Found:
Rowan asked me about Elias Dimheim. It was not a matter of personal details or the like, but how the man had acted toward me during my convalesce and subsequent meetings. He was concerned for my safety, it seems, having heard tales of healers who use their station as an excuse to "try something odd." I can't quite work out if there is some undeserved jealousy at play here or just a whole lot of overprotectiveness. I also can't decide whether it's sweet or ridiculous.
Both, maybe?
Regardless, I assured him that Elias has always been a perfect, if largely absent, gentleman and leans more toward the obsessive side of "odd" than the "Mwahaha! I'll wear your skin as a dress" kind. I also pointed out that the "words" Rowan proposed to have with him, if anything untoward occurs, should not involve fists lest he break the man!
Elias really needs to eat more.
Alas, the subject of untoward behaviour was too good a segue to pass up and, despite my reservations, I forced myself to tell the tale that I have never before told. It was not easy. It was not pleasant - I never thought it would be, but still! - Trying to speak of me in relation to it all was just...
I ended up speaking as I had lived it; through the eyes of another.
She. Her. Us. We.
It's all the same now, I know, but it wasn't then. It couldn't be.
Give the man his due! He reacted far better than I had thought. Feared. Anticipated. He listened, and though he grew angry at certain points, it was never directed my way and he never once thought to dismiss what had happened.
I love him for that.
To my utter shock, he spoke of murdering my brother, had the man still been alive. 'Tis unlike him to speak of such things lightly, or even at all, and yet this is the second time since we were reunited that he has given voice to such a thought.
Should I worry?
It may take him some time to adjust, or at least process, all that he has learned. I expect that. It's a lot to take in. I've had that time - twenty-five years of it - I imagine it will take him more than a few hours. But, if nothing else, he understands how it all came about and why.
No more secrets.
I feel a little lighter now. Less burdened. I fear, however, that I have merely shifted that weight onto him. I sincerely hope not. He carries enough of his own, he doesn't need mine and I certainly would never ask him to haul it for me! I wish to make it easier for him, not more difficult. I wish to help him lead a happy life, not a darker one. I wish to see him free of concern, not further stressed by it.
Ah, but secrets grow in weight as the years go by. They smother and darken. They pollute.
The skies may be clear now, but the shadows remain upon the ground. For the time being, anyway.
Watch. Wait. Give it time. Give him time.
Speaking of which, Yule fast approaches. This will be the first time that I have ever actually indulged in such a thing. I'm aware that one is expected to offer gifts to those we care for, but I'm a little bit lost as to what those gifts are supposed to entail. I offered a saddle or a horse, both of which he has expressed interest in, but he refused both. A scarf is more in keeping with things, he says.
A scarf.
A mundane, generic, woolly line of cloth.
This idea bothers me, though I cannot put my finger on exactly why.
