Deven

I am beginning to question the usefulness of you oh journal of mine.

Night after night I open you up, put ink to pen. And I sit. My mind a muddle of conflicting thoughts as always it is. Never is it simple. How I long for clarity. Instead, I sit here conducting fully fledged debates inside my head as I have so often in this book. Contradictory as my conclusions can be from one minute to the next.

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?

I woke up today with a pounding head but I felt significantly more well rested as the morning wore on. Last night I had such a fright, Taala could have very easily read my book though I do not know as she would violate my privacy in such a way. Within these pages are sensitive matters. She very nearly could have read them all within the space of an evening. I suppose I am fortunate she was worse off for the mead. My innermost thoughts, bound in fetters. She could have been privy to them all. If not them all, Then a very great deal. I have been so vulnerable.