Years have passed. A lot of years. I’m tired now, as well as old. Age is a natural fact, I did expect it. Of course, reaching my age doing what I have done, it-s a remarkable fact. I’d say, incredible. But being tired, so tired, is a new thing for me. I’ve always been fast, efficient, direct. But I’m losing the point, as every old man does. What has happened, or at least, what I remember of it, it’s not complete. That’s because I, while living those facts, I didn’t understand them totally, maybe for my younger age, I suppose. It’s not complete, because it’s just the beginning of my real path, it’s a birth of a name that name lives in stories and songs. Everyone knows the endeavours of Black Rat, the thief of Puddly Door, of how he managed to steal the king-s crown from his forehead, or how he started the revolution of the Burning Bridge. But nobody would ever have thought that a humble fisher of the Sandly Coast, could have been this legendary man. I’ve grandsons who think that their gran Toby is only an old craggy man. But as I said, I will not tell of Black Rat. That man died, as he was born, in the flames of a pyre. A lot knows that story, but just one person, except of me, remembers the tale of Toby, the little orphan of Kingsdock.
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