I told you that I was that ship. Perhaps now, after reading this book, you can see why.
You should now know the young me pretty well. You’ve read two books about him and have seen his progress as a person. You’ve even seen him do some heroic things, like climb on top of a glass dragon, face down a member of the Scrivener’s Bones, and save his father from the clutches of the Curators of Alexandria.
You may wonder why I’ve started my autobiography so far back, when I still showed hints that I might be a good person. Well, I’m the Ship of Theseus. I was once that boy, full of hope, full of potential. That’s not who I am anymore. I’m a copy. A fake.
I’m the person that young boy grew into, but I’m not him. I’m not the hero that everyone says – even though I look like I should be.
The purpose of this series is to show the changes I went through. To let you see the pieces of me slowly getting replaced until nothing is left of the original.
I’m a sad, pathetic person, writing his life story in the basement of a lavish castle he really doesn’t deserve. I’m not a hero. Heroes don’t let the people they love die.
I’m not proud of what I’ve become, but I intend to make certain that everyone knows the truth. It’s time for the lies to end; time for people to realize that their Ship of Theseus is just a copy.
If the real one ever existed in the first place.
was not my place to say so.
‘Bastille!’ I screamed, holding her bloody body in my arms. ‘Why?’
She didn’t respond. She just stared into the air, eyes glazed over, her spirit already gone. I shivered, pulling her close, but the body was growing cold.
‘You can’t die, you can’t!’ I said. ‘Please.’
It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beams on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I’d ever seen dead. She was that dead.
‘This is all my fault,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you in to fight Kiliman!’
I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing. Because, you know, she was dead.
‘Oh, cruel world,’ I said, sobbing.
I put a mirror up to her face to see if she was breathing. Of course, there was no mist on the mirror. Seeing as how Bastille was totally and completely dead.
‘You were so young,’ I said. ‘Too young to be taken from us. Why did it have to happen to you, of all people, when you are so young? Too young to die, I mean.’
I pricked her finger to make sure she wasn’t just faking, but she didn’t even flinch. I pinched her, then slapped her face. Nothing worked.
How many times do I have to explain that she was dead? I looked down at her body, her face turning blue from death, and I wept some more.
She was so dead that I didn’t even realize that this section is in the book for two reasons. First, so that I could have Bastille die somewhere, just like I promised. (See, I wasn’t lying about this! Ha!)
The second reason is, of course, so that if anyone skips forward to the end to read the last page – one of the most putrid and unholy things any reader can do – they will be shocked and annoyed to read that Bastille is dead.
The rest of you can ignore these pages. (Did I mention that Bastille is dead?)
The end.