Poor reader. You who have persevered thus far. Why do I talk to you? I was right in saying Delinor has a stronger heart than I. I tire of the webs of deception and the masks. Albeit for different reasons. But what should she do to me if she learnt that I had cut off Theroneth's head? He was in my employ for a goodly long while. That I hunted her old associates. That I killed the man in cold blood for naught but the crime of playing an influence in the degeneration of my father's path. Being one of the primary instigators I believe. Wouldn't it have happened anyway? His fall from grace. Onto that murderous path. I have not killed Delinor though she was on my list, she is ignorant of my doings. I like her. She has become a replacement to my aunt almost. Cold, distant. Yet always willing to listen and you can see underneath it all she cares.
These secrets. They weigh like a great heavy chain around my neck. Even Taala would never speak to me again if she knew that I had secretly unbeknown to all allowed Aemalia to go along with Deven Finchwater and Stanley Blackthorn. That terrifying figure all urchins in the Alley feared. That in looking after Aemalia afterwards was my penance. I did not suspect they would harm a girl so valuable to them other than the finger they had already cut as warning. They intended to ransom her to her abusive husband. I planned to step in when that moment came I watched closely. But then she slipped from my vision. I grew distracted with other matters. I intended to covertly pull her out not allow her to be sold into prostitution. I could have stopped the rape and abuse of a young girl's body if I had only acted sooner. My rescue of her from that brothel along with my feigned act of ignorance I pulled off with aplomb. I am a natural born liar. But I blamed myself for what happened. I could have. Should have stopped it. But Deven Finchwater had been in my employ for some time though he did not know it. Bringing my alias criminals off the street. What. You find it so unbelievable I could step into a guise. Wear a mask. Change my accent and hire killers? Eacanwyn's gold served a better purpose. You either haven't been paying attention. Or I have been quite coy with my words. You will be pleased to know I ended him as well. Blackthorn too. He raped Rannie once. Big mistake. Never again would I employ such an unpredictable monster. I can no longer spin it as a necessary evil can I? Sometimes evil must be wrought for greater good this is true. But never so callously. I have learnt my lesson. It is a good job my oath to protect Hardoleth's daughters was not in retrospect to this. I was not even aware of Aemalia's parentage at the time. It's a small world.
These pages are as long predicted a disjointed mess. Just as my own mind is with its many layers. I have half toyed with confessional. Teased. Shared some things. Held far more back. There may even be narrative contradictions here and there. But I will leave it here. I may decide to drink those three bottles of rum Cirywen suggested after all. Perhaps I will drink them quickly. Poison my blood and never wake from my slumber. It might be easier than even telling her a single morsel of what I have done.
It would be long winded and complex to explain but briefly I felt euphoria. You might have seen love poems after all if this day had gone differently. No, this is the only way she will ever trust me. How could she pick apart my walls even this far? She may never know it all. That it should come to this. My heart pulses strongly but it would be better if it didn't beat at all. This book has to go. I mean it this time. I couldn't do it, I can't follow Delinor's advice. How can I possibly win Cirywen's trust I ask? The game I described last, the fun did not go as planned. She found out I have a son, I did not tell her. I had not told anybody. For reasons made obvious before, but now the joy is gone.
Writing has given me solace since the birth of my son. The voices in my mind growing too strong to possibly bear. No, this has to be the end. I will trust my death with the fates.
In my left hand a dagger, in my right a lavender. Just like the smell of her hair. These are the objects I will lock within my room at the house tonight. I will leave this journal here at the manor. So poetic in what seems could almost be my final few hours. I will put my pen down now before self-mockery ensues.
A choice a man must make. I intend to get drunk. So drunk I will be incapable of conscious thought. My subconscious will decide. And come the morn I will be either dead. No longer having to suffer the intense loneliness my heavy heart will bring, Or I will play. One last throw of the die. And show her no mask. Allow myself to be me, to trust again. Come what may.
A stark choice between two objects, let us see.
