#the brooding

My brother has been hunting the Vake.

Rather, the Vake has hunted him this whole time, hunted...haunted? His dreams are filled with a creature supposed to be mythical. I had my doubts, even after sharing a bottle of Black Wings with him. He stole them. He stole! But he will not stop, as was his signature wont as a fearsome hunter, it seemed!

He has returned from his impromptu hunting trip just yesterday. I went into a fit for worry, but someone had given him proper care and he is well on the road to recovery. He is bedridden on my insistence now, no matter how soft and sad his expression. Stop staring at me with that expression please Echo.

I sit at his side now as I write my musings. He claimed he likes it. He watches me with morose sunsets like those of romantics who claim it to be the last.

Told me about his fear, when I came to him clutching onto a Rosary with a crucifix that looked more like a sacrificial pike. Told me about the Nuns too.

Told me how the emotion was strange, as he never had reasons to fear. He had expected only grief of an absent Mandrake. I pretend to understand him and what he means by his words for I saw fear in him, before. He would know I do not, not exactly. He is bright, he would call himself dull.

I shall keep with him till he is more sound of mind. But his tales would not soothe my own nightmares. Perhaps I should watch the goldfishes I've gotten as gifts mindlessly. 

{The page has obviously been left for some time. There is a large gap between the paragraphs and suddenly, completely different handwriting  is added at the bottom. Like an afterthought. The calligraphy is gritty, shaky with pain.}

Worries. Too much for too many for far too long for a far far place. Very cute.

{And yet again, words that are the same as many. It is wet with ink.}