The aftermath

What a month its been, although you probably know that better than I do, my dear future self, who is no doubt reading this from atop his mountain of gold, treasures and adoring, voluptuous servant girls when this quest of ours pays off and I become the personal Herald of the King.
 
Or you're dead and your body has been devoured by Simians.
 
Either way, Takuma of the future, you've successfully survived your first battle. I don't much care for describing it as my *first*, of course, it implies I'll have the pleasure of witnessing more of them. I had hoped my role as a Herald would excuse from the more barbarous of the chivalric duties, but it seems for now my lot is alongside the other meat-shields on the frontline, Ram preserve me.
 
That said, my wound, if I dare call it that compared to what poor Caerbhall suffered (note to self, pack extra ginseng root and wode petals for the road, the wretch will doubtless need pain relief and alcohol can only do so much), is healing cleanly, and more importantly so is my reputation with Martin. Maybe it was just the pre-battle nerves, but he actually took my hand in fellowship, can you believe? Of course you can, you were there too, but I can't, not yet anyway. I keep catching myself cringing around him like an abused bull whenever our eyes meet, only to remember "oh yes, he's forgiven me" and he then comes along all smiles and infuriatingly good-hearted naivety as if I never attempted to sell him out to a group of brigands.
 
I'll have to tread carefully here. At this rate I might end up feeling a genuine sense of loyalty to that lion, and as dear old Caerbhall can attest, loyalty's a bitterly cruel virtue.
 
I suppose, now that the threat of imminent death by Simian has passed, I'll have to come to terms with the fact that I'm "home", although the word feels empty even as I write it. I find my mind straying to Lithian more often than it has for decades, but I'm pleased to find the hate it inspires is unmoved.