I am sitting in my library and I am laughing. In my hand is one of the many tomes written of that time. The time of war and destruction. A time that saw me as a hero. I laugh because of the foolish words inscribed by the storytellers. There is no truth in them. We were none of us noble, or benevolent.
Like many of that age, we were thirsty for war and conquest. I have scoured all such books, but there is no mention of the underhanded tactics we had adopted. No mention of the sheer slaughter, wrought by us. No mention of the rape and pillage, which we were only too happy to be a part of. No mention of the surviving, bastard children, strewn about the ruined lands.
According to the books, every word we uttered was deep and beautiful. Every action strong and graceful. In fact, one might even think that we were not human. That we did not sleep, or crap, or screw, or any of the things that people do. I stop reading and laughing. Someone is here, standing in the shadows. They advance revealing themselves. It is a man I once called brother on the field of battle.
"Do you read nothing, but the old tomes?" he asks as he crosses the floor.
"What can I say," I respond as I close the book in my lap and focus my attentions on the visitor. "I like a good fairytale, even if it is all lies."
"All of it is a lie?" he queries as he draws to a halt, mere feet from me. "Now, surely there is some truth."
"The only truth they have written would barely fill a page," I return as I heft the book for emphasis. "Let alone a thick tome."
"Don't you like being a hero?" he asks as he finds a place near to me. "To be the idol of all boys and the desire of all the girls? There's even a line of wooden action figures of which you are the most popular."
"Not so long as it hides the truth," I rebut and stand from my seat "And the last thing children should aspire to be, is me."
"Would you prefer that they grow up and be a bloodthirsty warmonger?" he counters and places a hand to his chin. "Trust me, this is the better way. People need heroes. The more heroic the better, or else what have they to be inspired by?"
"Are you saying that you are responsible for these lies?" I adapt a different tactic and slam a fist against the book.
"I am. And anyone who dared write anything about us, I paid a visit to," he assures me and narrows his eyes. "I ensured that all of the words are as they should be. A great many I simply paid off. However, there were a few who were committed to the truth. These had to be dealt with in a different manner."
"All to make gold out of shit," I remark and remove my throbbing hand.
"If you prefer to see it that way, that is your choice," he concedes and gives a slight bow. "Just know that these lies serve a purpose." He departs, leaving me alone again. Alone with the ridiculous fabrications of a world that preferred a pleasant lie, to brutal truth.