(Various sketches for a suit of armor cover this page, each one bearing a bold charcoal outline and light shading within.  The margins are lined meticulously with instructions for mixing and working the metal for varying degrees of protection and malleability, and the items themselves seem to be of a vaguely exotic yet practical design.

Below the suits of armor, the author has sketched several swords in distinctly Farin styles, with curved blades and disc-hilts, some of which have knucklebows attached.  At the very bottom of the page, standing apart in a reckless, hasty script, is a single fragmented sentence.  A single line of thought.)

Dangers ahead.  Magic, deception.  What preparations?

I remember a dull pain between my ears, accompanied by an incessant ringing, like a high-pitched flute played by a bard with unending breath.  Below that sound, I hear the low, deep thunder of hooves beating against the Plains.  I do not know how many hours, or even days, I have been unconscious, but my right eye is completely swollen shut.  When I manage to open my left, the world seems to have been turned on its end and all its colors washed together:  grey sky, yellow grass,  diffused splashes of orange.  I glimpse a pair of approaching feet, but by the time they grow near, I have already lapsed halfway back into nothingness.

I remember something pressing against my lips, and the cool salvation of water trickling down my parched throat.

When I come-to again, I am surrounded by the black of late evening.  I attempt to lift myself up, only to realize that my wrists are bound behind my back.  My ankles, too, are lashed together.  The world spins around me, though I can scarcely see it, with one eye useless and the other hindered by the dark.  Too tired to rise again, I begin to crawl toward the silhouette of the horizon.  Perhaps my captors won’t see me, I think to myself foolishly, with all the good sense of a young man half-battered to death.

Suddenly, I hear a young woman’s voice speak up behind me.  She barks two short words in a commanding, foreign tongue, and a few moments later, I feel a sudden pain against my ear.  This time, I do not lapse but lurch back into nothingness.

Weeks later, once my eye had begun to heal, I would spot her in my periphery from time to time, picking orange poppies or riding bareback on her dapple grey.  She couldn’t be older than sixteen or seventeen, I remember thinking.  She had long flaxen hair that reached the small of her back and eyes that were clear and blue as day.  Skin smooth, young, and fair.  Is that curiosity in her expression, I would sometimes wonder?  Or merely mild distaste?  Is she studying me, perhaps?  The young man with the dark skin and dark hair, who is far too tall to have come from Vandago…

And, just maybe, I remember being curious about her, too.

(The following entry is hastily, if not recklessly, scratched across the page, the edges of the parchment discolored and slightly wrinkled, as if once smudged with sweat.)

Lord, help me.  I cannot sleep, for fear of returning to that horrible dream.

When I close my eyes, I am laying on that ragged cot where Father Matheer had drawn his final breath.  My legs will not move.  My right arm below the elbow itches beyond reason, and yet I feel nothing there.  I try to call out, but I can manage no more than a pathetic, wheezing breath.  Every slight movement sends pain coursing through my raw nerves, but somehow, I know I must get up and leave this place, that I cannot stay.  There are footfalls echoing in the chapel somewhere…

I discover that I have the use of my left arm.  Slowly, painfully, I draw it out from under the heavy woolen blankets that cover me.  The room is dark, and I fumble as I reach out, knocking over a wooden cup and sending it clattering across the stone floor.  The effort is too much for me, and I pause to catch my breath.  I hear an odd rattling sound, and, belatedly, I realize that it is coming from my own throat.  With dawning horror, I force an unsteady hand to my face.  My fingers meet something rough and wet, and in my panic, I barely feel the terrible, searing pain.

I try to scream for help, but my mouth produces a gurgle instead.  It sounds laughably like the noise of a child.  There is something warm streaking down the side of my face, across the cheek that has not been burned away.  What have I done?  Oh, Lord, this cannot be.  I think perhaps this might be my end, alone, like this.  I close my good eye and wait.

Soft footfalls, the rustle of skirts.  With effort, I reopen my eye, though I do not know how much time has passed.  I smell the delicate scent of flowers long before I see her face.  Who is this woman, who has come to watch me die?  It takes every ounce of my being to turn toward that achingly familiar scent.  Blonde curls fill my vision, and sad grey eyes come into focus, illuminated by the unpredictable flicker of a candle’s light.  You?  Why are you here?  I don’t want you to see me like this.  No, not here, not now. It is too much…

“You’ve disappointed me,” I hear her say softly.  There is disgust in her voice, unmistakable.  “You’ve disappointed us all.  We could have been happy here, but I can never love you now.  Not like this.”  My vision fills with salty tears that burn my wounded face.  I can no longer see, but I hear her rise and walk away.  Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls.

I am sorry.  So very sorry. Please… forgive me.