I know not what evil the Nazgûl worked on me, but traces of their malignant devilry remain behind. I find no rest, not under cloud or star-filled sky. Cold are my nights and yet never do I wake without sweat on my brow. And nightmares I have, yes, nightmares that pry away whatever peace I might find in the comfort of sleep. I see them. I see their empty faces, I hear their chilling voices and wake by their shrieking screams, enough I say! But alas, it is thus every night.
And now, my nightmares seem to follow the morning sun, for ever since my dream of the Witchking, I have been seeing things. A cold and ghastly face, looking straight at me when I turn around, or gazing at me from far away, between trees or behind window. First I saw it was when we went to Fornost. I looked upon those fields and saw a ghostly presence in the ruins, or my eyes deceived me. Yesterday I saw it looking at me through the window of my room at the Prancing Pony, and that was the closest it had ever been. I know not whether to fear it or to feel sad for it, as both feelings seem to come up in great measure whenever I see its eyes. Not wholly unfamiliar do they appear to me, but I cannot lay claim over it, as if it calls to something I ought to remember.
Perhaps the rangers did not succeed in curing me at all. Perhaps the harrowing disease that the black riders lay upon me is only now taking form, and I may be losing myself to dark thoughts and madness. I pray that it may not be so.
Anartil
