At the end of the day, Edith fought for her kingdom, a kingdom made up of mostly only soldiers and spies and assassins, but her kingdom, her people, nonetheless. The thought that perhaps she fought for nothing, and that her life was indeed nothing, meaningless to anybody but herself, had always terrified her. And yet, looking out at the blackened expanse of land, Edith couldn't help but feel relieved. She had only ever been connected to her people by the blood they spilled, not the blood that ran through their veins. For as long as she could remember she had always taken the orders her superiors gave her and saw them through till the end. And although Edith never pitied her targets, she couldn't help but feel that nothing good ever came from their deaths. In that way, she had always been different from her fellow assassins, who killed out of blood lust and vengeance. Perhaps she would have felt the same way if she had anyone to avenge, but she was an orphan whose only sister died in but an accidental fire. In truth. Edith fought for nothing; she fought solely because she feared losing the only place she had ever called home. And yet, with it now gone forever, Edith felt little remorse, little sadness for her fallen comrades. It had never truly been her home. It wasn't until her kingdom lay burning before her that she realized she had only ever been a product of a broken world, and that didn't forgive her of her crimes, but it didn't define her by them, either. Her hands may have been stained, but at least then she could use the blood spilled by her old life to paint out a new version of herself, a better version. And this time it would be beautiful.
“Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present. And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future. I believe there is another world waiting for us, a better one. And I’ll be waiting for you there.” - from Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell