Post by Eurydice on Feb 24, 2009 20:04:18 GMT -5
((Siarc has graciously agreed to come and play in canon!Anaura. Details are still being worked out, but I think he will fit in well. Set about twenty years after ye olde Tyrnese invasion))
I have never denied myself to be a slave to duty. Some people might speak those words as an insult for the blindly faithful. Others might use such a phrase for a loyal hero. I do not know whether I am either, neither, or both.
Duty to my father was bred first in me. My very existence was an embarrasment to him, and the only means I had of proving otherwise was obedience. "Bastard," I was called, as if that should mean something base, when really, it was little more than annoyance. I had no set role to fill, and that was all. Still, I swallowed the orders that my father gave me, and I worked hard to learn quickly. That was what duty meant to me. It was all of the, "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" that needed to be said, the not needing to question. Duty meant that, while others might be born into honor, I earned mine for myself. Duty was owning my own self-respect.
Duty was making the show of ignoring what I wanted, and gods, I did want. There were half moments in between duty that warmed us and let us glimpse the possibilities. But she did her duty, as did I, and those possibilities were not.
Duty to my country came soon after. I remember the satisfaction of receiving commission as an officer, a brave son of Tyrnal with a true place and purpose at last. My sense of duty had been a nameless, voiceless force in my life, until then; and palpable and real though it had been, now it was something to be spoken, lauded. I am no fool— I know that many a soldier has been made by boredom, crime, or poverty. But we moved as one, and that one spoke only in the language of service, service to the greater good of our countrymen and our home.
Duty kept us standing fast, even as the earth ran red with blood. Duty fed and watered us, pillowed our weary heads. Duty carried us to distant shores, although human weakness carried me back.
Duty might have been abandoned by some, when push came to shove; necessity can make cowards of us all. I did not waver. I know myself for the blind, faithful, would-be heroic that I am, and I could not divorce myself from duty if I tried. Trouble is, one can easily speak of duty, duty, duty, and yet conflicting duties arise.
Duty meant helping a soul who needed help, even when sense should have dictated otherwise. It meant trading the blindfold of one duty in favor of another.
Duty kept my sword sleeping in my hand for her sake. Duty bade me follow her and keep her safe; duty drew me to her side, not to mention into her bed. Months, then years, duty kept me beside her; and watching her smile, deceive, corrupt, I wondered why in the name of all the gods duty had seen fit to keep me here. Perhaps there was simply no service left, in this world, that could not be called corrupt, and so my service to one lying, deceitful bitch was of little consequence.
Duty bred love but forbid me from speaking it. Duty meant painfully ignoring the nights when she tumbled into the beds of strangers with lust in their hearts and nothing in their heads, all because it suited her needs. Duty was lying for her, killing for her. Duty was sometimes simply standing beside her.
And duty brought me here, now, feeling the last of my life slip away from me. I thank the gods that it is a clean death, a soldier's death.
A death of duty, for a soldier of duty. I have been a slave to it all my life, and I do not know what, ultimately, that life will have yielded. May it be that my death, at least, yields something more substantial. I think— I hope— that I have earned it.
I have never denied myself to be a slave to duty. Some people might speak those words as an insult for the blindly faithful. Others might use such a phrase for a loyal hero. I do not know whether I am either, neither, or both.
Duty to my father was bred first in me. My very existence was an embarrasment to him, and the only means I had of proving otherwise was obedience. "Bastard," I was called, as if that should mean something base, when really, it was little more than annoyance. I had no set role to fill, and that was all. Still, I swallowed the orders that my father gave me, and I worked hard to learn quickly. That was what duty meant to me. It was all of the, "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" that needed to be said, the not needing to question. Duty meant that, while others might be born into honor, I earned mine for myself. Duty was owning my own self-respect.
Duty was making the show of ignoring what I wanted, and gods, I did want. There were half moments in between duty that warmed us and let us glimpse the possibilities. But she did her duty, as did I, and those possibilities were not.
Duty to my country came soon after. I remember the satisfaction of receiving commission as an officer, a brave son of Tyrnal with a true place and purpose at last. My sense of duty had been a nameless, voiceless force in my life, until then; and palpable and real though it had been, now it was something to be spoken, lauded. I am no fool— I know that many a soldier has been made by boredom, crime, or poverty. But we moved as one, and that one spoke only in the language of service, service to the greater good of our countrymen and our home.
Duty kept us standing fast, even as the earth ran red with blood. Duty fed and watered us, pillowed our weary heads. Duty carried us to distant shores, although human weakness carried me back.
Duty might have been abandoned by some, when push came to shove; necessity can make cowards of us all. I did not waver. I know myself for the blind, faithful, would-be heroic that I am, and I could not divorce myself from duty if I tried. Trouble is, one can easily speak of duty, duty, duty, and yet conflicting duties arise.
Duty meant helping a soul who needed help, even when sense should have dictated otherwise. It meant trading the blindfold of one duty in favor of another.
Duty kept my sword sleeping in my hand for her sake. Duty bade me follow her and keep her safe; duty drew me to her side, not to mention into her bed. Months, then years, duty kept me beside her; and watching her smile, deceive, corrupt, I wondered why in the name of all the gods duty had seen fit to keep me here. Perhaps there was simply no service left, in this world, that could not be called corrupt, and so my service to one lying, deceitful bitch was of little consequence.
Duty bred love but forbid me from speaking it. Duty meant painfully ignoring the nights when she tumbled into the beds of strangers with lust in their hearts and nothing in their heads, all because it suited her needs. Duty was lying for her, killing for her. Duty was sometimes simply standing beside her.
And duty brought me here, now, feeling the last of my life slip away from me. I thank the gods that it is a clean death, a soldier's death.
A death of duty, for a soldier of duty. I have been a slave to it all my life, and I do not know what, ultimately, that life will have yielded. May it be that my death, at least, yields something more substantial. I think— I hope— that I have earned it.