He spared a glance up to her, watching his words sink in. "There were pockets of resistance. A large, organized one, actually--they tried to save what they could from being burned. Art, literature, whatever they could find." The faraway look returned to his face, a little sad, a little nostalgic. "Something as simple as a mirror with a decorative frame."
And of course, that brought him back to what he most wanted to hide. He looked back down at the book. "There were people who hunted down those who resisted. Grammaton Clerics. They were the elites." He paused. "I was one."