A Heap Of Broken Images
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images "
T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"
"Sarevok keeps mostly to himself, but at odd moments you can see him staring in your direction, his face an emotionless mask. Part of you wonders if your brutal half-brother ponders what might have been..."
Sarevok's Biography
Alive.
I can taste wine, wield a weapon, embrace a woman. I can grasp the hilt of my sword, swing it's blade, hear it's chant while it cuts through the air. I can fight, feel tiredness, pain, feel anything else than hatred, my only companion in the Abyss. I can kill - and this ability always gave me the greatest of satisfactions.
Alive! Is that not the meaning of every battle cry ever exclaimed? The warriors shout the names of their Gods, their countries, their kin. Many words, with one meaning: I am here! I have the power to oppose death itself!
Alive! And capable to take a life. Alive, with blood that boils, with hands that crush, shatter, destroy. Strength! Living, not lingering. At last!
Such power. What differs a murderer from a god? We are equal in the eyes of victims, widened with fear. Would they not burn offerings at our altars, if that could save their lives? Do they not toss everything they have before our feet? Do they not beg for mercy? Do they not... pray for it?
I remember you, standing over my dying body. Your eyes were flaming, your weapon was bloodied. What you were, then? Not only my greatest foe. Not only the one that opposed me and won. You were what I was meant to be. The greatest of Children, a halfbreed with the eyes of the Slayer. I saw him in you, then, long before you realised what he was. What you are, and what you shall be.
The dread glory is yours. The power is yours. The Throne is yours for the taking, as well. I killed and shall kill under your leadership. I will holler your name on every battlefield. My troops will fight and die for you, bearing your banners. They shall lift them up, into the air, chanting of your deeds. They shall destroy anything that will dare to oppose us. What will give them such power? My leadership. My leadership and your guidance.
You have ascended. All the time, it was you.
Once, you asked how did I manage to survive on the streets before Rieltar found me. I called you a fool for that, then, and I would do it for the second time if you inquired again. Was the answer not obvious? Was it not right before your eyes? Was it not your own method to keep yourself alive? As a child, I did what you did as an adult. I fought. Years after, I still thought of myself as a stray mongrel, a fighter with no other destiny to fulfill than to serve the Iron Throne, and my foster father. Then... came knowledge. Power followed.
I dreamt! And a great dream it was. A dream of battles, a dream of dark glory, of fear, of power beyond equal! A dream of becoming the new Lord of Murder! People would fear me and salute me, they would beg for my help in the haze of battle, they would cry my name when taking lives. Every drop of blood spilled would be mine sacrifice, every dying breath a hymn for my glory, every life taken - a prayer to me! I dreamt!
In the end, it is you who has it all.
The images I created are broken. The stone effigy of myself is crumbling. Bah! I should have known better. Only the names change. Fate stays the same.
Dear sibling... your cause is the new Iron Throne.
And you are the new Rieltar.