Within the span of a fortnight, both men are dead. My esteemed uncle was first to go, overcome with some sort of congestion of the lungs according to my aunt. And then the house owner, silently and within the embrace of a deep slumber from which he did not wake. Old age, I suspect, or possibly a weak heart. Uncle Oliver had bequeathed their estate to me, his closest male relative, but I immediately signed the deed over to my aunt as she will have far more need of the house and assets than I ever will. And beyond that, the old woodcarver had no family at all, and in recent months developed a fatherly affection towards me, though it was assuredly undeserved. And so this cottage is now mine, and I have a home if I should need one. I am only sorry that I did not have the opportunity to meet with my uncle one more time before he was taken from the world. He was a good man, in every sense.
Few gifts have ever been put into my hands, but this diary is one of them. I have never touched it until today. It is of very fine craftsmanship, rich brown leather with gold lettering and a sturdy ribbon for secure closure. My uncle often bade me to record my thoughts in its pages, but I never felt any inclination to do so. I do not see the appeal, even now, of examining my thoughts closely, but I will do so for his sake and in his memory.
Whether I ought to pore over the motivations that steered my feet toward the brothel several nights hence or not is of little concern to me. What concerns me is sparing my sanity and reducing the number of "spells" that I suffer. The young woman in the village is spared, at least for now. And that is what matters.
Some time ago, I did manage to locate a physician on a distant estate somewhat to the north of Bree. An elderly gentleman with a pristine reputation, yet a failing practice, as his age and arthritic hands have slowed him down significantly. However, it was knowledge that I required more than steady hands. After a lengthy conversation and endless interrogation he determined that my headaches, weakness, and memory loss are almost certainly a leftover condition from the snake-bite venom. It is apparently a very rare phenomenon, but his questioning was beyond thorough, and it is the only likely culprit. I was not astounded to learn that there is little to be done for it, but to hope that over time the symptoms may abate. I returned to the doctor yesterday at midday, for he wished to be apprised of my condition at monthly intervals. He found little improvement, but was pleased that my health overall seems steady enough, and asked me to return again at the next full moon.
