I am clearly not myself.
I have always prided myself on behaving with the utmost decorum befitting my station. Pragmatic to a fault, polite and congenial as a matter of course, stern when necessary. Courteous as warranted. Ruthlessly efficient always.
But this gratuitous display of affection. This inept outpouring of emotion. My judgement is questionable, my decisions tantamount to primitive instinct, sheer foolishness.
The way I responded to seeing Farrin, like some flaccid whelp. Her untimely death was unfortunate, but hardly anything I am responsible for; she knew full well what she was getting herself into. I’ll be damned if I’ll be plagued by feelings of guilt or remorse. Such nuisances are for the weak-minded.
Even worse, allowing that oaf Hildr to cut me to the quick. Over my sister. My goddamn sister. Would that she were alive or dead, naught in limbo, that she would no longer prove my Achilles heel.
Adding insult to injury, pounding on my bedroom door in a state of fright in the middle of the night. And I allowed her to sleep in my bed whilst I stood watch. Like some pathetic au pair.
I clearly cannot trust myself.
I must get back to the waking world. These past several months in the Dreamlands have addled my brain. It’s entirely possible I have a brain fever, and might have to subject myself to a bloodletting session to alleviate the condition.
I can find no other cause for my current affliction. My sanity has been tested several times since taking up this infernal quest, and it is entirely possible I have had it tested too severely. These insipid displays of compassion, concern, caring – reprehensible.
I clearly must get ahold of myself.
Perhaps I do require a holiday. An extended holiday. One I shan’t ever return from.