It is a strange thing, to write my thoughts here, in this journal. More so for the fact that all the pages before this detail cooking techniques written in Gamlan's hand, and I am sad to say that I did indeed swipe it from him. Yet, the events of the last few days have been far from ordinary, so I should think that pardons this theft and its oddity.
As I lay here in my bed, I am looking on the sleeping form of Bucta, the man that has come to earn my affection over the last few months. His sleep is fitful, no peaceful rest, and soon he will awaken and be troubled once more by the nightmare he is living of late. For in this world, he is lacking now a son, taken from him by the cold hand of Death, and the gleaming gauntlet of Damric Sarrell. Alas, I fear that Damric's involvement in the death of Quincell has only fueled Bucta's hatred for him.
I will not dissemble, for that it is here alone that I may be honest in all things, devoid of audience: I am frightened in regards to Bucta's wellbeing. In his eyes I see a man whom has lost most everything, but he would hide this from me. It pains me dreadfully to look on his face, concealed by a metaphorical mask, so akin to the one I wear when in company. Even in but a few days since the tragic incident, I can feel him slipping from me, trapped in that same state that I was in after Aornn's passing.
Bucta has changed me, I'll admit, though I have not become whom I was before. I do not believe I shall ever be that innocent 'child' of a woman again, for unlike the character within some heroic or romantic tale, I do not think that love has the power to restore wholly. Rather, it may mend only so much.
This knowledge is like an icy shaft entering my breast, and piercing my heart. Because, if Bucta becomes like to me, I do not think I may love him anymore. For me, he is a ray of warm light, casting away the frosted veil of Winter, thawing all that leaves me bitter and harsh. Should this ray be forever blocked...
It was these thoughts that mulled about in my head earlier this day, when I was imprisoned by the Constable Aegrandor. A most angry man, he shackled me when I came to the Prisons to post bail for Hector and 'Os', leaving Bucta to Gamlan's tending. It is true, I did send the Mercenaries to give the Watchers a piece of my mind, but that did little to dispel the indignation I knew as they felt about my body ere casting me into some filthy and dank cell. I was further angered when Bucta (And Damric, and Milada Shadow-Hand) visited me there. His grief was still far too fresh for him to be up and about as he was.
At long last the Captain Blackboar, a pox on that woman, decided to release me. She did not press the charges I was accused of, and so my incarceration was at an end. Bucta and I returned to my Estate, and we spoke for a time. He confided in me how painful Quincell's death was, and how he just wanted to pretend as if it had not happened.
With gentle words and soft coaxing, he wept once more. It hurt to see his broad shoulders shake and shudder, his gasping breaths and tears. Yet, I prefer that he allows himself to mourn as he should. After a time, he prepared himself an ale, and began to drink. Finally, night fell, and we retired to our bed, where we currently lay. Even now, my eye closes of its own accord, and I must throw down my pen, and settle my head to the pillows. I should think that you and I shall see one another again in the days to come, O 'Cookbook turned Journal'...
- D
