Grief paladin

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You see yourself sitting on the edge of a bed in a familiar room. The candlelight flickers unnaturally, casting twisting shapes onto the walls. Across from you, Dilbraxus reclines on his bed, his face half-hidden in shadow. His voice echoes, distant yet close as he asks you,

“Do you fear anything, Itkovian?”

Your hands move, though you don’t control them. You’re cleaning your blade, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone growing louder with every stroke. You hear yourself respond, but your voice doesn’t sound like your own. This feeling is not unfamiliar, often these days your voice doesn’t sound like your own.

“Storms,” you say, fighting the curve of your lip. Fighting the laugh threatening to burst. The word hangs in the air, but Dilbraxus’s silhouette leans closer, his eyes glowing faintly.

“But what are you really afraid of?”

The walls of the inn dissolve, replaced by a violent tempest. You’re standing in the middle of a vast, barren field, the sky above torn apart by lightning. The wind howls like a chorus of mournful wails. The lightning illuminates the menacing shadow of the Gulthias tree a short distance away — a young man is trapped in its branches, he is dying and you have been here before. A young man is trapped, you are here to save him and you are weighing his life against yours.
Van Richten appears at your side, his face lined with age and sorrow. He’s reaching out to you. His voice cuts through the storm, sharp and clear.

“Itkovian,” he calls. “Do not falter.”

You feel a warm hand against your shoulder.

“I’ll follow your lead, Itkovian,” Wally says.

Do you ever think of this moment, and wonder what Van Richten would have done?

The storm fades, and you’re sitting in darkness, peering into a cauldron. Across from you sits a robed figure in a jester’s mask. Its shadowed hand grips a ladle, as it stirs the inky liquid in the cauldron. In its murky waters you see a young Van Richten clutching a child to his chest. On the child’s neck are two distinct punctures. Van Richten buries his face into the child’s hair. He is sobbing. The ladle turns once more.

You see a Vistani man clutching desperately at his wound. It won’t save him, he’s going to bleed out in a few seconds. Van Richten is watching, drenched in blood, face expressionless, his blade dripping crimson. The man rages against his death and his last words are full of hatred as he spits out, may you always live among monsters, and see everyone you love die.

The ladle stops, the waters calm. The robed figure tilts its head to the side, the bells on the masks jinling, pouring you a cup of that black and vile water. You take it without hesitation, you take it because its’ already happened. It tastes like nothing, it tastes like blood, it tastes like life. You can’t stop smiling.

Your mentor swore, that should you lose control of yourself and become a monster, he will be there. He will not falter. You remember that moment well. Assured by the confidence of your mentor, of a man you wish thought of you like a son. In the depths of your heart, you already know he does.

You laugh, because it’s funny.

In the darkness, you hear Dilbraxus’ voice once more. “Do you fear anything Itkovian?”

In the next breath that darkness fades and you find yourself standing in the trees of the Svalich Woods, the touch of winter bringing you back to reality.