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From the Journal of Annatar (1)

Thursday, May 5th, 2011

Today, at the recommendation of my therapist, I begin to recount something of myself herein. He has told me that I should seek to dispel all facades and falsehoods, since the objective of the exercise is to facilitate introspection. I see the logic, and so shall attempt to obey.

I know not why this honesty manifests in this archaic mode of discourse, yet it does. The words and structure flow as naturally to me as does modern jargon to my peers. I am reminded of several other moments where such dialogue flowed from me, in these past few weeks. When I convinced Sophia to set aside her mad notions of heroism and devote herself to self-improvement, I now realize my tone and language were not entirely that to which I have hitherto been accustomed. Much the same happened again when I gifted my Wards with their Seven Rings of Power. And, of course, it happened again with Bakuda.

I have been musing on my actions that night. I still do not believe that I did wrong. I remember the cool light of Aeglos against the hot fire in my veins, and the sensations in totality seem to me righteous. Yet just because my action was right does not divest me of the need to understand it. Killing Bakuda was a simple thing; but to speak to her as I did was quite another.

I have done such a thing twice now. The first time, I turned this ability against my former friend Emma. I reached into her heart of hearts, aided by what Sophia had told me of her, and I twisted her soul to pain. I know not to what extent it had an effect on her; I have not seen her since, nor have I asked Sophia how our mutual acquaintance now fares at Winslow. It seems to me that I must be willing to put Emma, and all she represents, behind me if I am ever to move forward.

Nonetheless, I know that I intended to hurt her; to tear her down exactly where she was most vulnerable. I feel no guilt over this. Emma had done exactly the same to me for two years, and was broken in the worst way possible—so that the shards' sharp edges were all pointed outward, injuring all those who were near to her. How much of Sophia's madness was her own, and how much was Emma's encouragement? Is it not reasonable to guess that, had Sophia not raised Emma into the beast she became, that Sophia herself might have changed in time without that validation?

But this speculation serves me little. When I turned that selfsame ability against Bakuda, she had cut me worse than Emma could ever have hoped to. Where Emma injured my interior, Bakuda destroyed my exterior—or so I thought at the time. All the scaffolding and supports I had so recently begun to rebuild, she destroyed in a single blow—just when I needed them most. And so I did much the same to her. I stripped her bare of all the justifications, all the reasons, all the logic behind her actions, and left her to gaze upon them in their raw horror.

I do not think she felt guilt. I think, in her last moments, that more than anything she felt foolish. I think she felt like a child striking at the sun because she cannot bear to see the dawn. And I think, for someone such as her, someone who identified as better than all others around her, someone for whom that fact was an essential part of their justification for all that they did, that this sense of her own stupidity in her last moments was the worst torment I could have inflicted upon her.

Both Miss Militia's and Armsmaster's reactions, as well as the way the other heroes of the Protectorate now tiptoe around me, have given me to believe that this should make me feel, if not guilty, then at least somber. That for me not to feel so suggests either callousness or blindness; that either I am a monster for not caring for how Bakuda felt in her final moments, or that I am blind for being unable to see it. (I do not mean to imply that I have told anyone exactly what passed between myself and my foe on that night. I have not. This sense is derived from extrapolation, based on their response to Bakuda's death alone.)

I do not believe it to be either. I do not find myself callous. Would a callous woman have been so tortured as I was, on finding all her friends killed by her own hubris? Would a callous woman react as I have to finding them to be safe? I have wept tears of joy at their safe return. Are these the acts of a callous woman?

Nor do I find myself blind. The meditations contained herein will show that I am well aware of what I did to Bakuda, to the best of my ability to be so. Would a woman blind to the hearts and minds of others have been able to convince Sophia to turn aside from her destructive course? Would such a woman have been able to tailor the Seven to their bearers so well as I believe I did?

No; I do not believe this dispassion stems from either callousness or blindness. Whence then does it derive? What is it that allows me to take an individual, whom I understand better, perhaps, than they understand themselves, and choose not to be affected by their suffering?

I find myself wondering if I could do so, were it one of my Wards suffering. The very thought sickens me. The idea of tormenting Vista with her childish obsession with maturity, and the way her desire to be an adult has made her, paradoxically, a child in the eyes of the very people whom she seeks to impress, causes me physically to shake and convulse as if in the throes of some seizure or nightmare. No, I could not do this to one of my friends.

Then it is the fact that these people, whom I have so hurt, are my enemies which allows me to do this. I do not know what to term this, and I doubt whether it would endear me to my allies if they knew I possessed it. Nonetheless, it is a part of me, as surely as is this archaic trend within my writing. I can no more be separated from it than can Dean from his idealism, or Carlos from his pragmatism. There is no word in English for it, I think. The Quenya tévië may suffice. It is not dehumanization of my enemies, for I recognize their humanity. I simply refuse to give them quarter on those grounds. I am able to recognize that they are human beings, with desires and wants and feelings—which is my strength—without in so doing gaining sympathy for them. Empathy, without sympathy.

I find myself wondering what my therapist will have to say of this, or if I should even speak to him about it. Doctor-patient confidentiality is no trivial matter, but I know all too well what threat I might present should I prove an enemy to the people whom I, at this point, desire only to aid and protect—

An alarm sounds. I must go.

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