Prologue
There is no such thing as simply telling the truth. Some truths are far from simple, so in a way it was too easy to let the slight truths be buried under the light whispers that white lies carry. The truth are webs, snarled with lies well spun, or half truths, or old stories corrupted with biased words. There are never complete truths, as no one will ever hear all sides of one event or tale. There is a common saying about truths and lies that historians and readers commonly misplace. They forget what were once facts and what others wrote to be fiction.
No account is a pure, simple truth. They draw out horrid descriptions of the opposing side, turning their misdeeds into horrific crimes, making people of the same species into cruel deranged beasts. Every side’s tale of victory is biased to their own cause.
No victory was unbiased.
She wouldn’t tell it truthfully either; she couldn’t. There is no correct way to tell a story of oneself and not come out biased in one way or another. There’s never been one way of telling an account correctly. No way to collect all full truths, from all parties of viewers involved. No way to completely understand the struggles of the past, only collecting truths and cold white lies. So that’s what she did, she told her truth with all the biases that came with her and how it influenced her story, that was never told. As it was the story of a child forced to take up arms in betrayal, deception, and lies in time of war.
This is her tale.
