Duality - Varric Briarwood

[Eters]

At times, I find myself pondering the essence of the lands I walk. Though different from the place I once called home, there's an undeniable familiarity at its core. Death looms large, shaping the lives of many. In death is wealth, and in death is glory. Yet, the line between hero and murderer seems blurred, defined only by perspective. For to kill the nameless goes unnoticed, while slaying the known invites scrutiny and judgement. But who are these judges? One may ask, only to realize they're no different from us. Each carries the heavy curse of a murderer in their heart....

Here I stand, given the position of guardian. Duty bound, I am an edifice of morals, principles and bravery, far above the rabble of the streets. I question the purpose behind it all, as well as the truth in these words. Yet, I wear this facade and assume this role, and my mind throbs with inquiry as to why? Is it for the promises of the past? For the protection of the present? For the love found along the way? Or the loyalty I feel towards my leaders?

Amidst these doubts and questions, I come back to the heart of the matter. I am a killer, in a world of killers. Thus, cloaked by the darkness of night, I seek those nameless figures who, in turn, seek their peers. It's a primal urge that seems to drive every soul in these misty lands. Tonight, within the shadows cast by the City of Lights, I roam, searching for my seekers who, likewise, search for me.

In these moments, my mind finds solace. As we lock eyes, questions fade away, and we perform our roles as killers are meant to do ....

[Eters]

I often find myself contemplating the existence of the Dryad's Keep, this refuge which the Vistani unquestionably guide us to for a mere bag of coins, it serves as a nexus for travel and a bustling center of trade. Here, few are judged and even fewer condemned for what they are. It appears benign at first, and even second glance. Yet I can't shake the notion that this keep might actually serve as an exile for those whom this land has irreversibly touched.

Here, there are no untainted souls. Whether one claims the divine light of their gods guides them, or adheres to lofty morals, makes no difference to me. Every individual who arrives at the Keep have weathered the trials of the Core, braved its darkest depths, faced countless adversaries and consigned many lives to oblivion. After all, these harsh lands offer no charity, nor show benevolence, all it delivers are cruel trials, and for that I remain certain that all those I see walk the weathered road of the Misty camp, have taken a life that perhaps, didn't deserve such a fate.

And so I wonder, if this Keep isn't separating us, the adventurers, the Outlanders, the tainted, from those untouched by the struggles of the Mists. If it shields them from the horrors we've confronted, the battles we've fought, and the abyss into which we've stared, knowing that it has also stared back into our souls ...

[Eters]

One night, I found myself questioning that which lies beyond the Keep's safety, shrouded in the lingering mists. Curious, how despite the clear knowledge of the dangers that dwell within that ethereal veil, an inexplicable urge stirred within me to confront and vanquish them. It is as if every fiber of my being, every instinct, compelled me to face the trials of the Mists head-on. Is it self-reassurance, that my skills are enough to survive this world? Or a form of rebellion against the powers which robbed me of home, and sought to bind me in fear?

Questions flooded my mind, yet my steps have long taken me through that thin veil, and soon I found myself enveloped in the eerie silence of the mists. In this foreign world, every step weighted heavily upon me, and my senses, usually dull and slow were heightened by the danger looming around me.

...They say curiosity killed the cat, and I couldn't help but feel like a particularly curious feline in this moment. What on earth was I looking at? Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes as my mind struggled to comprehend the colossal, shadowy silhouette looming in the distance. It towered over the trees, blotting out the sky with its size.

It seemed to be darkness given form, an entity beyond my comprehension. It was the shadow of all shadows, an illusion? I asked myself, but the palpable tension I felt in the air made it evident, that what was before me was as real as I am ... I wondered whether the overwhelming emotion coursing through me was fear or excitement. My hand trembled, yet it firmly clutched my sword. Instincts warred within me, urging me to flee even as they stirred the desire to fight. And as the creature slowly turned its dark gaze towards me, my body tensed in anticipation. And when our gazes met, the truth finally dawned upon me...

A Nightwalker.

[Eters]

I often find myself reflecting on the distant past, the memories of my youth in Westgate feel like an eternity before now, yet haunt my nights like lingering specters. In those reveries, I see the figure of my father, a man who carries many souls on his back, a killer as I am now. Yet alongside his grim profession, I also perceive a certain elegance in his motions, a graceful finesse that strikes as unnatural. After all, how can elegance coexist with violence? How can gentleness deflect the heavy mace of brutality? How can the dance of nobles, bring about the demise of armies?

His teachings echo in my mind, night after night. His words reverberating like distant echoes of a forgotten dream ...

"Listen, boy. To truly wield strength, you must flow with your sword, not oppose it. Look at you, your stance is tight. It should be open, relaxed, but do not take that as an order to be absent minded, no, but to lure your opponent into perceiving openings where there are none. Remember, wielding a sword means severing destinies, extinguishing candles before they have the chance to illuminate the world, and cast their shadows upon it. Yet to wield a sword is akin to wielding a brush ..."

"The hardest of rocks can only be cut with the softest of touches ..."

In my youth, I dismissed his words as simple hogwash, lies spun to shield the naive child that I was from the harsh reality of combat. I clung to that belief throughout my life, embracing it further as I faced countless battles amidst the crucible of the Mists. But now, having witnessed unimaginable horrors and crossed blades with the tormented ghosts of fallen kings and restless knights, I comprehend what my father saw. I grasp the wisdom concealed in his words ... And now, as I stand amidst the crimson tableau of my own making, red blending with black upon a canvas of death, I understand ...

[Eters]

I once believed the gods of this world to be enigmatic and remote, akin to the ones worshiped in my world. Temples stood tall, altars were revered, and faithful adherents flocked to the worship of various gods. Yet, their presence was faintly perceptible for they shook no world, nor shaped it, content with simply bestowing blessings upon their chosen few.

Yet I was mistaken. This realization struck me to the core as I stood before the temple of Bast, addressed by a divine emissary in the form of a black cat. Alongside three unfortunate souls, our worth was now being assessed, meticulously weighted by the divine scales.

My father taught me to be methodical when approaching problems and strategizing. He taught me the art of killing, and half of the kill is in the preparation. So, I approached these trials with the same systematic precision, certainly it'll work in my favor. 

"Leave".

Wait ... Leave? Just like that, my worth was measured, and the temple's doors swung open as sand began filling its core, signaling my departure alongside my company. I prided myself on my methodical nature, yet I failed to account for one crucial parameter: The utterly unpredictable minds of those around me. The selfish actions of one tainted us all, their failure staining our collective soul and rendering us unworthy in the eyes of this god.

As I walked out, a veil of shame and frustration draped over me like a heavy mantle. Despite my lack of genuine belief in the ways of this god, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being slighted by its dismissal of my worth, bringing with it a sea of questions. Why did it sting so? Was it the prospect of success tainted by another's actions that left me unfulfilled? Or the promise of power potentially awaiting at the end that lulled me into desiring success? Or perhaps, deep down, it was simply the longing to be acknowledged by someone of a higher stature, the yearnings of my childhood self.

...Perhaps I haven't grown at all since then.

[Eters]

As I stood at the edge of the world, all I could see was darkness and mist. Scattered within that veil were the gravestones of men and women I barely knew. Yet, a tinge of sorrow and remorse gripped my heart, for my name too might have been among those chosen by the Herald. Had fate willed it, I could have walked their path that fateful night, and faced the horrors which claimed their lives.

Twenty brave souls, each having endured trials as harrowing as my own, were called upon by Fate to lay down their lives and make the ultimate sacrifice. For a cause hailed as paramount to our survival, though it remained shrouded in mystery, barely understood by them - and even less by us.

As I stood at the edge of the world, all I could see was darkness and mist. And so I asked myself: How deep into the Abyss must mortals venture to thrive in this merciless realm? How much of our humanity must the world rescind from us, in order to stand a fighting chance against the encroaching darkness?

To protect those I love, and those I cherish ....

How much of myself must I surrender?

[Eters]

And so she asked, if I could still walk.
And so I answered, that I walk my path still.
And so she looked at me, blind eyes enlightened with the wisdom of age, and saw the weight upon my shoulders.
And so I felt her piercing, yet faded gaze appraise me, and opened my arms, welcoming the burden.
And so she asked, if I knew whom it is that stands upon my shoulders, clings to my arms, claws at my chest, and coils around my legs like creeping vines.
I answered, if it was my sins?
And so she said, that I bear a mantle of many dead, each cursing my name and the fate that brought our paths together. They sing of my downfall, and foretell a most painful tragedy...

Silence reigned as king, until it was dethroned by her voice. Soft, yet piercing like a stream of daggers:

"Do you feel dread for what awaits you?"

And so I answered, that the voices comfort me, they remind me of the battles I have survived, they sing a fate I challenge every passing day, and every eerie night. No, the voices are the curse of a killer, yet his most intimate friend. It tells the tale of one that walks his path, and doesn't cling to the mantle of another who walks his own.

And so as the words left my mouth, I felt the ghost of a smile slowly creep in.
And so she looked at me with sympathy, as if perhaps ... I was long gone.

[Eters]

Many times I have watched a soul lose its bearings in the face of fear and doubt, many times I have witnessed the rambling of a madman, or a woman torn apart by the ghosts of her past, the unsettled wounds of the heart festering quietly, until they erupt, releasing the miasma of anguish and despair ... But never, have I seen a woman lose her bearings the way she did.

As we marched deeper into the bowels of malevolence, moving through ancient halls steeped in salt and shadowy echoes of forgotten tragedies, her screams pierced the silence of the mines. I knew her as a foul mouthed, rough, awkward yet reliable ... if a little aloof scholar, yet now, she was nothing more than a madwoman, her words a confusing torrent that seemed at first, like the ramblings of a shattered mind.

Yet I know it well - the nature of mankind. Before the scythe of the reaper, when death looms close and the finality of it presses down on the soul, the masks we wear slip away. In those moments, we show what is truly within us. I have seen many true faces, moments before my blade cut them down, and so I know, that in this moment, Sithicus's whispers ripped of her mask, and showed us all, a glimpse of what is within the red apple.

A rotten core, yet it wasn't hatred that festered there. No, it was guilt - unyielding, unrelenting. A guilt for a love lost, for a mistake made, for a life taken, and another forever scarred. Her pain wasn't something we could touch, her nightmares were not our to share, nor for us to pull her from. No, we were the spectators, watching in silence as the avalanche of guilt crushed her beneath its weight. Truly, I have never seen anyone lose themselves the way she did ....

And so, all I could do was dance to the anguished wailing of her broken voice, and cut down the foe before me. It is all I could do for her ... It is all I know.

[Eters]

"How long had it been since I put down the sword?

After witnessing death in all its forms: screaming, silent, noble, meaningless. I made the choice to step away. To carve out a life untouched by steel.
A quiet home.
A loving wife.
The soft rhythm of a life I deserved to live.

It was the dream every man fought to protect.
And somehow… I was allowed to live it.

But something in me stirred.
A low echo I tried to smother beneath routine and affection. I held it down with trembling hands. Days became weeks, then months. I told myself it was gone.
That I was free.

But it never left.

It wasn’t thirst for blood.
It wasn’t hate or vengeance.
It was the silence, that razor-thin breath between life and death.
Where time slows.
Where the world narrows.
Where I always felt whole.

I buried that feeling deep.
And with it, the man I had been.

I remember the day I planted the sword in the forest.
Not thrown. Not discarded.
Planted, like a marker.
Like a grave.
A tombstone for the man I no longer wished to be.

And for a time, I left him there.
But you can only ignore the earth so long before it calls you back.

So I returned.

The forest was as I left it. Still, damp, indifferent. And there it was:
The sword. Half-sunken in the soil. Draped in creeping moss.
Unmoved.
Untouched.
Waiting.

I stood before it in silence.
Not out of awe.
Out of mourning.

Because I knew what taking it up again would mean.
That the man I tried to become would never stand in the same place as the one who once held that blade.

I knelt down, fingers brushing the worn hilt.

I gripped the handle, and pulled.

The soil gave no resistance.
The sword rose clean.

And with it, the silence returned.