Miles. There is ink staining the page here, as if the quill or pen was pressed to the page for too long in thought. The next few sentences are circled lightly, underlined repeatedly.
This is my family. These are people who are my family. I’ve written these down to remember. This is real. I won’t forget. I’ll get better.
The following is written in run-on, meandering sentences. It’s clear he’s struggling in writing his thoughts, and judging by the various colours of ink or various widths of words on the page, this is something that has been added to repeatedly rather than turn to the next side of the parchment. It seems to describe a significant span of time, a week, perhaps. There is no apparent order or indication of markers to judge when any particular thought or event occurred. There’s no rhyme or reason to the entries.
Auro’s gloved hand on my cheek, his lips to my forehead. Quiet. No more pain. No more emptiness. No more loneliness. No more nothingness. The scent of his gloves. The stillness of the clinic. Weight of his body sitting next to mine. His patience in helping me eat. A bath. He brushed my hair for me. No one has done that since Merosiel and I were little. He told me he loved me. He wasn’t leaving. He and Pro didn’t hate me. They love me. Not like I want. They love me.
Miles, his face close to mine. Cigarette smoke stinging my nose. Good scent. Warm scent. Made me think of Grin. Shaking hands. Rolling cigarettes for him. This is not a recent memory I don’t think, but it makes me miss him and I think I cry as Miles talks. I tell him sorry sorry sorry I am sorry. He gives no forgiveness, he owns me. He owns me but it isn’t like the old man, and it isn’t what I want. Tears that Miles has to point out to me because I don’t feel them until I touch my face. Bowing, pain in my back, but pressing my forehead to cold stone ground anyway, kneeling and bowing and his anger and the smoke in the air are bitter tastes. I can’t taste anything. Bitter. I’m given a mission. Letter. Notes. His handwriting’s strange.
There is a copy of the letter penned carefully, but the penmanship is unsteady all the same.
Merosiel,
I've heard rumours of some manner of 'tea' that the ice trolls use to keep warm, seemingly hallucinogenic in nature. It appears to be distilled from parts of Talendra's Rose and other items of indeterminate nature to make a congealed jelly.
I need you to gather whatever information you can find. Inquire; interrogate; garner a sample: it doesn't matter. Just come back with results. Additionally, they seem to call it 'Ice Milk' in their language.
-MC.
Northrend. I’ll do my job. I’ll do it right. I’ll get better. Miles will be proud?
Procrastin finds me waiting at the clinic. Auro isn’t around, I want to wait. I want to see him. I want the quiet and calm he keeps giving me with shadows and hands on my face and whispered prayers in my ears. The clinic is safe. Stranger. Yelling. Procrastin fights, and I’m useless in my quiet. It’d take energy, effort. I’d have to leave all of the quiet behind. He yells at me, too, later, for not helping, then offers to go with me on Miles’ orders to Northrend. I’m grateful. I love him. Love Auro. They’re good to me. We go home. Home--Pro says, come home, Meros, and he talks with me while Auro sleeps. I tortured torture my boy girl it he says, and this is shameful, awful. I’ll get better. I’m a terrible parent.
I told Bantarion goodbye. I like him; he smells good, he’s kind. But I said goodbye. Northrend is a place people go to die, and Miles doesn’t like me, doesn’t forgive me. I think this is my culling, even though Mother Moon told me she would not kill me if I got better. Goodbye Bantarion. He says I will pray for you, Merosiel, and I can only shake my head. Auro prays, but it does little good. I don’t tell Bantarion this; I want someone to know where I went. Someone to remember me. Northrend is a place people go to die. A sin’dorei harassed us. He called himself Kay, but I didn’t find him very agreeable. I’ll probably never see him again. That thought doesn’t hurt as much as not seeing Bantarion, or Auro, or Pro.
Sparring with Lazaar. This is written, cramped, on one side of the margin. He kicks hard, and I lost, but it was fun. Sparring is a little like the quiet Auro gives. Ruepert says Miles is a good man and showed me a letter; Ruepert also went on a date. I don’t get any of it.
Jesmari in a box. Fuck me. Goddess bless, Jesmari in a box; Mother Moon what did you do. It’s myfaultmyfaultohElune my fault myfault
Meeting called, letter. Paperwork I don’t want to fill out. I just write my name, but it’s not mine, not really, and it’s kind of sad, kind of funny. Natharai forces me to agree to examination.
Auro and I talked. For hours. It was like when we met. I learned his favourite colours but now I can’t remember them and it seems so important. Must ask again. He likes frogs. All kinds of animals. Frog prince. Charmer. Exalted with frogs.
Ebonrook. I keep forgetting Natharai’s surname is Ebonrook. Ebonrook sounds like an elf name. Him and Aren both behave like elves sometimes. But Natharai would make a better elf. I should tell him this; would he like that I think this? He told me to read to
I don’t want to remember and at the same time it feels important. So much has happened, I know this, but I recall bits and pieces in a kaleidoscope of scents and sounds and images in my mind. None of them are really in any sense of order, which gives me a growing sense of panic fluttering in my chest. I don’t want to remember, but I do. I must.
I’ll ask Auro again if he’ll let me
I still have more bad days then good days. Existing hurts, breathing hurts. Being awake and conscious hurts. But being asleep hurts, too. I’m okay. I’m getting better.
I’ve got to get better.
I’ve got people around me. I’ve got help. These people around me are helping me. I need to remember this.
Names. I’ll write them all a hundred times, if it will help me remember that there are people who care, even if I can’t be fixed.
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