Journal Entry 64
2nd of Green Passing, 1792 S.C.
Tlulanxu
Within the week, I will finally be inducted into the Legions.
Reading that over, I am tempted to cross it out and start again. I have seen how often Fate snubs those who attempt to impose their own certainties upon it. But all my friends, all my docents, even the cadre of the Training Legion, assure me that this outcome is certain. I was not aware until the Training Legion’s Pretor informed me, just three days ago, that my assessments, both physical and aptitude, are among the highest on record. And he intimated that various letters written on my behalf (by whom, I wonder?) attest similar levels of promise.
But I cannot resist the sardonic observation that Fate has blessed me with the most promising attribute of all: I am an orphan.
I first became aware of the strange correlation between heroes and parentless origins when helping an aged Saqqari scholar locate obscure tomes pertaining to what is effectively the prehistory of Arrdanc. I refer to that time when humankind was rising up into the vacuum of power left after the great kinslaying wars among the Uulamantre. (The events recounted in the Costéglan Iavarain, although that seems to be comprised of at least as much legend as history.) In fetching and replacing the various scrolls and codices the scholar required for his sprawling researches, I also had the opportunity to peruse a good number of them.
What I discovered was that at least half of the heroes of note (and almost all the greatest of them) were orphaned early, raised by adoptive parents, or had otherwise enigmatic, mysterious or untraceable origins.
This cannot be coincidence. Persons with such meager backgrounds are rarely alluded to, let alone individually mentioned, in either historical or apocryphal annals. Quite the contrary, regardless of the country or culture, most powerful figures arise from lineages wealthy in silver, repute, or both. Hardly a surprise. Some consecrants suggest that this is how gods—or Fate—reveal which families they favor the most. I propose a much simpler, mundane conclusion: that having wealth and prestige makes it easier to accrue more.
But when it comes to the great heroes, this correlation between plentiful assets and profound accomplishments inverts. Humble beginnings almost seem to be a prerequisite for attaining mythic stature. Indeed, if you examine the origins of heroes whose names endure because of their deeds, you shall discover that the overwhelming majority of them began as farm boys or milkmaids or (particularly) hand-to-mouth orphans subsisting on what they found in alleys.
This not only defies all logic; it aligns with the axiom that fact is often stranger than fiction. Because the only thing that would be more impossible than this seemingly preposterous correlation is the notion that storytellers would dare choose to spin tales of such unlikely heroes. Surely, such improbable scribblings would be profitless objects of general ridicule and critical contempt!
The only reasonable explanation for orphanhood as a near-prerequisite for becoming a great hero is that there may be people who are strengthened rather than weakened by such early adversities. And because those who survive their dire childhood trials continue to accrue greater skill and force of will, their repute arises not just from their deeds, but from the stark contrast between their achievements and their beginnings. But even as I write those words, I find myself doubting whether that alone could explain the immense implausibility of the phenomenon.
Whether or not these absurd correlations have any merits beyond amusement, I may be sure of at least one thing: they do not apply to me. The fiber of my being is certainly not the extraordinary kind from which legends are woven. But in the unlikely event that much lesser persons might yet enjoy some small benefit from humble beginnings, then perhaps it shall add to my chances of being inducted into the Legions.
Either way, the Archive Recondite has been a good haven and the only unchanging factor in my life since my parents passed. Still, I have no regrets leaving, no more than a bird taking flight from a safe and necessary nest.
Well, I do have one regret, I suppose: never being allowed to enter the Reserved Collection at the very lowest level of the Archive. Shaananca refused to let me run even a single errand down there. But I cannot in good conscience blame her. The rules for entry are very clear and very strict, and all researchers who wish access must be approved by a special council of the Consentium.
But ultimately, that regret is but a nostalgic distraction. My eyes and thoughts must be focused on my future. Which is to say, upon the Legions.