To my son.
You will live your life with my misdeeds in your mental periphery. To the end of my days, I would understand if you wished death upon me – or worse; and yes, my son, there are fates worse than gambling with progression through the planes of existence. I can – at present – only hope that my failings are not loose rubble beneath you, threatening to destabilize your otherwise proficient mind, but instead part of the composite material in a formidable foundation, upon which you will erect a towering monument to your own capabilities. From what I can surmise, the latter is already the closer to reality – but take care, my son, for any imperfection in your beginnings is liable to manifest later, as a weakness you are ill-equipped to repair. Supplemental evil, thriving on the force of a greater darkness, is not worth grasping – regardless of your designs. I was compromised beyond my knowledge when I looked outward to fix my shortcomings. I should never have relied upon Vengeance to bolster my efforts, nor upon evil to make myself feel stronger. It is easier said than done to avoid the mistakes of those before you, especially when your judgement is skewed by a sense of knowledge, and your choices adorned with all manner of difference. Be better than I was, at every turn. This is my wish for you.
As I approach what may be my final combat, I feel fear. I am afraid of failing – of losing everything I am, and all I have worked so hard to build, to a man whose weakness and desperation, not so different from my own, led him into unspeakable darkness. Bedrich stood against none other than Gluttony himself, in what might be called an act of unparalleled bravery…or stupidity. Some part of him was good, then. It is not that man who now presides over Tumult, and he will likely never return. I will not abandon the people of this continent to suffer under the same brand of evil I have so regrettably inflicted upon others.
As selfish as it may sound, I also fear a death without redemption…not in the eyes of gods or countrymen, but in yours. My silver tongue and quill are made bare for this letter, but your reservations about me may make this nought but hollow scrawling. I would ask that you allow my deeds of late, and of future, to inform your perception – perhaps just memory – of me. I will do what I must, for the good of the many peoples who call this leaf their home. If I should live, know I will never again abandon you to evil.
Live long by the grace of Neih, and may Winter protect you,
Your father, Malvo
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