cirywen

The screaming in my head, it won't stop. I needed to get out of there, I am going mad. What am I doing... I must stop myself for her sake, I must. I must. 

Why do I even write here, They're reading my thoughts. They're reading my very thoughts.

I whet my appetite for blood, Washed my hands ritually before I went to see my love. She cannot suffer the weight of all that I am. I see it in her eyes. Her little face contorted with fear, the fear of being hurt. Of losing me. I cannot suffer the weight of it. 

The red mist descended upon me today. I feel foolish. The temper bequeathed me by my father I have mostly always managed to keep in check was of no service rendering my strikes clumsy and impetuous. Wild even. But perhaps that is a good thing. If you had seen the crowd today that wouldn't have been a good moment to strike with precision.

Executing a man within the walls of the Pony is never a good move.

He couldn't remember the last time he had stumbled home like this. Soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Jacket caked in mud. Entire body reeking of a mix of whisky and body odour.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd fell into his hall and dragged his inebriated body onto the cold wooden floor. 
Couldn't remember the last time he'd grabbed onto the wall and pulled himself to his feet, legs weak and wobbling. 
'That's me home, Ame-' He stopped, and slowly shuffled around the corner, entering the bedroom. 

As I sit here in my chair drinking of mead with the windows of my home wide open in the midst of summer. I have come to a startling realization.

One of the main reasons that I have been engulfed with this identity crisis of mine. Conflicting narratives crashing against each other, is you. Infernal book, I had buried the murder of one of my best friend's deep within the confines of my mind. I had moved on. But ever since I wrote of it. The knowledge of it has burrowed out, the acknowledgement of it. And it is not keen on returning.

I decided to tell the Captain's daughter everything. I do not know why.

Perhaps I thought it would wash away my sins. I cannot bury these lies within my heart much longer.

Having to remember each lie. Which lie you told which person. Which truth you did and did not speak. It is a truly exhausting thing. It wears down on you year after year until you know longer even know yourself.

My dearest Cirywen.

The stars are bright tonight as they were when we slept under their warm and comforting glow. I only wish that you could be with me here, in part.

Today I will not share with you my innermost thoughts. This would be the second day in a row I have besmirched my parchment. I feel like I am drowning and I need to come up for air. In any case my frustration is so great I am ready to cast this one into the flames as well. But I will resist the urge. Until another day. These hands of mine fail me. Shaking as I would have committed some of what I had just written to parchment. It made me feel ill reading back upon them.

No, I need to run away for a while. I cannot write. I cannot even think straight.

It is early as I write these words, I have just carried my flower home. As I saw her sleeping the morning prior I crept out of the house with a heaviness in my heart. I still could not think. Yet as the day wore on I grew lighter of spirit, the walk clearing my head as I suspected it might. And the further I got from home. Through the woods. The more I wished I had remained in bed at her side. The intensity of feeling building up within me and I dared to smile at the thought of just being around her.

A pie sits burnt in the oven. My mind a blank. It is difficult to think around my flower. Could she be listening to every single word in my head? I contemplate this absurdity for a moment.

Oft ic sceolde ana                  Often (or always) I had alone
uhtna gehwylce                      to speak of my trouble
mine ceare cwiþan.                each morning before dawn.
Nis nu cwicra nan                  There is none now living
þe ic him modsefan                to whom I dare