My Little Mages: The Oracles of Time
by Fallen Astral
The question: Why would someone profess to write an account about something that had occurred years ago? What purpose would it serve writing it now, putting pen to paper and letting the world know of their experiences in years' past?
But I myself am not entirely certain why I have chosen to write this account. Nor do I believe that it will serve anyone any purpose.
One could, of course, speak of all the normal reasons that a retired soldier such as myself would choose to put his experiences into writing. I could provide to you long winded commentary about how I wish to offer the benefits of my wisdom and my experiences to both my own generation and all generations hence. I could carry on at great length about the uniqueness of my experiences, and how ordinary people across the world might apply the insights I have gained to their own lives.
But in truth, I would find such an account to be unbearably pretentious. While I shall not engage in such false modesty as to claim that I have nothing of value to contribute to the sum of all knowledge, I do not think myself so brilliant that the world would suffer for not having my opinions added to it.
It is then, perhaps, that I have written this account to secure my own legacy in the pages of history? I would be far from the only old soldier to have done so. I could go on at a great length about my triumphs, regale my fellow humans and readers with the story of how I faced impossible odds, and claimed victory by the dint of my own skills on the battlefield. My failures, by the same token, could be explained away or shifted onto the backs of others, and my more disputed decisions might be explained in full.
I profess, however, that such a self-aggrandizing account holds in itself even less interest to me than one that merely seeks to make feast my own ego. In truth, I feel that--if anything--my reputation is already far too exaggerated. Many have sought to make more of me than what I truly am, to place me upon some pedestal as a perfect, unerring figure. And even before such veneration bore its ultimate fruit, I found such things tiresome, and after some of the events have ultimately transpired as a result of my inflated reputation, the thought of doing anything that might add to it fills me with no joy.
It is perhaps then the correct answer is the simplest one. That like many soldiers who have survived the maelstrom of war and had the most grieving and yet still greatest pleasure to have lived to old age, I find myself compelled to look back and reflect upon my many numerous experiences as a soldier. Ultimately, I have made the deliberate decision to commit such reflections to the written page so that I might consult my thoughts and sharpen memories that old age has begun to take from me.
It is, in some ways, a terrible thing to finally grow old. To awake every morning and feel the fresh aches and pains of old war wounds; to watch helplessly as my mind and body both begin to fail me. I see now why many an old soldier choose to seek that one final battle, that they might die in a blaze of glory on a great battle frontier, rather than seeking death in bed, long after their best days are behind them. However, for all the sorrows that old age brings, I think I prefer it to the embrace of oblivion, or to the other alternatives that have been offered to me.
In time, I hope that you can forgive me if my personal account begins to ramble or depart upon tangents at times. Such is the privilege of old age. One can only hope that whomever faces the greatly difficult task of editing my words into a coherent and legible account curbs the worst such excesses. (1)
(1)To be honest, he's not that bad about it for the most part. Then again, I'm only the latest in a string of nine hundred years' worth of editors, so maybe the ones who came before me chopped all the worst of it out.
So, after having established the reasons I have chosen to share this account with my fellow readers and the rest of the world, it would behoove me to offer some additional thoughts on exactly what this account entails. While it is not the only significant event of my life, I have chosen to restrict my account to the events which transpired during my years serving a vessel of war and a great warrior for justice. While there are many worthy tales to be told of earlier and later times, it is the events which occurred during the period of war between the Equestrians and the Titans which weighs most heavily upon my mind. I shall leave any accounts of later events in the hands of authors far more capable than I.
I have decided to write my account in three parts, the first discussing the years and events which lead up to the war and which events of that particular time I deem important, the second discussing the most significant events--of which there are two--during the war itself, and lastly covering the conclusion of the war, and possibly touching upon the events which transpired afterwards.
And while I have attempted to faithfully recreate the events which happened upon the Pacific, I will confess that certain details might be literary embellishments on my part. While I should like to think that I have remembered all the important events, one can hardly expect to recall the details of every single conversation one had many years ago. Even the little magic we as humans have to assist in memory enhancement can only bring a limited degree of clarity to events so long past.
I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in their belief of me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.
With long winded protestations and lengthy commentary about my being and my account and my life having ceased, I believe I can bring my account to its next point.
As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me to cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make the conscious, deliberate decision—to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.
Still, it might be possible that you are asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from?
Which brings me to my next point. It's the leftover humans. The survivors, if you will. They're the ones I can't stand to look at, though on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but every now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling along the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.
And this in turn brings me to the subject which I will be telling you tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of one of those perpetual survivors—an expert at being left behind to die alone.
I met her three times.
