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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 109
remembered the fire-trap and the flash of light. Ivar’s monstrous
glare as he roared at me to leave filled me with a mournful

anger. Then my memories brought me forward to the fight
against the rebels, and again there was nothing but sadness
there. I was angry at myself, and disappointed. There was so
much I could have done differently, so many possible outcomes
and I brought down the worst upon myself. My rage raced on,
unstoppable as a tornado, tearing across my heart and soul. I
remembered the fights then, and clenched and unclenched my
fists in recollected anger. Then Ivar once more: a vision of an
honorable man. Though he had cast me away, oh how I wronged

him. My thoughts next lingered on the bittersweet memory of
Ingrid. I even whispered her name to the wind. I had so much in
the life I left behind. Why did I leave it all behind?
Next I remembered my parents, and the ship which had
brought us from Jerusalem to Drentwych on the coast of Britain.
My memories ended with a vision of my older brother moving
to the rhythm of the wind, hanging from his neck, his head in

an awkward position. I shunned away from that memory, for it
was too much for me to bear, and the guilt which accompanied
it threatened to shatter my resolve. Why all my memories
were tainted by hatred, malcontent, and rage, I know not. But
whatever sadness, longing, or even joy I dared remember was
overshadowed by this great hate that now engulfed my life. I
fed the infernos and was nourished by them. Hatred gave me
the strength and resolve I needed for the grim task I had set
before me. My path was laid bare before me, paved in violence

every step of the way. This is who I am.
I reached the military camp in Over Hampton at the break of
dawn. I smiled, pleased to see that the fighting had subsided and
was forgotten. I asked a soldier where the clerk who enlists men