I can’t remember my first death. It was at least a thousand years ago though – of that I can be sure; vague recollections of Hastings occasionally come to mind, as well as the knowledge that as I took to the field that day, it was not the first lifetime in which I had waged war. However, the memory of my passing at some point during that battle also escapes me. As do the memories of many of my subsequent fatalities… Perhaps, as the final flourish of our life story is signed, we fall prey to a kind of amnesia. Is it a version of the amnesia that causes almost all mortals to believe that their current existence is the only one they will have?
It was not until the 16th Century that I would suffer a termination I could later recall in detail. A mightily stupid wound it was too; chasing my childhood friend Jean through the bocage of Normandy, I became tangled up in a particularly dense hedgerow and, in my enthusiasm to break free, subsequently tripped, cracking my head open on the edge of an unfortunately-placed rock. By the time Jean had so much as turned around to see what had become of my pursuit, I was dead. That occurred on my eighth birthday. The year was 1527 C.E. Fifteen lifetimes ago.
When will my torment end?
Solidarity, brothers & sisters…