14.
Codex entry: A confession
I cannot say I shared or share the Inquisitor's idealism. It was idealism that made him a weak man, this faith in the Law and the predictability of Man. It is why he surrounded himself with people who could be strong where he could not. I also cannot say that I could, or ever wanted to be a leader of men, but retain flexibility and freedom to not be drawn taut and immobile by the wills and wishes of thousands. For the admirable quality of knowing my place and the opportunities it furnishes, he sanctioned me to curl myself into his fist. A generous hand, when needed. An accusing finger. I seize now the title, and form it to suit the needs of this world, and myself, for I am a part of it. I have no ambition to rule or lift myself up as king or god, but like my predecessor, to assure that there is a world left to live and die in at all.
I want to confess how the Inquisitor died. He was ailing, but I was set to leave on his orders. I would like to say I had begged to stay, I am a practical man, and the world does not stop turning and burning, waiting for the Inquisitor to pass. I did offer, however, and he offered to have me thrown out of the camp in return. I offered then to break something very small within him, to make it quick. It wasn't painless, but it was fast. Something that would break anyway in the body of an old and fragile man. I said I'd like to watch him die, and I didn't wait for consent. He died right where he belonged, in the low morning sun, in my own arms, and I laid his naked body in the tall grasses of the Wycome plains for the vultures and worms. It didn't seem right to do otherwise. He said once that a known grave is like a crowded room that the dead can neither sleep in nor leave. Don't go looking. He belonged to everyone in life, his last breath and bleached bones belong to me, and those I simply will not share.
Servis
9:50 Dragon