[kenty191]

*The following crudely written entry is surrounded by various drawings of ships, some loose clothing designs on old scraps of paper and appears quite separate from the earlier entries in this increasingly tattered book*

Every day there is seemingly a new wrinkle on his face. Each morning he looks as though a year has visited in the night. Pyyran now looks as old as humans tend to do when they...well, get old I suppose. But more than that, his vigor, the light that once shone from him so bright and brought with it tales of adventure, now seems so subdued.

I thought I wanted to help with the running of the tavern. And I did, for a time. Now I almost feel as if this place is a prison filled with tasks and expectations. More than that, Pyyran doesn’t look at me the way he once did, or at least it seems that way.

He is old. The flame is almost spent. Once I might have found these words hard to write but to watch how humans fade as the years roll on into almost shadows, pale and weary-

*The writing stops abruptly but continues on below*

I’m not sure what I think, what I feel anymore. I love him yes. But if that love is to be replaced with loss and longing when he dies, and he will die, I have now stopped denying to myself that his time will one day come, then what? His face is more than enough of a reminder of that.

And although I should feel as though I want to look after him, to tend for the man I am supposed to love as he fades before my eyes, how can I face doing such a thing?

Ilsare blessed me with love and I am thankful for that. But what of loss, of pain? What will she do then? I thought I felt loss like that when the storm took Erion but this? This is far worse and I can feel it, almost smoldering just over the horizon like the dawning sun.

Would life be easier without feeling? Without love?

These questions are blasphemous coming from an Ilsarian I bet, but right now, I don’t care.