[WP] Everything starts out normally, but by the end, the audience is questioning whether one of the characters exists.

...

Memory... His memory...

A strange and distant thing now. As if a concept he could only question, watching while its reality frayed apart along unseen and barely felt edges. It seemed as though it wasn't all there any longer.

Recollection...

That was all he had now, and he did have it. To remember, he could.

He could, if he tried, but even that...

Even that seemed to be fading: Graying to black and shadow, beyond some distant brook of silver.

Yet, somewhere there was a fire of anger, of resistance- something that spurred him on, shouting all the while: "Remember! Remember!"

As such, he felt he had to try.

To try and push against the heavy weight of that exhalation- not of breath, but of soul. To fight and cling by any means, even if his hands were bloodied, and his knuckles torn to shreds by the effort: He knew he had to cling. To remember who he was, who he had been.

So he began at the start, as he had so many times before. He began where his memory of life had first sprouted, faded and far-off as it might now seem.

His name...

Jarl Congrad, was his name.

Born to a mother who passed during childbirth. Only son to a man of no close kin.

His father...

His father had been a cold man. A distant man.

A guardian that trained him with a distance of such lengths, one might have thought them strangers instead of kin. To a visitor passing by on their own avenues of life, those who saw Jarl as a boy, might have thought him an adopted nephew of some hated brethren: An unfortunate youth undergoing the process of being fit to a mold, and nothing more.

Indeed, even from Jarl's own perspective, his memories of that cold man were rarely fond. Harsh, strict, at times even cruel: All these things could describe the man who was his father. All of these things held some truth, but they were not alone.

"Genius."

"Extraordinary."

"Exceptional beyond measure."

Jarl remembered those who visited describe his father. The work that cold man performed, in fields of medicine, of contracts, of trade, and of magic. They saw a person they could use or hire- an unparalleled man of talents. For, indeed, Jarl's father was a genius. A man who possessed a mind that had been trained and carved out as if from some sort of perfectly cut gemstone.

In his eyes, things were simple. Done with perfect ease- no matter how complicated. To Jarl's own clumsy and youthful hands, no result was ever good enough, and more was always demanded.

The training he underwent. The distant chill that bordered on the edges of hate. A terrible genius who felt nothing for his own son, that was what Jarl knew his father to be. For the years, he endured. He trained, and he learned. He saw it to accept nothing less than perfection himself whenever possible, and excelled to those who might be the obvious comparisons.

Never enough for his father, but more than enough to surpass and peer.

The age of youth turned towards adolescence, and his father aged- never changing in his ways as Jarl became a man by his own rights. Following in that cold man's steps, he began to learn the trade, the contracts, the hiring and bitter resolutions of conflicts. He learned it all.

Still, it was not not enough. His father would rebuke him, no matter the results. Exceptional, as close to mortal perfection: It never enough. As if the man wished only for Jarl's own hatred, his tongue and words were cruel.

When the sickness took that perfect man, and slowly reduced him, Jarl felt the finest hints of shame that he had earned it. That the death approaching was one of his own sins, a punishment for cruelty.

But standing beside those final moments, Jarl witnessed a different side. A hidden thing, perhaps long buried beneath the perfect gemstone of that dying man's perfect mind.

"I have lived many lives, and I have born many sons, but if there is any legacy I could leave upon the world, I would have wished it to be you."

He said with breath wheezing, and ragged on the trails of sickness lofted to the still air of dim shade.

"You.. were so exceptional... Even now... I still can not bring myself to hate you as I wished... Only your half of that bargain was achieved, I'm afraid... I failed... gods above... it has been so long... since I've failed..."

Ragged turned to whispers.

"I will wait in this slumber... for as long as I can... I will... Jarl, my son... I am truly sorry... This curse... should have always been... mine... alone..."

It was all there, so long as he fought to pull it back from the dredges. That face, not of pain, but of sorrow... Not of anger, but of guilt...

It was there, but it was fading... softly fading off. Fading...

Farther...

Farther away...

...

The memory... His memory... strange and distant now. A concept he could only question, as its reality frayed apart along unseen and barely felt edges. Recollection... That was all he had now, and even that... Even that seemed to be fading: Graying to black and shadow, beyond some distant brook of silver.

Yet, he felt he had to try. To fight and cling by any means: He knew he had to hang on for as long as he could.

To try and remember who he was, who he had been.

Who... he had been...

The question was there. He had asked it, hadn't he?

He had, he was sure of it.

Certain, even in this dark mist that covered all else.

So he began at the start, as he had so many times before. He began where his memory of life had first sprouted, faded and far-off as it might now seem.

His name...

Jarl... Congr...

...

Jarl... Co...

...

Jarl.

That was his name.

That was his name.