He signaled for another drink, folded his hands and stared at me for a very long time. His lip curled in what may have been a sneer, or perhaps the beginning of a smile. "I told you: I don't want some glorified fairy tale. "If it's the human condition, then that sounds like that much more reason to keep their stories alive," I said, leaning forward. It's the human condition, or if you prefer the danse macabre." Read any story with any redeeming qualities and you'll see the same themes of hope, despair, betrayal and occasionally redemption over and over.
Some kept to their ideals, and some were happy just to survive. "If what you say is true, about men in general." "I'm also enough of a historian to know we tend to glamorize the past, to look at it through a rosy lens." I sat back and regarded him. You're enough of a historian to know better."
I think you've linked the ideals with the title of knighthood. "There are believers, idealists, call them what you will in any age. I suppose I like to think that for awhile enough people believed it that it made a difference."
#TANNENBERG CRASH CODE#
The chivalric code in many cases was just a dream. lived up to their expectations," I answered. "Or is that why they've always fascinated you since you were a boy?" You aren't that naive." Abruptly he leaned forward. "They live to a higher ideal," I protested. You say I'm an authority on knights? They are warriors trained in heavy cavalry tactics and operations. "That wasn't a compliment," he said sternly. "Perhaps." He sipped, then put down his drink. "Perhaps." He lifted his honeyed beer in a half salute. As I said, I'm told you're an authority." "I hope to," I said, "but I want to know more about them. "Are you planning to write about them again?" "It stopped you." He paused as my drink was brought. "Until you ran into a technical problem," he replied neutrally. You know I was writing about them for awhile." I glanced at the 'tender, who nodded and headed for the tap. The silence between us lengthened, and if not for those eyes I'd have sworn he'd forgotten about me. I finally took his lack of reaction for agreement and sat. "May I sit?" He said nothing but continued watching me. "Yes." I indicated the chair across from him. "I heard you were looking for me," he said. His eyes, however, would have betrayed him even if he wanted to hide - a hazel so pale they were almost grey and piercing. A big man, muscular and stout, his silver and black tunic did much to conceal him in the dim lamp light. he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, brown hair lightened by the sun, then silvered in the bargain. He's sitting at a table in the corner, near the dormant fireplace and nursing a cup of something that smells like a mixture of beer and honey. Even after all this time the baar fills me with a warm glow, a sense of camaraderie and home. I don't know how many hours I spent in this room working on my own stories, or chatting with friends. Behind it, where another bar might have a mirror this had a number of shields, engraved on which were the winners of various awards and between the shields, its cold, grey metal barrel intimidating even when not in use, the dreaded quote gun. I walk past the oak bar where I've seen everyone from Roman legionnaires to Cold War fighter pilots sharing beer, wine, ale, whiskey and a hundred other concoctions. It's quiet tonight: Most of its patrons, like me, simply got busy or found other distractions. The Central BAAR then, its stout wood door opening at my touch. The older I get, the less certain I am of supposed facts. Psychologists believe that, short of physical damage, we never actually forget anything but simply lose our ability to easily access it. Still, it's always amazed me what a simple touch, a chance smell or familiar voice can do for one's memory. Weeks and months dull memories, and even though I passed the narrow archway leading to this quiet tavern often enough, I'd been too busy to go in. I didn't know how long it had been since I'd come here.
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