lowly bastard of a soldier has the gall to look me in the eye and call me a murderer. His crony lolls there against the doorframe, nicotine-stained fingers scratching at the gristle of beard on his leathery neck, accusing me with his eyes.
I know what had happened; they believe in their tiny little minds that I therefore declare my guilt. They know nothing. The Seers did what had to be done; they have no right to pass judgment on us. We are the Keepers of the Devices; we are the Seers of What Is to Come. The litany rolls through my head, buffering me against their heresy.
“I wear the Ring; I Know the Future; I am Seer. I hold the Vision; I Speak the Truth; I am Seer. None shall Know what I Know; none shall See what I See; I am Seer, they are Nothing.”
Another impudent accusation is hurled at my face by the brute in charge. Refusing to grant him the honor of my gaze, I stare into the Abyss and repeat, “You are Nothing. He is Nothing. Those who died were Nothing.”
I know they will eventually tire of this useless charade and put me through the meaningless ritual of a public hanging, all to satisfy their bestial blood-lust, their craving for “vengeance.” To a Seer, death means nothing. Who did they think they were, meting out “justice” on me?
Who did they think they were?
