This is a story about a book.

(Well, not really about the book itself, as the book was fairly old, and had done its share of wanderings when it was freshly inked and still new to the world, but more about what the book caused to happen.)

If one were to look at the book, it would not appear dangerous per se, unless one's idea of danger was antique gold hardware, well worn leather bindings and significantly old and worn pages, but as everyone knows and seems to disregard: one should never judge a book by it's cover. This particular harmless looking book was chained with cast-iron to the pedestal on which it rested, fairly shallow furloughs in the dust around it showing that the pedestal was very seldom cleaned, but the room itself was well lit. Of course, that was the job of the novitiate, to make sure the candles were lit and never guttering, that the dwarven-hewn marble door was shut tight and that no one could get past the two frightening yet fantastical beasts which guarded the door. (So rare and fantastical were they, that no one had ever really bothered to come up with a name for their species. When asked however, they would generally respond to Roger and Henry, though seldom did they ever have the chance to make conversation.)

Just beyond their reach, in the only corridor that led outwards towards the rest of the keep, there was a bench, and on that bench sat one very anxious, very cranky, and very bored novitiate. This was his month to "guard" the book, not that he really saw the point, but it was his chore on the very neatly-penned roster, and gods forbid he should shirk. He still remembered tales of the few poor souls who had decided to not do the guard duty, and had heard firsthand the stories of their demise from the creatures. The nightmares he had had from then on had convinced him that nothing short of pure torture would pull him from his duty, regardless of how much he longed to read a book, or even sit and write instead of simply sitting there. 

As he sat and pondered the flagstone walls for the eleventeenth time that hour, he didn't notice when the candles in the corridor started blowing themselves out.

You didn't care about the truth,
Just wanted someone to take the blame,
I don't mind that you chose me,
So long as you remember my name.

So when you have the facts
Laying out for you in the light,
Don't forget who you slandered,
Who stood up for what was right.

I know you thought you were helping,
I know you felt you knew it all,
But that doesn't stop the damage,
It doesn't change the names you called.

Some things can be put back together,
Others can never be healed.
But we both know the story now,
And what it all revealed.

I hope you sleep well at night,
Nothing haunting your sweet dreams.
I know that I will, believe me,
For the truth is seldom what it seems.