Rodolphe never truly understood what was going on in his father's mind. To the village, he appeared either as a renowned administrator or as a simple boss, someone obeyed out of law and fear of retribution. At best, he was seen as a kind lord, at worst, as a tyrant hiding to better exploit his interests. Where there was power, it was hard to imagine an equal relationship, even though he never outwardly showed any tyranny, which he never fully succeeded in hiding.
The villagers still remembered his childhood runaways, his warrior side, and his flippant, even mocking attitude towards their suffering. He wanted everything done quickly, thinking of the good of the village – of his own good – regardless of what others thought, and he hid behind a morality, principles like: "After a tragedy, everything must be quick, that way, the suffering is lessened."
People could understand his words, but what human suffering truly felt them? A host of attitudes and decisions, certainly rational and rarely personal, had created rumors and resentments in the minds of the villagers of Nirl. Oh, of course, they celebrated when they had to, no one openly revolted, they rationalized, told themselves that it could be worse, that Louis wasn't so bad, and that this condition of being almost enslaved at the demonic border was acceptable – though never in their minds did they consider themselves free or unhurt by living at the demonic frontier.
But deep inside, something was stirring; an instinct guided them towards rebellion, first in words, then in spirit, something that strengthened during discussions at the nightly gatherings among village families, in low voices, near the hearth, out of sight. Mouths opened, they spoke, they brought up the violence of life, and then they allowed themselves to question. It might have been something buried deep within them, that of a people descended from victors, from those who had survived, who didn't want to lose the last advantages they had, because this reasoning was particularly prevalent among those who still had some possessions. The slaves of Senguir didn't have much, they were different, it was felt, and unconsciously, then consciously, they were set apart.
And of those who saw him almost as a hero, an administrator doing what needed to be done, Louis himself didn't think that way. He wasn't an idealized version; he had his own flaws, and he shared them with anyone willing to listen. No, truthfully, he hated being idealized.
Once alone, his eyes would open again, recalling his past, his choices, the things he still couldn't do, the weight of responsibilities, those fleeting moments he couldn't make real, the only moments when he truly felt human and not animal.
How could beings idealize such a creature as the thing he was? What would his inner reaction be, when, smoothing a fake smile on his face, he was looked at with admiration by this creature he had to raise, and for whom he felt, despite himself, a certain love? This thing, like a tamed animal, innocent yet so wild, so total in its love... How would it react if it knew that Louis was writing about it in his memoirs, in the ancient language, using the name that was given to a dog?
No one understood Louis, maybe not even he himself. He cared for a child who wasn't his own, in a village inherited from someone he didn't like and didn't think deserved, a village populated as he wrote, "by fools who should have revolted," in a country he hated, far from his family, under the orders of hypocritical organizations, called by a name that wasn't his. That was Louis Vilnirmo, whose name meant Glory and Combat, who, in his whole life, had only tried to defend himself. A failed son, an incompetent knight-in-training, a clueless administrator, an absent husband, an irresponsible father, a tyrant.
His death seemed entirely normal. Extraordinary due to the events, but common to all the genocided people of the Dhorkarien Empire. Common to all men who would die one day or another, but extremely shameful in relation to his ancestors who had left him a village and who now seemed to have left only a heap of ashes and an adoptive descendant.
The Vinirlmo family now lived only in Rodolphe, one of the few survivors of Nirl, now called Nightmare by those who still dared to speak of it. And through all this misfortune, the system still lived on, and better than ever.