I Was Lord Voldemort
I’ve been going through the editing process with this book o’ mine over the last while, which has, it will not surprise you to learn, involved re-reading the whole thing. Today I came across an anecdote about playing Fable which struck me in an entirely new light.
I was in “evil sorcerer mode” at the time, and I went through an entire village killing everyone I saw with lightning and the like. Guards, peasants, shopkeepers, whatever – down they went. I wasn’t really all that engaged, as with much of that sort of extreme behaviour in game environments, I was the banality of evil. Zap, zap, yawn.
Still, after eradicating seemingly everyone I found myself standing in a hallway in someone’s house. Had just reduced the man and woman living there to dust. Then I heard a weak sobbing sound. Naturally I headed toward it, a job left unfinished.
I found a small boy cowering near the bottom of the stairs of the house, whimpering and covering his head. In the Fable series (and pretty much any other game?) you can’t kill children, so there was nothing I could do with him – I tried to cast out electric shockwaves and fireballs, but there he stayed, unharmed. I turned on my heel and left.
Later on, I was most interested in how the child had felt like a successful retort to my easy evil play, a proper slap in the face rather than the ever increasing counter of my “evil points”. I found that I felt a little guilty about murdering the kid’s parents and, probably, everyone he knew, leaving him an orphan to find his way on the world, safe from my dark spell until he grew up.
But then I happened to see the last Harry Potter movie recently, and I was like “Oh yeah… that’s where that story came from.”
I was Lord Voldemort.
You can call me… uh… Morris Waddle Volto…?