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For the Morguerat formerly known as “Sir”
Writing is a curious thing, the scribing of symbols upon a page spaced in such a way that their meaning might become clear over the time it takes to read them. The spaces, in fact, are as important as the symbols for they mark the boundaries that define words. And just as writing takes place in time, so too does reading, for the eye sees not all words at once but moves from one to the next, a slight space of time intervening between them even as a slight physical space separates them on the page. The spaces bear as much meaning as the words at times, for it is in the spaces that one anticipates the next word and begins to construct understanding of what is written. When writing is done well, it is often the case that the spaces speak with a voice and power uniquely their own.
And so it is here that as the large man pauses a moment in his recording of the great rush of memories, that speaking emerges from between the marks of his pen upon the pages of the journal. Mouths appear between the words, scores of tiny mouths whose lips move as one. They seem to gather breath for a moment and then begin to speak in unison, their words having the cumulative weight of pages upon pages of words written through years long in the recording of thoughts, “Well done, boy! Your life shall become your own again only should you be willing to face it and find strength in your remembering. Know this, boy, you are not the first, nor your tale the most tragic ......”
Images rise then from the pages. The mouths continue to move but they speak not words but pictures. The pictures tell the tale of a good man, a faithful man brave in heart. A man who fell. And a man who forged both a great blade to be his surety and the even greater blade of clear-sighted discipline that made possible his own redemption. The dance of the images is subtle, compelling and brief. They are soon gone, their tale having been told, receding back into the tiny mouths which in turn vanish once more into the spaces between the former knight’s words.
Words, however, have been left behind in a beautiful and flowing script, as if a pen had danced along the page:
Many know the tale of Sir Alfred Karvad, the famed justiciar, whose integrity proved firm and true even against the corrupt monarchs he opposed, but whose temper and discipline failed him tragically one summer. Lured by his enemies into a delicate situation and manipulated by a cunning master of illusions he was tricked into the slaughtering of innocents in a righteous fury. His failure to discern the situation properly and his reckless anger cost him his status as a paladin and the esteem of those he was sworn to protect. Few know, however, that Alfred, having renounced his noble titles and lands, dedicated himself not to the seeking of what was lost, but to the service of a justice that would not be so easily blinded, nor so rash in its action. Other lands knew him only as Alfred for he refused all titles and shared little of his past. These lands knew him also as one whose judgment was sure for it was tempered with the sad and humble wisdom of one aware of his own mistakes; and as one whose protection was as sure as his judgment. His years of penitence and service sharpened his insight and he had spent the last of his fortune in the crafting of a tool to be both his weapon and his support, a great blade made of mithril alloyed with silver that bears the name Argent Justice. Fewer still know that after Alfred lay down his life driving away strange creatures of shadow that had fallen upon an out of the way farming village, that the villagers chose from their best land to provide him a fitting place in which to rest. That the blade was lain along side him. And that to this day, a light burns near that humble tomb, a sign of the gratitude of simple folk for one who had been their champion and protector and who wait for another to take up his blade and with it his cause.
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