And then there is you, you who lost her father, you whom countless assassins are trying to kill, you who finally learns that the reason for it all is not something that you will ever be rid of, for it is in you, in your blood, in your soul, and not even your death would free you from that dead god's claws.
You have run away from the fear, you have cried from the fear, you have hated yourself because of the fear, and now you know that it will never leave you, that you will never be left alone, and the fear submerges you. And with it comes an anger, at yourself for the weakness, at your dead fathers, the one who sired you and the one who left you, at the fates for the cruel joke – an anger, a dark pulse that beats in time with the blood in your body, that coils around your heart and lurks behind your mind, waiting, waiting, waiting for its hour to come. A beast ready to pounce the moment you slip. And you slip, often, in battle most often, but you never take that last one step, that would allow it to roam free. You do not surrender, because that fear which gave it birth is also that which keeps it in; you fear, indeed, what you would do to the outside world if that thing was unleashed.
If you were unleashed.
There is fear and anger in your heart, and it seems those two would be enough to fill your heart, great as they were, but grief has its home there, too, for the lives you lost – your father chief among them –, for the lives you took, for the life you might have lived if you had been anyone else. And somehow, by a miracle you are grateful for, there is still room for those who come with you, your faithful companions. Friendship, compassion, affection, love, they are still there, perhaps heightened by the battle they lead every day not to give in to the dark times.
