Normal 0 false false false EN-GB X-NONE X-NONE
In order to indicate some of the reasoning behind Echo's stoic exterior, I decided to hint at his past. I assumed people would guess he was 'troubled,' hence I was gonna do a big reveal halfway through the game, but I'm sure everyone's way too impatient for that. :P
I feel the constant itch of my newfound abilities, and it is difficult to only sit and write. The itch does not dissipate in battle. It perpetuates itself.
I would have assumed I only imagined that priest when he appeared; though it is not usual for visions of my victims to be so animated, so purposeful. The barbarian saw him too, and so I am certain he did not just exist within my brain.
I have not had time to think on it. My dream recurred again the other night. It is so much similar to the dream I have had before, but there may be some things that are different. So I feel the need to write it again, then I can see it when I am awake.
It is short, only a recollection of that blood-strewn battlefield. More than a few years ago now, and I was foolish to let him out of my sight, to turn my back and focus on my enemies. In the dream I cut apart soldiers before me, letting their wounds spray crimson and relishing in their last cries as they fall to their knees. Another of them charges towards me and I jab a dagger into his hip; he slows and buckles over from the pain. I only have flesh wounds that sting and stain my skin. The fight is still raging, but there are less of them and more of us – I know we have won, and I can feel a steady smile creep into my lips as I watch my fellows stab, slice and hack at the remainder. Though in my haze of adrenalin I have forgotten about him. In those moments that I stopped to survey my victory, I might have turned to see him caught. He is distracted by one man, valiantly tearing him down, and approached quickly by another. He is a mere few feet from me, and I could intervene. No, he is suddenly speared from behind, I hear his characteristic yell and my head snaps back. The blood is choking from his mouth almost instantly as he drops to the ground, and I call his name, I am there in a split second. His attacker makes to leave; he trips and I take the opportunity to sheath my dagger in the back of his throat. He is dead, but my comrade is not yet.
His eyes are darting and flickering; I kneel by him and he only just recognises me, tells me that he cannot focus. I do not tell him he will be alright. He lies on his side, the point of the spear protruding from his chest. The red from his wound is soaking the grass around us. I offer to cut short his suffering, but we both know he is nearly gone. He does not say anything. He lifts his hand to brush mine, and I clutch onto his fingers. Then he slips away.
I always waken at this moment. Reading back upon it, it is the same as always. Countless times and I pray for something new, a word from his mouth or even a smile, in the dream. I tell myself that when it happened, he told me something profound, or even meaningless. But surely, if he had, then I would recall it another way.
I feel anger when I wake up from the dream, even anger directed towards him, because he could have said something, even the smallest word. He left me empty.
His attacker is dead. This means nothing. He would have died on that field even if I let him walk.
I have lost a hundred comrades and been complacent. It is the only way to be. I can show the necessary solemnity, but I cannot care, whether they are dead or alive. I made a mistake in having a friend. I do not mean to make this mistake again.