Much of my recent time has been spent in study.
Saelran loaned me a book of herbs, remedies and poultices. I am not yet a quarter of the way through since I plan to return it to him before I depart Bree-land and thus have worked hard to commit each word to memory. It is an interesting read and aids me greatly in acquiring more knowledge of the less flesh-related aspects of healing.
There have been breaks in my studying, of course. Conversations here and there.
Welten came to me to apologise for his behaviour at the feast. I waved it off for why should I care? I find it a good thing that he had only eyes for his female companion and she for him. I suspect that they will soon move past the heavily flirting and moon-eyed glances. Much to my amusement, he seemed quite blind to his own actions as well as hers. Perhaps he shall see more clearly in the days to come.
Blodwynn and I also shared a nice chat. Both she and I have been so busy with our own things of late that it has been difficult for us to find time to speak. I think she has finally accepted that I neither want or need a new man in my life. Of course, I refrained from telling her of my secret yearnings for that would only spark a well-deserved lecture that I had no wish to sit through yet again.
The most notable, I think, though was my conversation with Drevorin. I know not if he followed me from Bree-town on purpose or if he merely happened to be travelling the road too, but follow me he did. At first, it was to speak the same mocking insults, which I allowed to wash over me. However, when we reached the house, his demenour changed dramatically.
We reminisced, for a short time, about days gone by in which we were happy together. I cut that off - having little wish to relive those lost treasures - by getting to the purpose behind my bringing him there. I placed one of my blades in his hand, turned my back to him and stripped myself to the waist.
Of course, that gave him a lovely view of the lash marks Mordevin left upon me. I had to school myself to stillness, force myself to give no response as I felt his finger trace one of them. It was difficult, but I managed to do it I think. I explained to him then that I did not blame him for those scars, that I had recieved them gladly on his behalf. He called me foolish, of course, but it remains true.
When you love someone - really, truly love them - you do all that you can to see that they are not harmed. You try to take their pain away, or prevent such hurt from ever reaching them. You take the punishment meant for them happily for you know that they shall not feel it. Even now, I feel no regret for having done so.
When he asked me what was to happen next, I gave him the option. He could either make his mark upon my flesh and, in doing so, allow me to be free or else place the knife down and prolong my suffering. He hesitated for a long while before finally placing the knife down. He would not, he said, be the cause of another scar to my body.
I was a little disappointed at his choice, I must admit. I had hoped he would set me free at long last, allow my blood to wash away all that bad feeling and bitterness. Instead, he stood by his word of never again marking my skin as he had only once before and so long ago.
He stormed out after that, but I called him back. I had one last thing to say, one last thing to do. I took his face between my hands and bestowed a soft kiss upon his forehead as I told him the two most important things I have ever said to him: I love you, I forgive you.
From his reaction, I think that is quite possibly the most devastating thing I could have done. He looked dazed, confused, deeply wounded. He put his arms about me, placed a kiss upon my forehead and held me tightly. He told me that he did not deserve my forgiveness, that I was better off without him. He told me that he feared me, the love we shared, the happiness I promised. He told me that he was sorry.
As I watched him leave, I wished with every fibre of my being that he would turn around and come back to me. I could still feel the warmth of him, the strength of his arms around me, the thud of his heart against my cheek. I wished that I had run after him, grabbed him by the arm and tasted once more his sweet lips. I wished so much that the situation were different.
I turned away when I lost sight of him, though, and went back inside the house. I felt lighter somehow, as if the burden I carried had been lifted. At the same time, my heart felt heavy with regret for what could not be and the loss of what once was.
He loves me still, I think, but what use such a thought? I could be wrong, although I doubt it, and even if I am not, it changes nothing.
