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I have spent the last day incapacitated, too bruised and battered to lift a hand, much less a quill, to pen down recent events.

Tomorrow will be even worse, yet I both welcome and dread it.

Somehow--I am uncertain on detail, as everything is so hazy from whatever it is that Grin had me take--I made it to the Bay without dying from either bloodloss or my injuries. I suppose despite their amount and their severity, none of my injuries were as fatal as that bastard may have liked or hoped.

I do know that before I made it to the Bay, some human woman resuscitated me on the banks of the Stormwind docks, but her repeated insistance I see a healer was too much for me and as a result I fear I was unaccountably rude to her.
Such was my dual terror, though: both of someone stripping me down to tend to the multitude of grievous injuries I suffered (only then to see the truth I wrap up under lies and armor), and that should I linger anywhere near a healer's place, much less the Cathedral itself, Astarin might chance upon me.

His good nature is too much, my luck too poor, and Mother Moon's sense of humor too rotten, not to have any or all of these things occur should I have dared go.

My thoughts are so disorganized, even compared to their usual chaos.

I recall at least the reason why I was successfully ambushed in the first place. I went to the docks to think, to breathe, to try and meditate. At the very least, to hope the cold air would still my nausea.

Instead, what I get is an unannounced nap from exhaustion and said nausea forcing me to pass out for a time, and the discovery upon startling awake that the rat rifled through my journal, stole pages from it--I swear by Mother Moon's beauty he did!--and then mocked me for it! Threw in my face what he'd glimpsed.

Thinking it was enough to simply sit down out of sight and rest against the stone of the pier, I then loosened the thick cords lacing the leather corset I have taken to wearing over my tunic. It is so hard to breathe wearing it and hampens some of my movements, but this way everything is hidden, at least for a little longer.

He must have been so close, even then, and I never noticed. There is no one to blame but myself for my lack of vigilance. I may as well have invited him to strip me himself.

We fought after that, I remember that part clearly. He with his swords and I with my fists, unarmed save teeth and nails and any decent kick I could feint in what precious few openings he left for me.

At some point I ended up on top of him. Tackled him, I think. My knuckles feel raw, are bandaged, too. I do not want to try and count how many times my fists connected with armor and flesh alike. It felt like it lasted hours. Mother Moon above and all Her stars, that miserable, common-blood rat of an elf, he Said I was a whore for straddling him when all I was doing was pinning him to the ground to keep escape an unlikely option.

Using my weight had been a sound tactic, I had thought; I had only wanted some time to breathe, to think, to find some way of ending it in my exhausted state, and he found the situation amusing enough even on the losing end to call me a whore! As if I were going to, any moment, shuck his armor off and mount him like some animal in heat! Arrogant! Vain! I remember my hands at his throat, digging in, and unable to finish it. My arms trembled with sheer exhaustion, my lungs could not find enough air with my armor squeezing my torso so tightly and the blows to my side he had given me when I turned to protect my front, to protect my chi

Why is it that his slurs hit me nearly as hard as his knowing everything, hit me as hard as knowing how careless I was to let my guard down when days went by without neither hint nor scent of him trailing behind?

And

He has

He knows.

Oh. Oh Mother Moon. All he could keep spitting at me was how I was no man. That Elune did not love either of us.

That I am a fraud.

That I am alone.

That my friends were nowhere nearby, that they would never come to my defense because he was going to tell and I would be left with nothing, no family, no dignity, no masculinity.

I wanted to shred his throat with my teeth, yet it was all I could do to keep the burning in my eyes and the choking in my own throat from becoming full-fledged tears. I choked on my own loathing and fear and then he bucked me off in the advantage he had caused.

Elune above. I could do little but believe his words, his declarations, because how dearly they rang of the truths I fear every moment whether I am awake or I sleep.

He knew. He was going to tell everyone. I could not, would not let it happen!

I remember drawing in shadow and forcing myself through to step behind him on the other side, and then, pain. Stars that exploded behind my eyes as his sword hilt connected with my skull. Blackness. And, somewhere deep inside, relief. As I slipped into unconsciousness, some part of me felt relief in knowing I could very well die in these last few moments.

That woman found me, dashed those hopes--how she roused me back from near-death I do not know.

I am afraid to say anything to Grin, to Auro, to Procrastin. It is my own shame in knowing I let myself into yet another bad situation through no one's fault but my own that stills my tongue from asking for advice. That stills my tongue in explaining to Grin when I showed unannounced on his doorstep and collapsed.

Waking in his bed with his scent on me--did he carry me or drag me, I wonder?--with bindings gone but wounds tended to as best one of us shadow-stalkers can, was less blessing and more discomfort than I may have wanted, but his willingness to keep me instead of dump me out the door is a small comfort.

Keep me? There will be no room here in this home for me after tomorrow, Grinne will be busy picking up pieces--I can easily see the path this will take--and the Scarlet despises me anyway.

I will miss this cozy home and the warm bed and the blonde thug that goes with it.

Whatever has allowed Merosiel to write with a steady hand and mostly-clear thoughts seems to have faded, the writing is looser, awkward, as if his hands shake terribly.

I am so cold.

I have to sleep.

I cannot.

I have to sleep.

I have to sleep.

Have to.

I cannot.

I hope he lets me stay a little longer I cannot bear the thoughts in my mind.

I am so cold.

Thoughts. Of the long trek back to Ironforge. Of possibly running into that common-blood cur again in my current state. Of sleeping alone again.

Tomorrow will be terrible.

Campion. You stupid Scarlet.

I am sorry ahead of time. You will never know it, but I am sorry.

Your faith must die. We are coming for you.