Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 I can write again. It took some time, but I finally put my pen to paper, and organized a poem. I don't think I'll be composing plays any time soon, but this is a large step forward. 

        I can think more clearly as well. It has been roughly a moon (they call them months here. Strange word) since I first came to Healeaks. Writing down facts about daily life has been strangely difficult. 

        To summarize--I can and have been walking around Healeaks. Trousseau’s work has done wonders. I have been able to start his dagger lessons, and even demonstrate a few maneuvers to him. He’s not what one would call a quick study, but he’s nowhere near hopeless either. I think that he’ll be far more effective with a dagger than he would be with a tiny hatchet as well. He has the build and the quick movements, we just need to work on his coordination.

        “We.” It’s so wonderful to be able to use that word again. I had not thought that being left alone would have such a devastating effect on me. 

        My side still aches, but it’s healing. Trousseau says I still need another week and a half before I am able to move as I used to with it. Or rather, before we can do any mountain climbing. I would give it a week, but I’m willing to listen to his expertise. It’s gotten me this far. 

        He is so unlike you, Mattias, and yet the similarities that you two have are so striking. The hair, the being reigned by one emotion—yours was anger. His is fear. He lost himself to grief as well. I can still see the shadow of the sister he mentioned to me last night in his eyes. I want to know more. I need to know more of his story. I’m so very pleased that he trusts me enough to respond to me speaking truth to him with truth of his own.

        The reason I have not been writing is because I could see myself deteriorating every time I picked up my pen. There are many doodles in the margins of this book and I am…not an artist to say the least. I had to put this down. Breathe. Apparently I needed to talk about Mattias, who I will not be referring to as if this is a letter addressed to him again.

        …I hear him some nights, when I can’t sleep. Trousseau or Castti being in the room prevents the whispers in my ears, but it’s still disturbing. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I should not try. 

        I miss him, but there is too much happening here. Too much potential. I cannot wallow in what we had if I plan to ever move on. 

        I have plans for Trousseau and I. I must move on.