July 15th, 1783

Every murder has its own personality. Every killer leaves its own signature, a mark to be left behind.

More than killing in cold blood… That nameless scoundrel killed Bart. Broke his neck. Severed his strings. Took his life, and his last words away. As if war hasn't gotten the best of darling…

Bartholomew was a good friend, husband, father, painter and musician. A man on its way to immortality. Only man to render another man mortal…By the tip of a knife. For a man who fought for his country in distant, elysian fields to meet its end like this… In my life, I've seen a lot of death. Violent, foolish, stupid bug death. But Bart…

That man, the one who took Bart away from me… The one who stole the music that deserved to be composed, heard and played… Paintings to be crafted and seen… But they will never come out to be. Bart was so calm and gentle and pacifistic, why would he, of all people, be met by one's bad eye? A man who has killed without remorse, without any consideration for life. The most talented and creative of man, I could even say a genius, but Bart never had the time to display his entire potential. Now that he is dead.

Bart… How he hated that I came back home with hands dripping of critter's blood in hands. The hands who touched him, who patted Jack, who tickled Freya's belly. Speaking of which, how are both of them doing? I'm not in the right mood to be asked 'Where's daddy?', and I don't think I should lie, that I should say he's fine, that he'll come home… I don't know. I don't know what to do.

"...When you're a soldier, you can kill as much and as many as you want.. Kill anything that jumps at you, kill whoever or whatever you jump against… No problem. It's all legal. No one is going to question you, no one will tell you that what you did is wrong, as long as you get to be the one who lives to tell the tale. Like, you even get medals for murder. Golden medals.

But, Lenneth… I'm not a soldier anymore. When I give my best, I earn nothing in exchange. No medals. And if I dare to kill someone, dear Lord… That will make me a cold-blooded assassin. My reputation, my life, it'll be over. People will look at me and judge behind my back and say things. Things like 'look at him, that murderer'; 'Why is he walking on the streets without any chains?'; 'That man used to be good, now I feel disgusted for being his friend', and so it goes on. Understand? I think there's nothing to understand…"

Bart and I had a conversation years ago. I faintly remember… Jack was outside, playing tug of war with his friends and Freya fell asleep after I feeded her. And Bart, he looked around as he talked, but none of what he said… He talked as if he had another mouth, and he looked around with empty eyes that revealed nothing but… Bart was crushed, devastated, yes. He shared a smile at times, when he was close to me. He enjoyed holding Freya and taking care of her when I was out at work.

He did not snap at all, or even got mad at me or showed any signs of losing his mind. Bart was a kind soul, the one I felt related to. And now… Dear Reis. Forgive me, Reis, Mother of Rain and Winds, for I have sinned. I have contemplated murder. Cruel, bloody murder. I could meditate, sit, and try to relax, but I… I can't take it anymore. It's been days since the funeral, but it feels like an eternity. Bart and I… We were happy. Everything was going well, he was on its way to fully recover.

Why?... Why did it have to happen now?

"...I just want what every soldier wants, Lenneth. To go home. Come back home, to family, to a wife and kids… Isn't that what happens at the end of sunset? At the end of an entire's day of burden?"

Fog's thick today. I like fog. It hides me away from the world. From my being, my shame, my tears… I feel no pain, but I still bleed.

"...You can escape all the arrows and flames, but war still gets the best of you. You can kill as many enemies as you want, but, at the very end, war kills you. It kills everyone. Look at my hands, always curled around a sword, curled like fists. My hands no longer can touch a child or a dog. They don't caress, or offer the same warmth as before, no matter how I try. Yet, it still feels good to know Freya's safety. I want you, Jack and her the best."

I've done terrible things. And Bart… He's still dead. What would he think of me alive? Maybe he would forgive me, maybe he would hate me, I have no idea. I speak for the living. Bart… I love you. Come back. Please, come back so I can speak to you…

— …I love you, mom.

I am home, at last. And someone has been waiting for me. At the front door, sitting and waiting for me.

— Oh, Freya, my little child… I love you too. Happy Birthday!