"The Paths of Darkness 1 - The Silent Blade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Paths of Darkness)

I do not feel as if I have found perfection, but, rather, as
if something is missing from my life.
It seems such an incongruous notion, and yet I have come
to know that I am a warrior, a creature of action. In those
times when there is no pressing need for action, I am not at
ease. Not at all.
When the road is not filled with adventure, when there
are no monsters to battle and no mountains to climb, boredom
finds me. I have come to accept this truth of my life, this
truth about who I am, and so, on those rare, empty occasions
I can find a way to defeat the boredom. I can find a mountain
peak higher than the last I climbed.
I see many of the same symptoms now in Wulfgar, returned
to us from the grave, from the swirling darkness that was
Errtu's corner of the Abyss. But I fear that Wulfgar's state
has transcended simple boredom, spilling into the realm of
apathy. Wulfgar, too, was a creature of action, but that
doesn't seem to be the cure for his lethargy or his apathy.
His own people now call out to him, begging action. They have
asked him to assume leadership of the tribes. Even stubborn
Berkthgar, who would have to give up that coveted position of
rulership, supports Wulfgar. He and all the rest of them
know, at this tenuous time, that above all others Wulfgar,
son of Beornegar, could bring great gains to the nomadic
barbarians of Icewind Dale.
Wulfgar will not heed that call. It is neither humility
nor weariness stopping him, I recognize, nor any fears that
he cannot handle the position or live up to the expectations
of those begging him. Any of those problems could be
overcome, could be reasoned through or supported by Wulfgar's
friends, myself included. But, no, it is none of those
rectifiable things.
It is simply that he does not care.
Could it be that his own agonies at the clawed hands of
Errtu were so great and so enduring that he has lost his
ability to empathize with the pain of others? Has he seen too
much horror, too much agony, to hear their cries?
I fear this above all else, for it is a loss that knows
no precise cure. And yet, to be honest, I see it clearly
etched in Wulfgar's features, a state of self-absorption
where too many memories of his own recent horrors cloud his
vision. Perhaps he does not even recognize someone else's
pain. Or perhaps, if he does see it, he dismisses it as
trivial next to the monumental trials he suffered for those
six years as Errtu's prisoner. Loss of empathy might well be
the most enduring and deep-cutting scar of all, the silent
blade of an unseen enemy, tearing at our hearts and stealing
more than our strength. Stealing our will, for what are we
without empathy? What manner of joy might we find in our
lives if we cannot understand the joys and pains of those