S.A 500 Harvest time
Mine short-term memory hath fled me. The year we reside in and events that occurred a few days prior doth elude me. This diary hath become mine extended memory, for all that hath transpired since the assault is but a blur. The traumatic experiences that I have endured remain ingrained in mine mind. Why must I suffer so? Every night I am plagued by visions of the incident, a torment that doth never cease.
I didst confess all that I could recall to Naerchanar, who hath aided me through this trying time. He knew that I was not to blame for the loss of my memories, and hath assisted me in documenting everything that I doth remember. Alas, the memories that doth escape me are those that occurred after the burning woods.
One year following the assault, I gave birth to a son, Falchon, the offspring of Falquando. Though I have grown to love him, it took much time to do so, for I could not relate to him at first. His birth was not meant to be, and thus our relationship was fraught with difficulty.
S.A 600 Harvest time
Verily, strange events hath transpired, and I am left feeling quite unlike myself. A loathsome hatred doth simmer within, a sentiment that I cannot comprehend. Naerchanar, and the healers under his employ, hath taken it upon themselves to heal me. With each passing day, they test various methods to aid in my recovery. Naerchanar, the embodiment of devotion, doth assure me of his love and voweth to never abandon me. Despite my doubts and fears, I shall not hinder his efforts to aid me.
Yet, as time doth progress, I cannot shake the feeling that I am fading away. My very essence doth seem to slip through my fingers like grains of sand. Naerchanar and his healers doth strive tirelessly to halt my descent into obscurity, yet the truth remains that my affliction may be beyond even their abilities to heal.
S.A 750 Harvest time
Verily, many years hath passed since Falchon's birth, and I am left to ponder whether I would even recognize him now as a grown man. I remain lodged within the walls of the ancient guesthouse, Golden Hope, and have taken on the aid of Naerchanar's dear friend Thimben, who doth graciously assist me in my daily tasks. Over the course of these years, Thimben hath taken charge of Falchon's upbringing, and it seems that the lad hath grown fond of her. They have kept him distanced from me, and Naerchanar doth claim it to be for the greater good.
Once again, Naerchanar hath proposed to me, and my heart is filled with an abounding love for him. He firmly believeth that I am now fully recovered, and I shall not disappoint him by revealing my lingering doubts and fears. He hath sacrificed much for my sake, and I shall not falter again. Yet, even as I feign wellness, I cannot escape the haunting memories and visions that plague me. Dark and painful, they implore me to seek freedom for Falchon, but from what? Is it from myself, from Thimben, or from the very shackles that bind him? The answer remains a mystery, and the weight of uncertainty doth bear heavy upon my soul.
S.A 900 Harvest time
Verily, I chanced upon Thimben, and to my dismay, she was fraught with struggles that plagued her. She spoke of voices and dreams that tormented her, and despite my efforts to comfort her, she succumbed to the weight of her sorrows and hung herself from the roof of the very 'Golden Hope' where I had taken refuge.
Alas, I did not instigate her actions, for it was never my intention to inflict such miseries upon her. Yet, Falchon has accused me of planting these ideas within her fragile mind, laying the blame squarely on my vision and my artful tongue.
Oh, how my heart aches with grief! The loss of a life is a heavy burden to bear, but to be falsely accused of being the cause of such a tragedy is a wound that shall not easily heal. And worst of all, the words of Falchon have cast a shadow of doubt upon my own sanity, leaving me to wonder if my visions are truly a curse rather than a gift.
S.A 900 Wintertime
Verily, I am utterly exhausted, feeling a growing shadow deep within mine own being. Falquando, the very source of mine own trauma, hath once again invaded mine dreams. What doth he desire from me? The mere thought of his presence fills me with terror, and I doth fear that I am slipping once again into madness.
I must needs beseech Naerchanar for aid once more, though my heart is heavy with dread at the very thought. Shall he be willing to grant me succor yet again, or hath he grown weary of mine endless woes and afflictions? Oh, how I do long for peace and a release from this ceaseless torment that doth plague my soul. As it standeth now, I no longer desire to draw breath upon this weary earth.
Then Orneth noticed that several pages had been ripped out. Who could have torn them out?
Orneth gently set the diary down, her eyes lingering on the final page. Manyamë's descent into madness was painfully clear, growing worse with each passing year. Naerchanar had tried to drive out what he called "the shadows," believing it was the only way to save her. But had he locked her away for the same reason—afraid she might take her own life?
Tears streamed down Orneth's face as she felt the anguish of a shattered soul, torn between light and darkness. Even Manyamë's handwriting, once elegant and full of life, had devolved into a chaotic scrawl. She was nothing more than a lost soul.
In that moment, Orneth realized why Simawen had kept the diary hidden. Its pages held words that could utterly break Lady Lanyarë’s heart.
Picture AI-generated from Microsoft Bing DALL·E
