Authors Note: So, some more serious stories this time... please, let me know what you think. By the way, I do not own Baldur's Gate, nor I claim to.

A Moment's Surrender

"My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed"


T.S. Eliot, 'The Wasteland'

Murderer.
I thought this memory will haunt me. Torment me. Sentence me to madness, like a judge sentences a criminal to gallows. None of these things happened. Instead, the deed became a word, a sound that holds no meaning.
Murderer, sinner, fallen. All sounds, like the clang of a sword, a whisper, a song. Nothing more.
Death just means someone is no longer there. Moira, Surayah. I have two sisters now, both bond by blood. They hold hands, they smile. They wait for me, home. I will return, someday. Won't we all?
When they said I was not worthy, Faerun did not collapse. The world did not end: no thunderstorms to express the ire of Helm, no lightnings to end my existence. It was mine own world what was shattered to pieces. Here, the rivers turned to blood, light to darkness, all living beings were struck by leprosy... the wrath of gods. In Faerun, everything stayed as it was. It was just mine world shattered. It was just mine... and Saerk's.
To let one live out of spite, not pity... I never deemed such thing would be possible.
He grieves her, now. Her wake must be grand and rich: a mourning parade marching down the Bridge District, heading to the Cemetery. The women lament loudly, as the southern customs require, the priests sing their wailing chants, the little boys rattling their drums in a slow, ceremonial rhythm, the flowers, blooming and colorful, serving as the young girl's last adornment. Her corpse is clean and sewn: no one would guess where my sword fell. She is dressed in her finest silks, decorated with gold and diamonds, as beautiful as a bride: for death found her earlier than marriage. So she shall be, her charms never taken, her skin never marked by wrinkles. So she shall be.
Her father restrains himself from crying, yet, is inches away from breaking down. His friends approach him, one by one. "Will of the Gods", says one. "This too shall pass", says the other. He does not answer. For him, too, words hold no meaning. The others do not understand, may they never understand. The only one who knows his loss and grief... is the one who caused it.
Myself.
I had not thought that shedding blood may mean loosing a battle. It always meant victory and bravery. First blood, the knight would announce, and the squire who spilled it would be the one who won. A better warrior. The Kara - Turians say that every battle means fighting not oneself. If they are right, I lost, I gave up, I surrendered. There was no turning back, no forgiveness, no redemption. It takes great courage to set the first step on such way. No one ever told me that choosing what they call evil requires bravery.
Surayah. Her death set me free. My sword cut her, and cut the ties that bound.
I am alive.
She smiles at me from the dark, her silent laughter echoes through the dungeons, her figers touch my arm. She sits by the fire, between me and the tiefling, yet, I know that the bard shall never see her. Surayah is here for me. You are so strong, brother, she whispers, pointing the wound beneath her breast, following the line of my cut. She smiles. The dead always smile. Sometimes, Moira joins her. They are making wreaths, laughing. Singing, and suddenly I know that these songs will follow me whenever I shall go.
Freedom comes with a price.
"This too shall pass", they say. It is a lie. It shall not. Do not fear, sisters. I will return soon, to dwell in our home in the ground. I will return...