Vox Meditantis

Hearken, thou who standest near, for I have but little breath remaining to speak these words, and I would have them carried forth ere the final darkness takes me. This Friday, the fourteenth day of January in the year of Our Lord twelve hundred, I lie upon this wretched pallet, and I confess to thee what I have borne in silence these many years.

I was a man consumed by the green sickness of envy. When my brother received the manor from our father’s will, whilst I was left with naught but the smaller holding, I let that poison fester in my breast. I watched him prosper, his barns filled with grain, his children numerous and strong, and I could not rejoice. Nay, I coveted what was his, and that covetousness turned my soul black as pitch.

Yet now, at this hour when the veil grows thin, I shall speak plainly, for what profit is there in falsehood when one stands before the Almighty’s judgement? I have been a wretched creature, and I name it so without shame. This candour costs me nothing now, save perhaps my pride, and pride is a luxury afforded not to dying men.

Thou askest how I sent my words abroad, how I made my thoughts known beyond these walls? By messenger and by herald, by letter carried upon horseback through muddy roads, by proclamation read at market cross. But also – and here is my shame writ large – by whispered slander in the alehouse, by dark hints dropped into willing ears at the church door. I sent forth my jealousy like ravens bearing carrion, spreading tales that would diminish my brother’s honour whilst elevating mine own. These were my communications, my sendings-forth into the world, and they have returned to roost upon my dying breast like vultures.

All things move in their appointed circles, as the seasons turn and the moon waxes and wanes. Birth and death, sowing and reaping, the great wheel that grinds us all to dust. I have watched three-score winters, and now I understand what I refused to see in my youth: that my brother’s good fortune took naught from me, that the cycle cares not for our petty grievances. What matter now who held which lands? Both shall be forgotten, our names lost to the turning of the years, our quarrels meaningless as yesterday’s rain.

Already I am forgotten, though I yet draw breath. My children speak of me as though I were already in the ground, dividing my few possessions, planning their lives without me. And rightly so – for what was I but a bitter old man who wasted his days in resentment?

The priests tell us that all returns to dust, that the mighty are laid low and the forgotten kings of old are but bones beneath our feet. I do not fear this forgetting now. Let my name be lost. Let the cycle continue without me. But let this truth remain: I was jealous, and it devoured me, and I confess it freely at the last.

The light fades. I can say no more.

Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.