Oft ic sceolde ana Often (or always) I had alone
uhtna gehwylce to speak of my trouble
mine ceare cwiþan. each morning before dawn.
Nis nu cwicra nan There is none now living
þe ic him modsefan to whom I dare
minne durre clearly speak
sweotule asecgan. of my innermost thoughts.
I still remember writing those words, I remember where I was when I wrote them. I remember it was the night the whore spurned me. A whore taken from the streets, I rescued her from that life. I even killed for her. though she never knew it was me. I remember there being quite a lengthy investigation by the Town Watch into that matter. I was a suspect. But there was no trace, I left none. There was nothing they could do. I gave her a home, I gave her a warm hearth. I briefly gave her everything a woman could ever ask for. Yet it was not enough. The torment of my mind was too much for her to bear. I no longer begrudge her for what she did only in the dishonest way she did it. I had allowed my heart to soar for a brief time yet I was plainly a fool for doing so. I had been told so. Then I was surely to be vindicated.
But perhaps no longer will I be unable to share my thoughts. There is something calm, something liberating about this. Yet that is in itself terrifying. I said this would be either liberating or a mistake. A dear friend of mine told me perhaps it would, but a liberating one nonetheless.
I am not quite sure what is occuring, the winds of change are forever blowing throughout my life. And now a gust of wind. So strong. So inescapable. Sets me off on my current path.
For I am but a Leaf floating around, apparently. But this direction is a direction I do not want to travel, For any further and I fear there is no wind there. Never again will I feel the wind in my hair as I ride through distant lands, free of all attachment. Fréobana, my sword hanging by my side. The adventurer, one of the few parts I deeply enjoy. I suppose all men in their lives learn to play many parts when you think about it, just some of us play parts we do not want to play. As I have done before. But my desire to roam is in-grained.
But is my new-found love for this girl incompatible with that desire? Is even my membership of the Bloody Dawn mercenaries, coming as it does with connotations of brotherhood. Obligation. You made these choices yourself.
Yesterday, I was ready for my soul to flee the confines of this world. At times I have wondered if my soul was bound not for the halls of my ancestors but for more unpleasant pastures. Surely, the fates keep me here for a reason.
The Lavender and the Dagger. Sounds like it could be a poem, a song even. I shall be intrigued to see how it all plays out. For I feel like this is only the beginning. Either a new beginning or the beginning of the end.
I wonder what it was that I wrote that night, I also wonder which won out. The Lavender, or the Dagger? Had I merely passed out in my indecision.
This makes me feel so deeply uncomfortable. What, exactly. Did she find?
Did I simply confess to the murder I had planned, does she know that I keep that secret not for me but myself, But so my little brother won't lose his inheritance and face the stigma of it being known who his parents truly were? This crime is excusable. My stepmother truly deserved to die were most righteous folk aware.
I spoke of the woman to try and get some flicker of recognition. I saw none. This was fresh information to her. What... did you confess that night?
I have fallen for her like a child. This is madness, no good can come of it. She sleeps soundly in my bed down the road. Appearing so serene, so peaceful. It is a peace I have felt before and I liken it to a calm before the storm. Yet there is also a very large part of me that feels as if I could simply just forget the world, Lie with her there forever. I know I could not. My restless spirit would not allow it. She seems to accept me so readily. Even when I joked of bolting out of the door she said I could not help it, I was a Leaf after all.
I cannot silence these conflicting thoughts. I will walk back to the house, I will slip back between the sheets with my delicate flower. It will be as though I never left. My son has been thoroughly worn out. Adorable, smiling boy that he is. His mother sleeps peacefully. Yet I feel guilty still as I look upon her sweet and innocent features. Hiding herself some dreadful things in that little head of hers no doubt. We all have our secrets, I suppose some just have more than others. I have instructed the healer and nursemaids to wait upon her every whim. She will be fine there in the manor where she is. Alive, and recovering.
But I am neglecting my work, there is that. Should I really feel guilty about that as well? I have been pounding the streets for my new brothers in arms day upon day. Chasing up leads for their contracts. No. I will not feel guilt. Nothing can prise me now from this soft and delicate flower's embrace. For underneath the coldness, underneath the sarcasm that is what she is. It seems to me I am almost what she could have been in the end. She called me fool for writing down my crimes. Perhaps. But it has been such a long, very lonely life for a life so brief. All my life I have played it safe with the knowledge of them. Played it cautious. But what if I had continued to do so? She perhaps would not be here now. Risk is perhaps an inevitable part of life. I know she fears this connection too. Perhaps that is why it is strangely comforting. Knowing we experience the same fears? We can help each other, she and I. It seems almost as if sometimes we can read each other's thoughts. That we need not even speak.
It will take a lot of time. A lot of effort. There are no doubt forces arraigned against this happy little madness of ours. Men and women who will sneer, make snide remarks. Try to sow discord where there is none. I have been there before with another. And it tore us apart. But as in all storms, I suppose as stated we have to tie ourselves in and simply weather together. I feel optimism and pessimism in equal measure.
So many questions.
I am not in control. None of us are, in the end. Though I have oft deluded myself that I have had it, maintained a tight grip where I could. Though I relinquished it. Chasing these silly little notions in my head. I burned my previous journal in a symbolic gesture, I am watching it it is gone. Ash.
Before I slip into bed, I will raise a mug.
To new beginnings.
