It has happened again. A strange mood took my friend, the hooded man, and he went from grim and melancholy to short-tempered and angry, and then back again. I cannot keep up with these fluctuations of temper. One moment quiet and gentle, and the next pained and distant.
He has told me that he is not worthy of my affection. And in the next breath, he begs me not to leave his company. This is not the first time he and I have had this conversation.
I have become weary again. Not only in body, but in heart. I carry enough grief of my own. I thought I might be able to carry a portion of his. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps it was arrogant of me to think I could. Perhaps I was a fool to think I could care for another soul, when I am so obviously cursed myself.
The only solace I have is that I still have a goal to achieve. Pitiful and futile though it may be, it drives me onward from day to day. I have not thought what I might do if I actually achieve it. What would my life become afterwards? I cannot see that far ahead. I have little hope that I will ever face that decision.
I have hidden myself away in the fields again tonight. I would be glad for Cormac's company, but he has not shown himself for several days. The nights are growing colder. I cannot winter in the wilderness. I must find a town or a settlement, and stay there. But I still have a few months before the snows will fall.
I will continue to wander and seek for answers. I am, after all, nothing and no one. The shadow that is seen and quickly forgotten.
