Perfection begs for too much and a lot of not enough’s. Expectation is similar—meeting one, and then being dragged through the mud by the other. Connor certainly doesn’t expect nor does he beg for perfection, but he hopes.
HOPE tethers between both: it rests and sways on that thin veil.
As he looks over the cliff that overlooks the bay, he is not a leader, nor a warrior, nor a diplomat. He is simply who he is, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Time may have robbed him of childish dreams; it may have tarnished his vision for the future. But if anything, if anything else remains, he is hopeful.
He’s seen it first-hand, experienced that same hope ripped out of his chest cavity, leaving behind vengeance disguised as justice. But in that deep, dark cavern with crimson stained hands, hope was reborn. It had been reborn through all the cruelty he'd long endured because darkness simply cannot exist without the light. That spark is born from his own pain—it is the testimony of his strength and his spirit. And his spirit rages and seethes with not only justice, but with hope.
The future is uncertain;
There is still so much to do, and he won’t live long enough to see the fruits of his labor. Nevertheless, what he knows for certain is that hope is eternal. It is forged through manmade cruelty hammering onto us over and over again. It dies, and it is reborn again. It does not demand, nor does it beg, but it simply is.
No matter what the future holds for this country, hope will be reborn over and over again in spite of those who wish to destroy it.