Live and Let Drood

Droods to destroy so many important works of art? These paintings were priceless, irreplaceable. Why not…take them and sell them?”
    “Because whoever did this was only interested in destruction and revenge,” said Molly. “I used to be like that. I would have torched every painting in every museum in the world to get back at your family for killing my parents. The Droods have angered a lot of people in their time, Eddie. Sometimes hurting the one you hate can be far more important than profiting from them.”
    “Are you saying we deserved this? That we had it coming? That we brought all this on ourselves?”
    “Of course not! I’m just making the point…that really angry people often don’t stop to think logically.”
    “I liked the paintings,” I said. “And there were photographs, too, towards the end of the corridor. A whole history of my family. And the only photograph I ever saw of my mother and my father…How am I ever going to remember what they looked like, with the only photo destroyed?”
    “I don’t have any photos of my parents,” said Molly. “But I still think of them every day. You’ll remember them.”
    We moved on. All the statues and sculptures had been blown apart or just smashed to pieces. So much concentrated rage…I couldn’t even tell which piece was which from just looking at the scattered parts, though here and there I’d glimpse some familiar detail. The rich carpet that had stretched the whole length of the hallway was gone; just a charred and blackened mess that crunched under our feet.
    It was like walking through the tomb of some lost civilisation and trying to re-create its original glory and grandeur from what small broken pieces remained.
    “This wasn’t just the side effects of fighting,” I said, finally. “It isn’t even vandalism, smashing things up for the fun of it. This was the complete destruction of everything we believed in and cared for. They wanted to rip out every memory, every meaning of Drood Hall. To spit in the face of our long tradition, and wipe it from the memory of the world. Our enemy wanted to make sure there would be nothing left to remember us by.”
    We moved on, out of the hallway and into what remained of the ground floor—through ragged spaces where doors or walls should have been, through wreckage and destruction, through what had been my home and refuge from the world—moving deeper and deeper into the Hall. Into my past. It didn’t get any better. The destroyers had been very thorough. Finally I just stopped, weighed down by guilt and responsibility and the burden of memories. I’d spent so much of my younger life trying to escape from Drood Hall and my family and their hold over me, but I’d never wanted this. I might have dreamed it a few times, but I never really wanted it.…Molly looked at me impatiently.
    “Where are we, Eddie? I don’t recognise anything here.”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t tell. I lived most of my life in this place. I knew all its rooms and corridors, all its nooks and crannies and secret hiding places, like the back of my hand, but now…I think we’re in one of the open auditoriums where people could come to just sit and think, or drink tea and chat or simply rest their troubled souls for a while. Look at it now.…”
    Sunlight streamed in through holes in the outer wall like slanting spotlights, full of listlessly turning dust motes. Ruin and rubble; shadows and darkness. Not one scrap or stick of furniture left intact. As though the enemy had taken time out from bloodshed and slaughter to go through here with sledgehammers, smashing everything that might have been useful or valuable or just pleasant to look at. Or even just fondly remembered by my family. Who could hate us this much? Even the wooden floor had been torn up and split apart, with jagged splinters sprouting up everywhere, as though some great vicious animal had chewed on it.
    “What do you see, Eddie?” Molly said softly.
    “I see scorch marks on the walls from energy blasts,” I said steadily. “And a hell of a lot of bullet holes. A lot of fighting went on here, before they blew the place up and set fire to it. I wonder…how much blood there is under all this mess. From all those who fell here…I don’t see any armoured bodies or enemy dead. Did they take them all with them when they left? I can see the enemy taking their own fallen, so as not to leave any clues as to their identity. But why take