Journal 1: 31 Till, 60,553 A.E.

25 Till, 3620 I.E. 31 Till, 60,553 A.E.

My Captain has advised me to attempt to journal my thoughts. To find some manner of comfort, day-to-day, in the reframing of the day's events in text. A method to process things, in theory. Not a habit to which I am wholly new, of course, though I do not think she knew that. Rather uninformed of the state of my affairs broadly, it seems, unless of course she merely offered a pretense of ignorance as a mask, to gauge the accuracy of my responses. But such flights of paranoia will serve us ill; perhaps if I indulge her in this one regard, then when next she is of a mood to pry, she will refrain again from asking questions that are not quite so easy to dodge. But I must apologize, little journal, as I had not thought to pick you up again. It was my hope to leave you to your rest, your job fulfilled, but we are weeks past in any event, and I suppose you still have half your pages left to fill. A sole, silent witness to my decline. And as it happens, I have farther yet to fall.

I am no fool. I know that there are things about me that are broken. Wounds that this little exercise could never begin to mend. I try to bottle, to keep these things to myself, the last thing I would want is to be a burden on those around me. But there are limits to what I can achieve. To what I can contain. But what else can I do? No purpose would be served by letting that loose. And I fear, if I allow my pain to run free, I will never be able to rein it back.

In this, Rile and Dythea are ... helpful. They are good to me, better than I deserve, and good for me as well I think. Rile smiled at me yesterday, when I completed the first challenge in that Mandrio game of hers. Told me she knew I could do it, called me her little pogchamp. And though I cannot imagine what that word means, the affection with which she said it is a solace. Bless them, and their presence, for being around them affords me something approximating a measure of peace. An opportunity to forget, if only in the moment, and that is all I think I can hope for. I do not wish to interrogate my feelings towards them beyond that. Let me have these moments to myself, little journal, I do not know what I would become without them.

But then … hells. If Fellatia wishes to know my inner thoughts and workings, then who am I to second guess? To dodge her questions, hemming and hawing about the premise that frames rather than attacking the subject that is asked? She wants to know who I am, what I am thinking, what I am feeling. Perhaps, the next she initiates a session as ship’s counselor, I should be forthright with her. Let her see where exactly it is that she has decided to stick her nose.

Speaking of sticking one’s nose around, we are welcoming a journalist aboard the ship, ostensibly to document our histories and endeavors. There are concerns here, I feel. I worry that all the hells will break loose, should he discover and promulgate Bej’s true nature. Likewise, if presented bluntly and without the proper context, my studies of necroplasma could seem terrifying to the layman. I have spoken to Nials about discretion, and though he could simply have been lying to me to get me to lower my guard, I fear that no good will come of that sort of endless second-guessing. I have done nothing wrong in my work. Either he will see that, or he will not.

The work itself ... stalls. I have made no progress on shielding since we landed at Daevas, Persephone has been too absent or too preoccupied to aid me in my experimentation and I struggle to accomplish much without at least a sounding board. She has not even shown up for lessons, since she has been reunited with Bej. All the world, I was prepared to give her, but I suppose it is telling how readily she moved on. That all I am could not be enough to satisfy her. I do not know why her visage vexes me so, still - I have ended relationships amicably that lasted longer than this, that meant more to me. But Persephone is … unique. I have never tolerated infidelity well, either time I was cheated upon, and for that I would fain never see her again in my life. But we are here, forced to work in close quarters, and of course if Persephone is there, Bej must be as well. It is one thing to see the woman I thought I could love, even after she terminated things, but it is another altogether to see her wrapped up in the embrace of the love she found to replace me. And all of this still in the mourning period, when I am still driven to tears and shaking when I let my thoughts dwell on Midyim, it’s … this is no way to live, and I should welcome its cessation.

So, with the shielding out of the question for the moment, I attempted today to begin work on my ship instead. To clean the mess of the ages, to prepare for repair and modification. Vessia and Slab did the best, but I think this was too early to try. I could not bear to be within those walls, not for long, not digging out the aftermath of my voyage. I cannot put those memories to rest. To put away her things, stow her luggage as so much refuse, my eyes grow wet just to write that down. Let me wrap myself in my grief, find warmth in the embers of what I was, and put myself to bed in the cold hearth of my memories. I cannot move on, I cannot escape the ceaseless tide of that sorrow. If remaining here drowns me, then so be it. What else am I to do?

And for all my bluster about Fellatia, I can hardly share these feelings with anyone here. They're all so readily distracted, all so distant. It is an unfathomable labor to bring my crew around to a point already, let alone to ask them to focus on my pain. I don't think anyone here would understand, and I fear to try. How do you grapple with an eternity of distance, the realization that the life you left behind is a lifetime of lifetimes still to come? That your past is not past, but future, and yet you can do nothing to change what is going to happen in the fullness of time? I don't know how to talk to anyone about that. I don’t know who could begin to understand. Hells, that reminds me, the date at the top here is wrong. Thank Zurvan at least for offering me certitude in that, though I think the mystery was more tolerable than the knowing. It allowed the fantasy of hope yet undashed.

Though I said it in jest, in provocation, I do worry that I am dragging my partners down with me. I know that I am getting worse, that each place we visit prompts further decline. I fear that the best thing to do would be to remove myself from the equation, allow Rile and Dythea to commit to one another, to find in each other a love that I no longer think I am capable of giving. In the long term, it may be for the best. But in the short term ... Rile offers me the warmth of comfort, a soul that cannot truly relate but cares too much not to try, and I thank her for that. Dythea offers me stimulation, of new frontiers to explore, a mystery to consume my days that I am not left alone with my thoughts, and I think her for that. In their company, I find something approaching happiness, and I do not want to give it up. This state of affairs cannot continue forever, but please, little journal, allow me to pretend that it might. If only for now. I think I need it.