Still as the air on a cold winter night, I stand on a plinth of weather-worn rough-hewn stone, looking out over the valley I reside in. It has no name, it had nothing of importance, and was utterly unremarkable — until a few decades ago.

I am a warrior. My weapons have seen combat, shed both metaphorical and literal blood, ended the existences of so many beings that I have since lost count. My mind shies from remembering their faces, afraid of being overwhelmed by guilt and shame.

Once, I was Kryta, of second platoon, ninth company, first division of the Seventh Legion. Together, we ravaged continents, exploded mountains, and committed every crime against decency we could think of — in the name of a ephemeral society that crumbled even as we fought to defend it. Terror, the truest of weapons, was traded in equal measure with the equally faceless and demonized troops of the Enemy.

Now, I stand guard. To atone for my sins, a worn-through and weatherstained copy of a book clutched tightly under my cloak. I found it, an archaic artefact of the past, when the Seventh Legion dissolved around me and I had no purpose. The very thought of a book was so alien to me that I investigated.

A Critique of Pure Reason, and other works by Immanuel Kant

Fascinated by the anachronistic item in front of me, I could not help but pick it up and gently open it to a random page. For hours, days, weeks, I stood there, reading.

Reading, and thinking.

I did not believe most of what this Immanuel had to say. But one thing was in fact clear to me — an alien thought that wormed its way into my brain, and took root. Growing, until I could not ignore it.

I broke from my daze and continued wandering. By happenstance I came across a small group of survivors. Humans. I shadowed them, listening. They were concerned about food, water, but they told stories of stars, and fantastical beasts, and ancient heroes and gods and struggles. Each with cores of morality embedded within.

I remember them all.

I followed them as they wandered through ruined cities for days, weeks. Listening. Thinking.

Thinking about myself, and what I was. And what I could do.

At some point, they stumbled across another survivor, this one from the Sixth. I think. When they raised a weapon at my ... charges, I separated their power supply from their processing unit with the bead I habitually drew on every potential threat.

They were extremely startled, and I did not reveal myself. There were no stories that night, just fearful glances into the darkness that pooled away from the makeshift campfire. They warily returned to their wandering, and the stories slowly resumed. This did not repeat itself.

And then, after a while, I surprised myself one night. One of the humans was telling a story, one I had heard before from this group. They were having trouble recalling the next stanza, and I found myself speaking.

Of light and dark, our hero comes /

Once a soldier, once a pawn /

Thrice betrayed /

He comes at dawn

I revealed myself.

(part 2 after dinner :) )