so fury would have to do.

  She was the only reason I managed to stay sane to the end. Yes, the very end… that fateful hour under the setting sun when I broke into Arabia’s capital and cleaved my way through hordes of the Saracen resistance. I slaughtered soldiers and fathers. My blade fell upon a mother whose cheeks were drenched with the blood of her son. I crushed a child’s skull under my boot, for they had attacked me with a dirty, cracked shard. Age didn’t matter. All that met my vision was a field of red.

  I had to survive, no matter the cost. I had to return home.

  When the dust settled and there were none left to block my way, I seized their leader’s neck and brought him to the steps of their beloved Temple Mount. Such deep rage I saw in his eyes then, yet it could never compare to the suffering his kind wrought on me. Thus, with his countrymen all in audience, I slit his neck and let his lifeless body fall atop the temple’s stairs.

  Finally, it was over. The blood, the screams, the constant burden of leadership—I could leave it all behind and return with my head held high. I achieved what even my father and the Lord Commander could not. I proved that I was a true, unyielding hero.

  I was... a hero.

  That’s what the people called me. I was greeted with great colorful banners and roaring applause when I stepped foot into the capital. They called me Roland the Brave, the young paladin who put an end to the empire’s long war. And they were not entirely false. After Arabia fell, the other nations soon quickly surrendered after having heard of the desert nation’s tragic massacre. I was welcomed wherever I went, showered in gifts of gold and jewels. Yes, this was the welcome I had always sought after. The taverns spun my name within fantastical tales. Everywhere I went, I was recognized: admired, respected. There was no other title that suited me more than that of my childhood wish.

  I wonder… if my younger self could see me now, what would they say? Would they be proud of me? Excited by my exploits?

  No. They’d see me as a monster.

  Perhaps it is fitting, then, that I now transform into the very scourge I once deemed evil. Up in this great spiral tower beneath the site of my sin, Sir Ferragut breathes his last, but not before planting a foul parasite upon my body.

  I twitch and struggle, nails clawing deep into my armor in an attempt to rip off the crawling corruption worming its way into my flesh. What foul dark magic is this? I saw a glimpse of what looked to be a sheet of paper before it was swallowed by darkness and twisted into a horrible, pulsating bud. I can feel my mind withering away as whispers surround me from all sides: whispers of the past, the present, and what shall soon be my future.

  The ground begins to crumble beneath me, but I have not the strength to pull myself away. My every moment is spent in wretched resistance against the influence tainting my soul. I try to look back and call for assistance, but my fellows are soon separated, disappearing into the void below as the entire structure collapses. There is nothing I can do but drop as well.

  Long is my descent to the chasm’s bottom. Eventually, I land violently onto a jagged stone. My voice cries out in pain; yet I have not the luxury to fully process it before a rain of debris comes toppling down, threatening to bury me in this land so far from Francia. How sickeningly twisted it would be for my death to be here of all places: alone, shameful, lost where none shall ever find me.

  What a miserable ending to the Song of Roland. Had I been twenty years younger, I would have despaired greatly and shouted afoul of the heavens, but now such a fate would be welcomed with wide arms rather than the disgrace of turning into a demon.

  No, I will not let myself stop here. I have endured far too much, fought decades all for the sake of bringing about a better world. This affliction will not subdue me. I have the strength to resist, and so I shall do so until my dying breath.

  With a grunt, I stamp my foot and rise back up. I glance about the surroundings, but there’s not much I can discern save for an endless mound of rubble above and below. A narrow space allows me to progress forth, albeit whilst hunched, so I make due and slowly make my way through the ruin.

  My breaths croak frequently and shallow. An unceasing, burning pain plagues my heart, and despite all my efforts I still cannot remove this abominable parasite. My only recourse is to sever it fully with my blade, but to do so would also mean lopping off my chest as well. I will not survive the loss of blood.

  Gnawing, stretching, my vision distorts into two. The demonic infection only grows in severity. I can feel my arm changing, flesh and metal molding together into a grotesque form; and from the gaps I see something sprout out. I recoil in disgust, for countless pairs of lips soon wriggle out whilst attached to stems of veins. I forcibly grab the hideous things and pull them out. Yet, more inevitably take their place. I cannot stop it.

  Where has everyone gone? Is there truly no one here to save me? Hah, how pathetic I sound now. I climbed upon the corpses of the innocent to reach this honored Peership. And yet, it is when I am at my most vulnerable that I find myself calling feebly out for aid.

  I am terrified of what I’ll soon become. The demons have always seemed an unpredictable race, but now I realize just what exactly causes their behavior. A strange compulsion hangs over my body. It is as if my mind is lost in a fog, unable to see around me, stuck, flailing, as I wander about in a daze. Joy and unnatural euphoria swells in my blood. I feel happy, content. I want to giggle and frolic through a field like I once did as a child. Yes, a child. Perhaps that explains it best. I am regressing to a child, to those precious days when I still fostered an innocent dream.

  I want to stay here. This wonderland is a gift. A gift! For all the hardships I’ve braved. Is it so wrong to desire an escape? Let it go. I should abandon myself to this collective, blissful stream—

  “Oh dear. You’ve certainly seen better days, my friend.”

  I snap out of my trance and jerk forward, gasping for air. Sweat glides down my brow, and as I turn my gaze up, the visage of a familiar gentleman appears before me.

  “Sir Lucius? What is that… mask?”

  The man has not so much as a scratch on his body, but unlike before he now dons a peculiar floral mask. It unsettles me, though I know not why. Something about him feels immaterial, as if he’ll vanish into the air if I look away.

  “Oh, just an old relic of mine. It’s been with me ever since I was a young babe in the Australian wilds; but forget about me! You appear to be in quite the conundrum, Sir Roland.”

  “That is an understatement, but yes. I am in a bit of trouble.”

  “So I see. Well then, allow me to be of assistance!”

  With a clap of his hands, Sir Lucius summons an elaborate gathering of pastries, elegant furnishings, and a large pot of tea. My reaction is of such bafflement that even the demonic seed spreading through my body seems to freeze.

  “Is this… truly an appropriate time for such refreshments?” I ask him, cautiously taking a seat.

  “Nonsense. There is not a moment in this world that can’t be brightened with a little tea party! Here, let me pour you a cup. I have a feeling this blend will please you greatly.”

  He offers me a cup filled with a soft blue liquid. I take it and slowly sip the contents at first, before gulping it down with a ravenous thirst I thought not possible.

  “I must admit that you are quite right,” I say, my face relaxing into a smile. “Even the whispers have fallen silent—who knew there existed such a simple solution? Once we return to Francia, I shall take careful measure to document this remedy.”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure about that.” Lucius makes himself comfortable and reclines into his lounge. “Whether you conquer this trial or fall to its seduction is still yet to be seen. Only you can decide the outcome, my friend. If you wish for a happy ending to your tale, however, we shall need address a certain discrepancy.”

  “What would that be?”

  Lucius pauses for a moment, thinking deeply, before gesturing to my blade.

  “A fine weapon you have there. Its name is Durandal, am I correct?”

  I do not understand how exactly this will help me, but I oblige him nonetheless and reply. “You are correct. This sword has been my trusted companion ever since the Holy War.”

  “Yes, I imagine you’ve cut down many a Saracen with it.”

  I stiffen, uncertain how exactly to reply. Is he judging me? Or perhaps it is a joke in poor taste. Whatever it might be, my instinct warns not to treat Sir Lucius as I did before. He is different, somehow. Grand. Imposing. The pressure I feel exuding from him is no lesser than of that monster of a man I once called my liege. Only… it’s not the same. His feels much more vast, as if the answers to every question in this realm already lies stored away in his inscrutable expression.

  “Must we truly repeat this? I have already explained myself before Sir Ferragut. I did what was necessary for Francia. If you wish to assign blame, then let it be toward the people who schemed behind gated shelters. I followed orders and nothing more.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “His late Holiness, of course.”

  Lucius smiles and then gestures to me with an elaborate wave. “Very well then, what were his orders, to be exact?”

  I slowly blink and bring my hands together. “It was… well, to conquer Arabia. I would’ve never hurt their people were it through my own free will.”

  “Hm, interesting.” The way Lucius phrases his words causes a large pit to form in my stomach. He knows something I do not, but what? Why do I feel so exposed before him? I do not enjoy this sensation. A part of me wishes to run away, and yet I cannot. I am drawn to him like a beast to slaughter. “From what I’ve heard, you had full authority over the paladins, yes?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’ve also heard the war was quite bloody, so much so that the Saracens even gave you the moniker of Reaper.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The gentleman shakes his head, yet it is not a dismissive action. Rather, it resembles that of a disappointed parent admonishing their child. “Please forgive me if this sounds redundant, however… did the emperor ever tell you exactly how to conquer Arabia?”

  I drop my cup of tea.

  “I—” I cannot muster the sense to form a complete sentence. Dread pounds fierce in my chest, the force resounding enough to quell even the demonic seed. It is afraid. I am afraid. I lower my head and refuse to meet Sir Lucius’s eyes, those piercing, inescapable eyes.

  He has realized it. He knows. He knows of my folly, the doubts I’ve sought so long to silence.

  “It appears that I am correct. What fun! But oh my, Sir Roland, that does beget a most unfortunate implication, doesn’t it?”

  I had no choice. There was no other method, no words I could speak to persuade the Saracens into surrendering. They all saw me as a relentless killer, but if only they knew just how short my time truly was - the months counting down, weeks, days, until I had to explain myself before the emperor.

  It was the only way.

  “You interpreted his order as one of complete bloodshed, when in reality he cared little about the lives involved. You could have brokered a truce through peaceful means or perhaps sought a less violent manner in subduing their people. But that’s not what you chose, was it?”

  The blame does not lie with me. I refuse to accept it, to even spare it a passing thought. It was either them or me. I did what I needed to for my survival. Elsewise, I would have had to face that monster again. Is such behavior befitting that of a hero? No, of course not. A hero does not grovel. They are the people’s champion, fighting for what is right.

  “You deliberately caused as much harm as you could. You punished the Saracens relentlessly and without mercy, all so that you could engrave in their bones complete and utter fear. Fear made them weak. Fear broke their spirits. And most importantly… fear hastened your campaign. It allowed you to subjugate them quickly, even if it meant abandoning your beloved Chivalry.”

  War gave me scars I could never hope to heal from. It was not the romantic clash I envisioned, nor did I feel justified in my cause. I couldn’t bear to suffer it any longer. I wished for it to end.

  “Do you understand now?” Lucius asked, taunting me knowing full well I have not the ability to resist. “The emperor gave the order, but he was not at fault for the trauma now so deeply ingrained amongst the Saracen people. The true culprit is someone else, someone you are especially familiar with, aren’t you? That is right. The one responsible is you, Sir Roland, and only you.”

  I raise my hand and take a look at my trembling fingers. In my vision, I see them drenched in blood. It permeates me wholly, settling under my nails, into my hair, my skin. And though I wish to deny it all, to refuse Lucius’s words and claim innocence as I have time and time again, I know it to be useless. I have borne this crimson stench for far too long. It is a part of me now, a reminder and a punishment to never forget all those I’ve wronged.

  A brief silence lingers between me and Lucius. Eventually, I utter a dark laugh and lean my head back. The past inevitably captures those who flee from it. I lasted over twenty long years. Now, I can only despair at the futility of it all.

  And all the while, Lucius partakes in another cup of tea. “You are a very, very fascinating person, my friend. I see in your bosom an energetic young man who yearned for heroics and honor. Such an innocent display, and yet it also served to mask the true feelings buried deep where they could never resurface. The passionate dreamer and the jaded executioner—both sides fight for dominance, but neither one is capable of overpowering the other.”

  I chuckle. “Even in my own head, I am still constantly in the midst of war. How depressing.”

  “It needs not be that way. In fact, I believe you shall bloom very soon. The deciding factor of your fate is a simple one: are you willing to acknowledge the truth? Will you finally admit it, after so long cowering behind your delusions of grandeur?”

  Delusions, yes. They describe me quite well, don’t they? For so long I have deluded myself into believing that I was a hero, but the truth is grimier, and dirty, yet that is who I am.

  A monster pretending to be of the light.

  Yet what good will the truth do now? It does not change anything. I am still my cowardly, vile self. The people of Arabia have every right to wish me dead, and I have naught a single excuse to refute them.

  The truth only made me realize the depths of my sin. I cannot hope to ever atone for the cruelty I inflicted. I dare not to even try. My dreams and wishes were all that fueled this decrepit body to live another day. I have no more motivation, no more cause.

  I am sorry, Sir Lucius. Even after realizing what I truly am, I do not believe myself to be any better because of it. The hero I longed to be died after I met the emperor. I let my terror of him sully my own soul, and now all that remains is a fading, withered husk. What must I do now?

  I do not know. There is only one sensation left in my chest. Where all else has long since departed, this blaze has stoked within me since the very beginning.

  My fury.

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]