The view thus accorded was a vista to answer

my last day in the mortal world. The march

down of hewn stones, menhirs and rygoliths

showed in these unrelieved shadows the

array of stolid faces, the underworld grimaces

and hisses, bared teeth to threaten, the infinite

rows of rooted gods and spirits stretching

down the slope, across hill after hill, all the

way, yes, to the limitless beyond sight,

beyond the mirror of these misshapen,

squinting eyes. And in these stalwart

belligerents, who each in their day of eminence

reached out clawed, grasping hands, the

crimson touch of faith in all its demands

on our time, our lives, our loves and our

fears, were naught but mystery now, all

recognition forgotten, abandoned to the

crawl of remorseless change. Did their lost

voices ride this forlorn wind? Did I tremble

to the echo of blood beseechings, the tearing

of young virgin flesh and the wonder of an

exposed heart, the bemused last beats of

insistent outrage? Did I fall to my knees

before this ghastly succession of holy

tyranny, as might any ignorant cowerer

in crowded shadows?

The armies of the faithful were gone.

They marched away in lifted waves of dust

and ash. Priests and priestesses, the succumbers

to hope who conveyed their convictions with

the desperate thirst of demons hoarding

fearful souls in their private meanings of

wealth, they remained couched in the cracks

of their idols, bits of crumbling bone lodged

in the stone's weaknesses, that and nothing

more.

The view thus accorded, is the historian's

curse. Lessons endless on the pointlessness

of games of intellect, emotion and faith.

The only worthwhile historians, I say,

are those who conclude their lives in

succinct acts of suicide.

Sixth Note, Volume II

Collected Suicide Notes

Historian Brevos (the Indecisive)