I'm surprised this journal survived whatever swim I took before washing up on the riverbank nearly dead. Even moreso that my bow wasn't ruined, though it was in its pouch, at least. I don't know what good any of it will do me in the days to come.
I don't know where to go or what to do with myself. I don't know what happened or where I was or why I was there or who I was with. Should the fever have killed me? I don't know. I'm tired of Death flirting and dancing around me and not doing its job. Take me or leave me alone already.
Here I sit, back in Bree again. This town is like a candle's flame, and I seem to be a moth who can't figure out that there's a whole world past the darkened window. Well, that's not quite true, is it. It's more that, every time I try to step into the world outside, something awful happens.
I remember meeting Timony. I remember agreeing to go with him and help him find his friend. We went north. And then it all starts to get fuzzy. Bits and pieces of things after that. But some of them don't make any sense, and I wonder if I just dreamed them. Sitting with strangers around a campfire. A mountain with a bright star over it. A black arrow. Snow on the ground. A banner with a...red eye.
And now, here I sit. Huddled on a bench with a few thin pillows and a rolled-up coat under my head. And whose coat is it? Funny you should ask.
I can hardly recall how I got back into town. I'm sure I walked on my own two stubborn feet, and the first place with an open door and a nice, warm fire was not the Pony, but a much quieter and more welcoming place, at least to my exhausted eyes. And who should I see as soon as I walked in? My damnable guardian angel. I hadn't seen a friendly face in so many months, I fell on his shoulder and sobbed like a baby. I don't know why it always surprises me when he's kind and gentle in return. I think the terrible scene of...gods, how long ago was it now? That night in Trestlebridge. I've never been so torn apart by someone's words. I think some little part of me fears that that ugliness is still in him somewhere, just waiting to surface and scour my heart with fresh wounds. Maybe he could see just how pitiful I was. Well. How pitiful I am. Thin and dirty and ragged from travel and cold and sickness. I dare not look at my own reflection.
But he held me and let me fuss until I was calmer. I told him all I could remember. His face grew very dark and quiet and I knew what he was thinking. That those who'd asked me to leave home and go into danger were to blame. And maybe that I was to blame for being so willing to try and help. But over a bowl of pottage we talked on and before I passed out from exhaustion, I saw him crack a smile or two, and everything felt right with the world. Even if only for a few seconds.
The tavern is very quiet now. I don't know what time it is. Some late hour of the night. He walks round the room like a sentry and I hide the journal under his coat and pretend to sleep when he passes. If he knows I am awake, he hasn't said anything. I promise I'll sleep soon. My mind is so tired, yet so...full. I want to know what happened, where I was going, who else was there, where they are now, and why I'm not with them anymore.
He insists that I see a healer tomorrow. I don't think I need one. If I were going to die, it would have been from the cold and the fever. But it will set his mind at ease, and after making him worry so, it's the least I can do, especially since he says he will pay for it. After that, I don't know where I will go. Maybe beg a room from Barliman until I can figure it out.
