The Age of Reason's Doubt

The air in Paris, or what passed for it then, was thick with the scent of ink and ambition. It clung to the cobbled streets like a damp shroud, a stark contrast to the clean, sharp wind of my Preseli home. I had arrived in this burgeoning city of thought, this crucible of so-called enlightenment, drawn by the clamour of minds wrestling with the universe. They spoke of reason, of empirical evidence, of stripping away the veils of superstition that had shrouded the world for so long. And I, Bleddyn ap Pwyll, carried within me a wound that no amount of reason could staunch, a mystery that defied dissection.

I found myself drawn to the salons, to the smoky, candlelit rooms where men with powdered wigs and even more powdered intellects debated the very fabric of existence. They dissected the stars, charted the courses of rivers, and catalogued the flora and fauna of distant lands with a fervor that, in another age, might have been mistaken for devotion. Here, however, it was all about the tangible, the observable.

I would sit in corners, a silent observer, my ancient eyes taking in the spectacle. They spoke of Newton and his falling apples, of Locke and his blank slates, of Voltaire and his witty barbs against the established order. They believed they were on the cusp of understanding everything, of banishing the shadows with the unyielding light of logic. And I listened, my heart a leaden weight within my chest, for I knew too well the limits of their grand pronouncements.