frail

The first time someone tried to assassinate me, I became obsessed with the fundamental frailty of the world--not just my mortality, though that was certainly a significant aspect of it, but everything. I imagined how, had my friend arrived a moment later, I might have died, or been taken, or been injured, but she would not have been forced to kill a man; and how perhaps my death would have lead to the deaths of other members of a conspiracy, instead of leaving us with only a corpse and no real answers.  All it would take is a brief moment, a tiny shift in the position of a blade, and the whole world would shift.

It was somehow comforting to think that if I had died, the ripples would change the face of the world forever, but it became difficult to ignore those morbid thoughts. I could suppress them, but in the evenings they took up the entirety of my attention. Over time I learned to focus less on death, but I never quite stopped the peculiar obsession with how a single, minuscule action could forever alter the course of history.

I was already predisposed to thinking and rethinking every little action, but now it seemed to take on this monumental importance. I consulted seers and oracles, some real, some fraudulent; I called on my friends and counselors to give me advice, then demanded that they justify that advice; I stayed up late into the night studying and strategizing and doing anything I could to ensure that every decision I made was the correct one. If my health and friendships suffered for it, so be it. I had a great burden to bear, a bright future to lead us towards. I had the power, the knowledge, and the will. 

Everything fell apart so suddenly, and yet, looking back on it with eyes trained by these years of obsession, it seemed so obvious. How many paths were open to me which avoided the calamity that followed? I could see them all now that there was no choice but to push through.