Purgatory is some form of Hell.
I have fallen twice, in two bitter long nights. Two more soldier's falls, in combat. In Normandy, I watched so many in as many years. I watched them die, and I trembled for their terror. Their pain. I bid God let them pass to Heaven as soldiers of God. Norman and Briton and Frank alike. Our dispute was for the land of kings. But our honour was for the Lord. Norman and Briton and Frank alike.
I think of them, these past two nights. I think of the soldiers, stronger, more resolute than I. Fear in their dying breaths. I think of them, because St. Catherine had promised me, they go to heaven. And their cries of release, full of happy terror, are all that drown out the voice of the Vampyir, here in Purgatory.
Here in Barovia.
He, who infected my head, infected into my soul, in this now-empty place where St. Catherine once called to me. Where she gave me grace in life, the Vampyir stole from me my will. My blade he turned against my dearest friend and sister. My blade I turned against her, who gave me so much while St. Catherine stands silent in Heaven.
Weeks of torment, quiet and alone. His voice is an echo in my soul. A memory of my sin laid bare, my weakness. Where is God in you? It is laughter.
I dreamt we fought him, soldiers of grace. In the temple, or the crypt. On me he turned. He struck me down. And then, a spring night, chill and peaceful. And I, alone, he came to me. He struck me down.
I write, I practice, I write. And I listen to my noble Normans and Britons and Franks in their agony past. Because they went where I could not go, and for them I am happy. Yet I am left in this Hell with the Vampyir.
And stricken down I was, but I could not go. My passage, still denied. I am so tired. But, as you will it, I will continue to fight for you. Until the end, and I pray, I am allowed to go. I will carry on for you, with the hammer, with the herb, with the blade. I will bring you honour out of this Hell, until the end.
Just please, come back to me.