17th of Frostfall, Morndas

Avon tells me that I should commit my thoughts to paper. He seems to think I need to speak about what happened. I do not want to speak about it. He thinks writing will work in lieu of verbal discussion to understand everything.

I cannot bring myself to return to that place. It feels like a long lost memory, though I am told it has only been a few days. It is like a dream, so vivid and lifelike with your eyes closed, but just out of reach once you return to consciousness. I don’t even recall much of anything. I have not pieces together all that happened. What was real and what was not?

I still do not feel entire as though I am….

No, I cannot think like that.

Something has changed. I can’t point to any single factor. I don’t feel the same. I feel hollow. Cold. Like some of my center, my being, my very core, has been stolen. Or at least diminished. I have lost some valuable good part of myself.

And everywhere I turn I see death and pain and misery. It is not the sort of vision that passes behind one’s eye lids when the mind plays tricks on one as a result of stress of fatigue. These are intensely real, as though I am watching them occur right before my eyes. As though they are happening to me. Or by me. It all blends together. I feel the pain, suffering each of the blows that drive into my flesh again and again. Each wave of magic, each arrow, each drop of poison.

And the eyes!

No, I cannot think more on this. I am seeing it again. I cannot look into those familiar eyes again! I won’t see myself in that moment!

I have been cursed for my survival. They call it a miracle, but nothing comes without its cost. I do not yet know how grave it will be for me, but I suspect that I am only now learning how severe it will be.


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