'We are the fallen, Feather Witch. You, me, the ghosts. All of us. We're the dust swirling around the ankles of the conquerors as they stride into glory. In time, we may rise in their ceaseless scuffling, and so choke them, but it is a paltry vengeance, don't you think?' [...]

He thought back to his own words earlier. /Fallen. Who tracks our footsteps I wonder? We who are the forgotten, the discounted and the ignored. When the path is failure, it is never willingly taken. The fallen. Why does my heart weep for them? Not them but us, for most assuredly I am counted among them. Slaves, serfs, nameless peasants and labourers, the blurred faces of the crowd — just a smear on memory, a scuffling of feet down the passages of history.

Can one stop, can one turn and force one's eyes to pierce the gloom? And see the fallen? Can one ever see the fallen? And if so, what emotion is born in that moment?/

There were years on his cheeks, dripping down onto his chafed hands. He knew the answer to that question, knife-sharp and driven deep, and that answer was ... recognition.

— Midnight tides : a tale of the Malazan book of the fallen by Steven Erikson (Page 269 - 271)