My Lonesome Dove,

I wish to sleep, perchance to dream. Sidhe do not truly sleep, however – they simply retreat from the acute consciousness of the now to a restorative meditation, like drifting through a twilight between the waking world and the recesses of deep slumber.

But we embrace the dreaming. Sidhe dream like other mortals can barely imagine, and stir in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests, and then I know that I have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder that was mine, before I was wise and unhappy.

In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in my long life, and wandered through ancient gardens and enchanted woods.

I know the memories I grasp to be real, for the Feywild from whence I was wrought so long ago is as much an actuality as the one I dwell in currently, perhaps more so. For I know with no surety whether this world is my fevered imagination or that one, or if they are both equally as real with neither having a greater value over the other.

I must venture forth from this reality to the Dreamlands to find Farrin. I cannot say if it is to be a rescue or a recovery. I even question my reasoning on this matter, for as to whether or not she is better there.

The horrors of our current state vex me greatly. Mercy tainted with the bile of the Gorgoroth, Nico slowly succumbing to the curse of Yig, Fingerbang losing both his humanity and his sanity.

I sought knowledge, and I found hidden secrets that should have been kept so. I strove to protect my sister, and I unwittingly corrupted her. I tried to help these fools, and I have brought death and ruin to all but a few.

By the Powers, what have I done. Forgive me.

Sincerely, Jonah “Cuchulainn” Sterling