History is not something that happened to other people. History is a memory.
“He allowed himself the momentary, unspoken admission that he had tired with the world, its never-ending grasping greed, petty pride, blind fanaticism and insatiable hunger for power, he admitted that he wished to witness no more pain and suffering, and see no more death. Like mayflies the humans round him were born, bred, suffered and then died, but unlike mayflies they were aware of their suffering and expected their end, and he could see it in their eyes and hear the constant whisper of dread in their minds, everywhere around him. He had tired of this too. He had stood, for millennia, alone it seemed, in the middle of a surging river of death that raced and endlessly poured away around him; endlessly moving, endlessly changing and yet remaining the same.”
A story of mystery, crime and politics in the 12th century under the cover of darkness.