A Soft Voice Amidst Cacophony

It is too powerful of a memory to record here, where any might some day read it. Too personal. And additionally, there are no words that I could use that would fully describe it, that would appropriately record my experience.

Nevertheless, I shall make some small attempt.

The two things that are most vivid in my memory are the two that I did not see, but rather knew. Sensed. Aside from the sharp pain of the knife as it cut deep into me, into my soul it seemed, and the feel of my life's blood ebbing out agonizingly slowly, I remember two things.

First, Tzoli's anguish. I saw it in her eyes, that she knew, when I said my 'goodbye' to her, ere the ceremony even started. She knew, and I think she understood. But it hurt me, it shook me, it made me almost doubt the wisdom of my sacrifice before I decided it was necessary to make - I was lucky, I imagine, that I had the strength of faith to persevere. It broke her a little, I think. She was the first I found when I was returned and... It broke her. And it broke me as well, inside, to know that I had caused her such pain.

Second, Venice. Not her words, which I could not hear, nor her actions, which I could not see. Masked in her magic and silent, it was as if she was not even there, though I could feel her at my back, watching and waiting and judging. I know her too well not to sense when she is near. It reassured me, at first, but then when I returned and recalled the memory of it, it turned to poison in my heart. When I spoke to her again, despite her obvious gladness at my resurrection, that bitter seed sprouted. Did she weep for me? She said, once, that she needed me. As an instrument, yes. As someone to assist her in her faith and in Melchior's work, yes. As a friend? A confidant? A lover? No, I don't believe so. A part of her is yet cold to me, yet distant. And I think that it shall never change.

I feel stirred now, by a terrible sense of purpose. It colours all that I see; the world itself seems different. Deprived of the comfort of oblivion, I can only recall my death (my -death-; to be able to say that one recalls such a thing, by itself, is misfortune and blessing combined) again and again, each detail painfully clear. In my mind, eternally, I stand upon Annwn's pale shore and gaze upon the Mistress, the Hounds, the Boatman. The mirrored waters and the leaden sky.

I was judged worthy, and by the gods' mercy returned from Annwn. But I fear now that in returning, I have brought Annwn to dwell within my -heart-.