Weight of My Sins

An angel bathed in blood.

Tristan saw everything. The mirrors he faced were clearly more him than he ever was.

He grieved. And he still does. But he willed himself back to his feet, striding forward to meet his own final executioner. The doppelganger mirrored his actions, marching towards him.

Their steps synced as they sped up, sprinting, until their fists met. The space around them quaked, and the lake of the void's waters rippled at the clash.

As Tristan leapt backwards, another stream of memories crashed—this time, in a chaotic flow. Images toppled one after another: of joy, then of hurt, of longing, then of belonging.

Stunned by the mess inside his own mind, he barely managed to dodge the bullet that grazed past him. For a moment, he lost sight of his shadow. His instincts nudged him to look up, giving him a good view of the brimstone blade about to impale him.

He rolled to the side, slightly losing his balance. His vision blurred worse than before as he, once again, began to lose grip of his senses.

The shadow stared at him and charged once more. Tristan braced himself, but the relentless, merciless assault almost overwhelmed him.

A cut on his arm. A shell pierced his leg. The pressure piled on him, but other than pain, memories—of the happy times with Lira, of the bleak moments of duty. As his opponent battered him, a pattern came to light, like a code that persistently tapped until the question was clear—

"Who are you?"

He crashed to the ground, groaning. He found himself in the middle of a valley riddled with bones. As he looked at his surroundings, the corpses' rotting flesh slowly reformed—every muscle reattaching itself to every joint and every cartilage, until death had a face.

Saul. Johann. James.

And somewhere, Lira.

A blade slashed across his chest, snapping him back to himself. As he coughed blood, he could feel his heartbeat through the wound.

His doppelganger loomed over him. On his knees, Tristan stared back at it.

A blank face. An abyss. A mask without identity. A ruthless presence without a will of its own.

Tristan hung his head, chasing his breath.

He lost count of how many times he had died in this ordeal. Every time he opened his eyes, he was in the same void, fighting the same shadow. The same weapon tore across his chest, and the same stare that he saw before his last breath.

Is this fate? Perhaps he deserved to be in this looping nightmare, fueled by the blood of those he condemned, deprived of the choice to live and die on their own terms.

Compared to a life of eternal grief, this darkness was a merciful burial.

As he sank into what suddenly felt like a bottomless lake, the air in his lungs escaped in large bubbles. The precious locket he tied to his wrist floated, calling out to the other side.

Then, someone grabbed his arm and lifted him out, light as a feather.

He landed in a field of dreams. And in the distance, someone stood.

She turned to him, glancing with the same kind eyes she always had. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, lips breaking into the most precious smile that mattered more than anything else.

"Tristan."

Something bubbled up inside him. A force so chaotic, his only release was a roar.

Was it rage? Desire for revenge? Or the will to live?

Before Tristan could answer himself, he was back at the surface, breathing hard as life returned to him.

His shadow remained where it stood, waiting to kill him again.

With every ounce of his strength, Tristan struggled back to his feet.

For the first time since the trial began, Tristan's shadow spoke. Clear, deep, and ethereal.

"Who are you?" it asked.

Tristan's gaze sharpened.

Then, the shadow tilted its head. "Why are you here?"

"Lira," Tristan muttered.

The shadow laughed, echoing across the void.

"Show me," his shadow taunted, summoning back its weapons. A gust of wind pushed back on Tristan, but he didn't waver.

Tristan charged himself, conjuring a blade of his own, emitting an ominous aura that felt neither dark nor holy.

The shadow, for the first time, braced itself on the defensive.

— • —

Outside, the Godfather tapped a finger on the handle of his cane. He pulled out a pocket watch and released the lock.

The last one lasted twelve minutes before the gates closed.

The agonizing creak of its ancient hinges seemed to delay the inevitable, but it only added to the tension.

The Godfather stared at the mist seeping out of the narrowing gap, keen on finding a tiny glimpse of the man who had been fighting himself for almost an hour.

Morrigan kept steady, already numbed by past instances of failure.

But a part of her waited for Tristan to emerge. He had to. And after a long time, she found herself holding on, hoping that one man's will would finally break through.

— • —

Back in the void, Tristan maintained the offensive. He hammered on his shadow despite feeling his breath grow heavier at an alarming pace. He had to get out soon.

He summoned a second blade and unleashed another barrage on his opponent.

As the shadow deflected more of Tristan's onslaught, the blows began to chip at him, shattering his form little by little.

Tristan picked up the pace and power. Oddly, the shadow sensed no anger. Or resentment. The guilt was gone. What took their place was something more resonant, more real than just newfound resolve.

Rebellion.

The shadow felt Tristan's will brush him like a blaze. As his mask began to crack, he felt the urge to smile. He began to feel as alive as Tristan, despite being a mirror of Tristan's own darkness.

After all, he is also him.

Blown back by a furious swing, the shadow knew the end was near.

"Are you prepared to shoulder your sins, and of those that have come before you?" he called out to Tristan.

Tristan, without hesitation, charged back at his shadow, eyes glinting like a meteor in the night sky.

That was his answer.

"Very well. Take this burden and bear it, in search of your own truth. Carry it as your cross, so that in your suffering, you may find the peace you're looking for."

At the shadow's mask, the Inquisitor's avatar was completely shattered; his weapon turned into something similar to Tristan's, glowing with defiance. He launched toward Tristan, who was equally prepared to meet his own end.

As the shadow dashed for the final clash, prepared to kill Tristan for the last time, Tristan dispelled his blades.

The shadow's blade pierced through Tristan's heart. And the void shook, cracks appearing as the pocket dimension was shattered by the act.

He watched Tristan fall once more into the void. As the shadow's figure faded with the collapsing space, he broke out a faint smile, a final farewell to both a friend and a foe.

Tristan sank deeper into the lake. Until everything was back to black.

— • —

And the gates jammed shut.

The Godfather clenched his jaw, pulling his hat over his eyes. As he turned around, he felt the final thread of hope fade.

Morrigan trailed behind him. As they walked away from the chamber, she noticed that his steps were slower than usual.

She knew the old man. The kind who'd hold even the doors of fate for a miracle.

Something jarred behind them. Metal groaned loudly.

The Godfather and Morrigan snapped their heads back toward the gate, finding the seals destroyed by force.

Suddenly, the massive doors moved on their hinges, and the maw of the void appeared once more.

From the abyss, a broken figure emerged, pushing the massive doors as he walked through. Unlike the man who entered it, this one strode in mightily, unwilling to let the void become his grave.

The Godfather faced him.

"Who are you?"

With fire in his eyes, the champion held the gates.

"Tristan Grandark."