So here I am, finally away from the hospitals and rehabilitation –
finally free of all the people who want to touch me and tell me how
to live now that I managed to miss dying by so narrow a margin. They
think I should be so grateful and happy just to continue to breathe
the air. Fools! When I was
packing my remaining few possessions to come here to wait to see what
would be done with me, I found that the communicator I ... er
... 'liberated' before my most recent encounter with Sin was
still there, buried beneath some dirty laundry in the bottom of my
duffel bag. It still works; they made those first ones strong - no
doubt about that. I suppose, as a man of honour, I should feel
guilty about retaining this device. I do not. We were instructed to
salvage what we could from the dead piled like driftwood on the
beach. Weapons and armor were in short supply - as usual - and so
were all other useful items. Had I not picked up the communicator,
the next tide would have buried it or taken it out to sea. So I did
no wrong. I would have turned it in with the other salvage had I not
forgotten in the rush as we moved on to the next assembly point. Now
this thing is so battered and out of date, it is a miracle it still
functions and no one but me is likely to want it. It is a metaphor
for my life. Except that not even I want my life.
As I was about to say before I became maudlin and defensive, I
have just discovered this communicator in addition to its capacity to
transmit and receive messages has a device to record notes and
reports. Since I have nothing better to do until I am given fresh
orders, I think I will use it to hold my observations. Who can tell?
There may come a time when it will be valuable to have some sort of
reminder of what happened here and how. If it all turns out as badly
as I suspect it will, there may be charges to be brought and it will
be useful to have documentation of the facts as I see them. Now, I
think I have the time stamp set properly ... Yes, that’s it.
197S9.8.42
When the Crusaders decided they no longer had a place for me, they
sent me here. Here being the Mushroom Rock Road where the Maesters
are assembling some sort of cadre for some sort of special mission.
The rumor is that they are planning to train a group of soldiers to
take command over the decimated remnants of the Crusaders themselves.
I had not heard that my old unit had been so misused although I am
not surprised, given the stupidity of those who ultimately issued the
orders. I think I would have been more surprised if any great number
of my old comrades had survived this long. But there is no logic in
the idea of taking a rag-tag group of disparate individuals and
trying to turn them into disciplined Warriors who can command the
loyalty of of hardened veterans. It would be wiser to create
officers from the ranks as we always did. This entire project stinks
of dishonesty.
Still I have no other place to go now that the vivisectionists are
done with me, so here I am. The main gathering area is up the road a
bit. It is so crowded I am unable to bear the stench and the
constant touching which is the inevitable result of so many filthy
men and women - they do not distinguish - crushed together. I left
my name and the tone code for this device with the one who seemed to
be in charge and came here to this place. Here I can make a nest
behind the statue of the Hero and be alone to think about this thing
they are trying to pass off as a plan.
I do not understand why I was no longer acceptable to the
Crusaders. I have led men there and they have followed willingly,
eagerly. True, I am no longer a swordsman; you need agility and
accurate footwork for that. But I have trained with firearms of
varying sizes and weights and am an adequate marksman in spite of the
fact my visual acuity is not what it was. The spectacles atone for
that. I can still hold my own in battle and I am sure soon I shall
be able to dispense with the cane. I am still a Warrior ... they
cannot take that away from me. Not ever.
The noise from down the road is increasing and I almost think I
can smell the reek of the unwashed bodies from here. If they are
this dirty now, I shudder to think how they will be when they are
actually on the march or in bivouac. Disgusting. And this is what
they say they are planning to use to make into an elite unit. It is
a fraud. I do not know what they are plotting but it is not the
formation of an elite force.
The one to whom I gave my name - he recognized it even though he
did not dare to say anything to my face. I wonder how many others he
will tell. 'Nooj, the Undying, is here, going to be a part of us.' I
suppose I should have used another name. ... I may be developing a
sense of humor - as if I could hide under another name. I may be the
most recognizable man on the surface of Spira. Or maybe I flatter
myself. I am going in circles with this.
I hear we are to be assigned to small groups. I wonder if they
will name a leader or leave it to each group to choose its own. I
hope I am not compelled to deal with amateurs; they get in my way and
do not understand the code of the military man. And I have not the
patience to teach them. Oh well, if they are amateurs, they will
never realize what my real purpose is so that may work to my
advantage.
Here I go again, theorizing without data. It will be better
to sleep. Rest is always in short supply once training begins.
