This is a story of, regrettably, a hero and, I'm sure, a villain, not mutually exclusive in and of themselves. It happened long ago, a setting in which I won't bore the details into you because those are powerful in and of themselves and I find that they deter from the message this story has to tell. Speaking of it that way, I wonder if this story is a parable. A warning of sorts. A text to live by. Please never think of it as that. It would be of utmost disrespect to my work. Just take it as it is: a tale of a creature who did great things.
He was a lonely creature, this hero, this villain. If you were to make up features of our creature, it might have sunken eyes or pale skin, hollow gaze and a black mouth, rotting from the inside like a moldy, fallen log. It could be a bipedal, yes, walking like the humans do, but the image would be much more satisfying as a quadruped of sorts, gangly and young like a three-week old litten or a just-born girafirig, its legs too long for its body, its tail skinny and rat like, its back arched and its toes splayed, skinny and gaunt and unsure and new. But we're getting into the details again, and they're all made up anyways. I've studied these ruins for years. They don't care about who the hero was, they just tell of what he did. And what they do tell us is purely enthralling.
They tell us of its childhood, hopeful and new, curious, surprisingly patient. There's drawings on the wall in old, faded dust, magical scrawls and made-up runes, mechanical hearts and coal-dust eyes. Pure fantasy, imaginative and childish. There's toys: old, metal dolls and drawing tools, surfaces upon which to scry, tools to eat and tools to play. And there must have been much more, but time had gotten to it before I had.
They tell us of its adolescence, how it grayed prematurely, straying from the creative arts into bemusing traps of thought and terror, of heroism and gravity. There's weaponry: swords, shields, staffs, arrows, maces, hammers, implements of war and joustry. There are no more pictures except for the dark drabbles of chalk that must have been wiped away long ago, only the soil beneath where they'd been scratched betraying their existence with a thick layer of black dust like eraser shavings trapped within the earth, but I found a toy. Some sort of monster it must have been, some sort of beast. I'm unsure.
They tell us of its heroic journeys, and of its villainy. There's a room with a thousand pedestals, some empty, others displaying ancient, rusted swords, skulls, teeth, bones, trinkets of conquest. The air is terrible, as if it were rotting itself, that beset itself so harshly upon my senses that I had visions of rotting flesh and screaming people, wide eyes and the smell of fear, like some sort of movie my mind made up stories- the room was so dark, there was nothing else to see. Sometimes I find jewels within the ruins of this room, stones beset into crowns or circlets, or left on their lonesome. I recognize a few of them from old legends- untrustworthy things. There's a silver bone carved in runes that was said to have been wielded by a tyrant to erase the brains of his people. There's a skull made out of gold that was told to have once contained the heart of a sorcerer once wielded by an ancient lych. There's the rib of a dragon- a dragon, of all things! No, not the dragons some of our champions wield today but the dragons of old- those who were corrupted by devilry and magic, greed and insatiability, who craved power and hungered for gold. It is unquestionable that the creatures who once held these trophies were villains of some manner. Nothing in here is innocent.
And then, there's one last tale set out here. In a terrible room. If the last one smelled of rot, this smells of some manner of living dead. But it's astounding all the same, because within there's a small set of scrolls. Perfectly preserved, aging and yellow but somehow legible. But first I must describe to you the appearance of this room- I know I said that details hurt, but these are important. The walls are black and armored as if out of some sort of huge, reptilian hide. It draws in light like a hungry, rotting mouth, and this I know because in the room there hangs a faint, glowing orb as if on its own, unnerving, unending, shining desperately. And there's a single, black-wood desk, and a small, hard chair, both splattered so much with ink that I fear they hadn't a color before the writing so furiously engulfed them.
The scrolls have titles written beneath them, laid out on the desk in some curiously ritualistic format. They read, in order from left to right:
All which I have caused that is wrong.
All which I have caused that is right.
A conclusion of villainy.
I fear no one was meant to enter this room but our hero himself and, yes, as I read these titles, I confess villainy in my own right in that I didn't believe them. The first two will bore you, and I say this in protection, because the things in which they list are haunting and long, but the third I fear must be transcribed.
It reads as follows.
My colleagues have begun trying to desperately inform me of all my feats. Our hour of death draws near, and I fear that none of us have figured the world out like we thought we might, but of all of us... I'm the least scared of dying. It feels almost just to be torn asunder in what must be our last fight. A symbolic fight, as everything in our lives end up being.
If the world survives to read this, as I desperately hope it will, not for hope in life but that if they continue to live, there will be heroes who don't make the mistakes we have. Don't have my terrible thoughts. I've been told I have a great mind, and the trust in this scares me. But if the world does survive to read this, take solace in our mistakes. I'm not afraid of dying because I deserve it.
For all my life I've wanted to do great things. For all my life I've been told to do great things. But now I wish I was never great at all. I never wanted to do great things, I realize now, but I don't know what else there is to do. Society seems bent on heroism. Bent on striving to maintain some goal. Bent on the purpose of life to better the world as a whole, to leave it in some manner less broken than when you came into it. Many great minds decide on this in some manner, and many small minds follow it, but of those who follow it, they become trapped. I yearn for the gratitude of the people I've saved and that I have received in many measures, but it does little to make up for those who have been harmed in its process. In the process of the rise of evil, in the process of its destruction. If you told me I've saved a fifth of civilization, I'd feel immeasurably guilty that I could not save its whole.
My colleagues persist valiantly. We've slaughtered demons, fought devils, sieged tyrants, strove to help all those who lived in our society whether they be bestial or human, manipulated, calculated, fought wars for continents and wars for cities. But I fear all we do is clean up. Clean up society, rebuild its bases, make stories to tell around the campfire. There is no greater villainy than being a hero, and realizing that all that means is that you fought a battle and can't ever finish the war.
I hope that if this is ever read, society will have calmed down somewhat. People and pokemon will get along, rulers will thrive benignly, and magic will not exist. But as it stands, the world today is fragile, interconnected, and frightening. In this world we believe in good and evil, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
I ramble. I cannot connect the threads of all my journeys in one lifetime. Perhaps it's because I'm too scared, or that I'm simply unsure, I'm unaware. But tomorrow we're off to fight a demon and surely die, so I must do it now than never. I must say my goodbyes.
There's many reasons to fight. Revenge, and penance. But nothing I've done has satisfied me. First I fought out of anger. Than I fought out of fear. Than I fought because I was scared I was right- and then, because I knew I was wrong. Do me one favor, if you ever read this, my colleagues, if you've survived. Know that I embrace this death. Know that I was wrong and crazy and insane, but never stop. You must never stop fighting, never stop fighting to remove the curses I beset upon this world, to scrub away my ideas and my evil. I have terrible ideas, as I'm sure you're aware. Please stop them, wipe away my legacy. I have done enough.
But do it not out of revenge, or fear, or disgust. And when you fight your battles that I'm sure you are to fall upon, face your enemies without rage and hatred. Trust me in this: that no joy nor relief comes from avenging the fallen but instead you are left with an uncured obsession. I think I've found the key in these last few months, and that, truly, is why I'm not afraid to die tomorrow.
You have to forgive. Say it. Say it to your enemies, to your hatred, to yourself. It's not for them, it's for you. A hero can't exist without acknowledging their villainy and laying it to rest. It's the only true thing that's brought me peace.
I don't know why I've done great things. I don't know if society will be better or worse because of them, if I've shattered more than I've repaired. I haven't figured out why to live and why to fight, but I have found peace of a manner, and that's more than the world has to its name. Saying I'm ready for death, I don't know if I'm done quite yet. But I suppose I'll never be, then. There's always some form of heroism that society needs not to fall into its own trap of government and war.
May the world live to see the day where every soul knows why they fight. But until then, I'm ready. I'm ready to die fighting a demon- our demon. It's almost funny, being killed by our own demons. Symbolic, at the least. He calls himself Darkrai. Some god or another gone insane, some legend that must be soothed... I admit, it is our fault that he exists to be fought in the first place. But then, a hero makes his own work, intentional or not.
It's time for my journey to come to an end. I'm scared that the world has been worse off because of me, but to all of this, and all of my horrible ideas, and all of my horrible decisions, I'm aware. And to the villains they've created, I forgive.
~ Percival Mar-ünchen, of heroes, and of villains.
It's a peculiar place of stumbled into. The stench alone is unnatural, for a city that used to be so holy and pure before it crumbled. But then, I find that life is a cycle, and one that history must follow. I find it hard to believe that pokemon of such immense power and people of such immense fortitude could have existed. But then, I suppose there's plenty I don't know about this world, although I question why it needs to be learned, other than the faintest forces of curiosity and vanity and knowledge's girth.
Will the world forever need heroes? Or is it too grey?
I'm unsure. Seeking answers seems to be a quest in its own right, and one that I'm afraid to take. And then, what of the answers? What use will they be? How much does humanity need to be figured out?
I know I said I wouldn't stray into details, but the sky is lovely tonight.
I need to keep looking, but for now, that's all I need.
He was a lonely creature, this hero, this villain. If you were to make up features of our creature, it might have sunken eyes or pale skin, hollow gaze and a black mouth, rotting from the inside like a moldy, fallen log. It could be a bipedal, yes, walking like the humans do, but the image would be much more satisfying as a quadruped of sorts, gangly and young like a three-week old litten or a just-born girafirig, its legs too long for its body, its tail skinny and rat like, its back arched and its toes splayed, skinny and gaunt and unsure and new. But we're getting into the details again, and they're all made up anyways. I've studied these ruins for years. They don't care about who the hero was, they just tell of what he did. And what they do tell us is purely enthralling.
They tell us of its childhood, hopeful and new, curious, surprisingly patient. There's drawings on the wall in old, faded dust, magical scrawls and made-up runes, mechanical hearts and coal-dust eyes. Pure fantasy, imaginative and childish. There's toys: old, metal dolls and drawing tools, surfaces upon which to scry, tools to eat and tools to play. And there must have been much more, but time had gotten to it before I had.
They tell us of its adolescence, how it grayed prematurely, straying from the creative arts into bemusing traps of thought and terror, of heroism and gravity. There's weaponry: swords, shields, staffs, arrows, maces, hammers, implements of war and joustry. There are no more pictures except for the dark drabbles of chalk that must have been wiped away long ago, only the soil beneath where they'd been scratched betraying their existence with a thick layer of black dust like eraser shavings trapped within the earth, but I found a toy. Some sort of monster it must have been, some sort of beast. I'm unsure.
They tell us of its heroic journeys, and of its villainy. There's a room with a thousand pedestals, some empty, others displaying ancient, rusted swords, skulls, teeth, bones, trinkets of conquest. The air is terrible, as if it were rotting itself, that beset itself so harshly upon my senses that I had visions of rotting flesh and screaming people, wide eyes and the smell of fear, like some sort of movie my mind made up stories- the room was so dark, there was nothing else to see. Sometimes I find jewels within the ruins of this room, stones beset into crowns or circlets, or left on their lonesome. I recognize a few of them from old legends- untrustworthy things. There's a silver bone carved in runes that was said to have been wielded by a tyrant to erase the brains of his people. There's a skull made out of gold that was told to have once contained the heart of a sorcerer once wielded by an ancient lych. There's the rib of a dragon- a dragon, of all things! No, not the dragons some of our champions wield today but the dragons of old- those who were corrupted by devilry and magic, greed and insatiability, who craved power and hungered for gold. It is unquestionable that the creatures who once held these trophies were villains of some manner. Nothing in here is innocent.
And then, there's one last tale set out here. In a terrible room. If the last one smelled of rot, this smells of some manner of living dead. But it's astounding all the same, because within there's a small set of scrolls. Perfectly preserved, aging and yellow but somehow legible. But first I must describe to you the appearance of this room- I know I said that details hurt, but these are important. The walls are black and armored as if out of some sort of huge, reptilian hide. It draws in light like a hungry, rotting mouth, and this I know because in the room there hangs a faint, glowing orb as if on its own, unnerving, unending, shining desperately. And there's a single, black-wood desk, and a small, hard chair, both splattered so much with ink that I fear they hadn't a color before the writing so furiously engulfed them.
The scrolls have titles written beneath them, laid out on the desk in some curiously ritualistic format. They read, in order from left to right:
All which I have caused that is wrong.
All which I have caused that is right.
A conclusion of villainy.
I fear no one was meant to enter this room but our hero himself and, yes, as I read these titles, I confess villainy in my own right in that I didn't believe them. The first two will bore you, and I say this in protection, because the things in which they list are haunting and long, but the third I fear must be transcribed.
It reads as follows.
My colleagues have begun trying to desperately inform me of all my feats. Our hour of death draws near, and I fear that none of us have figured the world out like we thought we might, but of all of us... I'm the least scared of dying. It feels almost just to be torn asunder in what must be our last fight. A symbolic fight, as everything in our lives end up being.
If the world survives to read this, as I desperately hope it will, not for hope in life but that if they continue to live, there will be heroes who don't make the mistakes we have. Don't have my terrible thoughts. I've been told I have a great mind, and the trust in this scares me. But if the world does survive to read this, take solace in our mistakes. I'm not afraid of dying because I deserve it.
For all my life I've wanted to do great things. For all my life I've been told to do great things. But now I wish I was never great at all. I never wanted to do great things, I realize now, but I don't know what else there is to do. Society seems bent on heroism. Bent on striving to maintain some goal. Bent on the purpose of life to better the world as a whole, to leave it in some manner less broken than when you came into it. Many great minds decide on this in some manner, and many small minds follow it, but of those who follow it, they become trapped. I yearn for the gratitude of the people I've saved and that I have received in many measures, but it does little to make up for those who have been harmed in its process. In the process of the rise of evil, in the process of its destruction. If you told me I've saved a fifth of civilization, I'd feel immeasurably guilty that I could not save its whole.
My colleagues persist valiantly. We've slaughtered demons, fought devils, sieged tyrants, strove to help all those who lived in our society whether they be bestial or human, manipulated, calculated, fought wars for continents and wars for cities. But I fear all we do is clean up. Clean up society, rebuild its bases, make stories to tell around the campfire. There is no greater villainy than being a hero, and realizing that all that means is that you fought a battle and can't ever finish the war.
I hope that if this is ever read, society will have calmed down somewhat. People and pokemon will get along, rulers will thrive benignly, and magic will not exist. But as it stands, the world today is fragile, interconnected, and frightening. In this world we believe in good and evil, and that's the most terrifying thing of all.
I ramble. I cannot connect the threads of all my journeys in one lifetime. Perhaps it's because I'm too scared, or that I'm simply unsure, I'm unaware. But tomorrow we're off to fight a demon and surely die, so I must do it now than never. I must say my goodbyes.
There's many reasons to fight. Revenge, and penance. But nothing I've done has satisfied me. First I fought out of anger. Than I fought out of fear. Than I fought because I was scared I was right- and then, because I knew I was wrong. Do me one favor, if you ever read this, my colleagues, if you've survived. Know that I embrace this death. Know that I was wrong and crazy and insane, but never stop. You must never stop fighting, never stop fighting to remove the curses I beset upon this world, to scrub away my ideas and my evil. I have terrible ideas, as I'm sure you're aware. Please stop them, wipe away my legacy. I have done enough.
But do it not out of revenge, or fear, or disgust. And when you fight your battles that I'm sure you are to fall upon, face your enemies without rage and hatred. Trust me in this: that no joy nor relief comes from avenging the fallen but instead you are left with an uncured obsession. I think I've found the key in these last few months, and that, truly, is why I'm not afraid to die tomorrow.
You have to forgive. Say it. Say it to your enemies, to your hatred, to yourself. It's not for them, it's for you. A hero can't exist without acknowledging their villainy and laying it to rest. It's the only true thing that's brought me peace.
I don't know why I've done great things. I don't know if society will be better or worse because of them, if I've shattered more than I've repaired. I haven't figured out why to live and why to fight, but I have found peace of a manner, and that's more than the world has to its name. Saying I'm ready for death, I don't know if I'm done quite yet. But I suppose I'll never be, then. There's always some form of heroism that society needs not to fall into its own trap of government and war.
May the world live to see the day where every soul knows why they fight. But until then, I'm ready. I'm ready to die fighting a demon- our demon. It's almost funny, being killed by our own demons. Symbolic, at the least. He calls himself Darkrai. Some god or another gone insane, some legend that must be soothed... I admit, it is our fault that he exists to be fought in the first place. But then, a hero makes his own work, intentional or not.
It's time for my journey to come to an end. I'm scared that the world has been worse off because of me, but to all of this, and all of my horrible ideas, and all of my horrible decisions, I'm aware. And to the villains they've created, I forgive.
~ Percival Mar-ünchen, of heroes, and of villains.
It's a peculiar place of stumbled into. The stench alone is unnatural, for a city that used to be so holy and pure before it crumbled. But then, I find that life is a cycle, and one that history must follow. I find it hard to believe that pokemon of such immense power and people of such immense fortitude could have existed. But then, I suppose there's plenty I don't know about this world, although I question why it needs to be learned, other than the faintest forces of curiosity and vanity and knowledge's girth.
Will the world forever need heroes? Or is it too grey?
I'm unsure. Seeking answers seems to be a quest in its own right, and one that I'm afraid to take. And then, what of the answers? What use will they be? How much does humanity need to be figured out?
I know I said I wouldn't stray into details, but the sky is lovely tonight.
I need to keep looking, but for now, that's all I need.