He who I can't name

The North remains as harsh as its ever been, the cold bites you down to the bone, regardless of how many furs you lay upon them and the animals are just as ferocious as the weather, if not more. The cold dulls the senses, lulls them into death and the only escape from such fate is to move. To keep on moving. Us Northeners may not be known for our warfare and adventurous exploits as much as the other lands but few realms to the south would dare belittle the challenges we face. While they sleep in their comfortable warmth, we face Nature itself every winter.
 
When I was younger, I felt it was an unwritten rule that the harsh challenges we face every year, the way we carefully secure and protect our resources, the way we train and the traditions we live by bonded us all by something stronger than blood, something more valuable than coin.
 
I was wrong.
 
It took a cold blade through the insides of my father to learn of how wrong I was and even now people suffer while I cower from that man, pretending to do so for the greater good of the Shieldlands.
 
I can't face him, not yet. The thought of his name alone is enough to make me tremble, it's enough to make me have to hold this quill with both hands, yet it is not fear I feel but rather something that urges me, pushes me, to lose control.
 
My friends and family expect me to lead them, but it is just as Raymund said: I can not control my own blade and I fear that if my eyes ever crossed with the one who butchered my father, I would not be able to control much of myself at all.
 
I fear this thing that lingers within me. I fear the harm I may yet bring to my friends. I fear the danger I might plunge them into. I beg you Tjorvi, please help me yield my blade and Tovin, please grant me the clarity to not lose myself should I, or when I, cross that man's path. Please help those that care about me and do not let the same fate that is reserved for me befall upon them.
 
Once this is all through, I hope they can forgive me.