Wrestling With Shadows

The giant doors behind Tristan vanished into the mist.

Suspended in the middle of suffocating silence, Tristan felt afloat and entombed at the same time. Pitch-black darkness swallowed him, and there was nothing he could see, hear, smell, taste, or touch.

Then, something solid grazed his foot. He suddenly found himself on stable footing.

The sound of rain followed. It started faint, and the noise slowly grew into a deafening torrent. Thunder boomed into his ears like a roar. The merciless cold crept to his skin and seeped into his bones as he felt the downpour drench him.

Tristan smelled something. The fresh scent of the gusts of wind—cleansing, purifying. Another scent mixed in, something metallic.

Blood.

He looked at his hands. Nothing. Then, flashes of lightning flickered on the stream beneath him, painted red, and he couldn't tell if it was the crimson sky.

He gazed far into the grey haze.

There was a small flame. Then another. Bursts of light appeared like fireflies awakened from sleep.

The flames grew into a sea of blaze. Horrified screams echoed as firelight reflected on his face, and on the streaks that dripped from his head.

Lazarus.

Before Tristan could move, he sensed a presence nearby. He turned just in time, barely avoiding the fist that grazed his cheek.

As he focused his vision, a silhouette stood before him, covered in a bloody stench.

It wasn't him who was bleeding, but the shadow felt strangely familiar.

The shadow charged at Tristan, fists flying furiously as it reeked of blood and pain. Another strike got into his guard and hit him square on the jaw. Surprisingly, it barely hurt. Almost no power at all.

The shadow stepped forward. It's as if Tristan looked into a mirror.

Battered, almost dead. Blood streamed from his cuts, painting the ground with faded red as it mixed with the rain.

The shadow attacked again—relentless, refusing to die.

"Hey.... stop it now..." Tristan pleaded as he blocked the weak blow, telling himself to accept defeat and his inability to save everyone.

But then, his alter-ego attacked faster, stronger, and more recklessly. Its hollow eyes kept staring at him, in defiance of its fate.

The rain pressed harder on him to submit, almost like a fever dream. He looked up, and his shadow delivered the final blow.

Now, he was back in the dark.

---

Tristan's eyes snapped open.

The heavy rain, the thunder, the lightning—they were all there. But when he rubbed his eyes, he realized he was somewhere else.

Towering walls, city lights, blaring car horns, and blazing headlights. It felt like another dream.

He felt something pierce his side. He pressed his hand on the spot, still trying to push himself out of this inception. Again, he smelled blood.

He slowly crumpled to the ground, huffing, fighting for breath. He saw the puddle beneath him stained red as he turned to his side.

A glowing brimstone blade hovered over him as the culprit stepped forward, the neon light outlining its face.

Another shadow of himself. He gritted through the agony and got back to his feet.

Wielding the blade that killed a divine being, his doppelganger slashed its way to him, with the same desperate eyes and unflinching resolve he carried that fateful night.

Tristan stepped back to get a better view of his opponent, but met a splash, limiting his vision. As a thin glint cut past his cheek, a memory flashed in his head.

He found himself slumped in a chair as a hooded figure forced him to relive old memories through a taboo ritual. The pain in his skull was blinding, punishment but also necessity.

Tristan's consciousness snapped back into the melee, panting as the past bled into his present. Another thrust came from a blind spot, piercing his shoulder, and everything went white again.

When his vision returned, he was surrounded by walls of white. He stood before robed figures whose faces he couldn't remember.

"This is divine guidance, Grandark. Return to the path of light, for in her death, your soul has been redeemed. Be joyful in this grace of mercy and salvation."

Before he could open his mouth, he was pulled back into the dark alley. Confused and weary, he failed to avoid the next stab.

His heart raced again. He trembled as he curled his fists and gnashed his teeth, seething.

Lira slumped on the cold floor in a pool of blood. The demon smirked at him as it held her soul in its hand, before vanishing into the void.

As he sprinted to reach out to her lifeless body, he stumbled onto the wet pavement, barely blocking his shadow's arching swing from above, aimed at his chest.

He pleaded with his shadow to stop, but his mirror didn't yield. With a futile growl, his arms gave in, and the blade pierced through his chest. With blood in his mouth, his heartbeat faded, and he succumbed back into the abyss.

---

Tristan slowly opened his eyes to glaring sunlight.

It was bright. He sat up and looked around, but the hallway was empty.

This is the first time in a while that he has experienced peace. If heaven were real, this could be it.

But the gates of hell never sleep.

He turned around and saw people at the end of the alley. The sick, the hungry, the cripples, the dying. But even in their suffering, the rays illuminated their sacred space.

In front of them was a warm, comforting presence. He almost wanted to run and snuggle in that warmth.

Lira. But as he ran towards her, someone blocked his way.

A mask. A trench coat. A gun. And in the sun's glare, an insignia glinted, proud and intimidating.

The Grand Inquisitor.

Tristan almost faltered. He desperately rushed towards Lira, dodging a few gunshots head-on.

Acknowledging his resolve, the Grand Inquisitor threw his weapon and engaged him in melee. Tristan tried with every ounce of his strength to sustain his charge, but his shadow was too fast, too strong.

He slipped into another memory.

"By the powers vested in us as adjudicators of the light, we hereby sentence you, Grand Inquisitor Tristan Grandark, to exile. You will be stripped of the powers granted to your position, your memories as Grand Inquisitor will be erased, and you will be a mortal—to live, toil, and be dust of the earth at the end of your days."

A synchronized sound of gavels pounded on Tristan's ears.

But in the flurry of blows and bruises he received after that memory, something connected to him.

For the first time, he felt compassion. Kindness fueled by choice and not by duty.

Tristan jumped back in a cross-guard. His breath was heavier, more difficult. His defiance kept him standing but in this instance, death meant returning to the cradle of peace. As the Grand Inquisitor picked his gun up and pulled the trigger on Tristan's head, Tristan dropped.

Suddenly, everything was quiet. Serene. Like paradise.

Tristan looked around. Moving images enclosed him like a dome. A canvas filled with memories.

Happy ones. Sad. Fearful. Hopeful.

With Lira.

Tristan finally broke and he fell to his knees. He basked in the images as he howled, wordless, desperate for the only one who mattered. He tried to take it all in, to cling to every memory, but there were too many—and too little time.

As he brought his hands to his eyes, trying to keep the tears and pain in, he returned to the void.

Cold. Empty. Lifeless.

He opened his eyes once more, hoping that this would be the final nail to his cross.

He looked straight ahead—and someone stood in the dark.

Tristan Grandark. Inquisitor.

The angel bathed in blood.