"There's nothing but hate and anger… and paranoia. I want to talk to people. To try and make them understand. But I can't bring myself. God, I'm a fuckin' mess. The War… I've been in fight mode ever since. Everyone and everything's a threat. I can't connect anymore. I'm surrounded by people, and yet nobody fuckin' gets it."
"Lad…" Darin says, voice soft and gentle.
You wave a dismissive hand. "I don't need fuckin'… pity. There are folk out there dying. Men dying because of me."
Darin sighs and leans back. You lean back as well, side by side with the old warrior.
After a moment of hesitation, he begins, "I was never the most… healthy in the head. Even when I was a kid. Never felt right. They called me… 'melancholic.' Some said it was somethin' to do with the humours in me body. Others said it was the ghosts in my blood." He laughs. "God… I ain't drunk enough for this."
He pauses, then continues, "It got worse and worse. I had a big family, too. Six brothers, two sisters. They dropped one by one." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "I found solace in work. I's a mercenary. Eventually, though… it wasn't enough. I's jus' couldn't take it."
"Then I met Iryna." He looks out into the distance. "She gave me something I never had before—a purpose." He says wistfully, "I married that girl. Two years later, we had a son."
Darin swallows hard. "Iryna didn't make it.