#tromlui

Ask us things! 

What exactly does one write in a journal?

In the weeks since Aisling has placed this tome in my hands, I’ve pondered that question. Each evening before bed, I take this tome from its resting place upon my shelf, sit at my desk, and place quill to parchment pondering this problem. Let the large ink stain at the top of the page, left from countless days placing the pen and watching the ink bleed as my thoughts drifted, serve as silent testimony to my dedication, as well as my lack of direction.

Aisling and I spent the day apart. She had pressing business with an associate of hers in Kugane, and as I know very little of the business they are about, I knew I would only be in the way. Instead, I spent the bulk of my morning and the early afternoon sitting on the beach. The smell of the sea rolling lazily towards me found me reminiscing about when I’d first met Aisling and her late husband.

My father and I had been sitting along a cliff outside of Horizon, and we’d been fishing together in the Vesper Bay. I was perhaps eighteen, at the time; not really a girl, any longer, but only barely a woman. Father sat mostly in silence, and I tried vainly to start a conversation. I admired him so, but the man was ever a stone.

As we cast our lines and drew our meagre catches, a striking couple walked through the gates, and my breath was stolen. It was the woman who first drew my eye; lithe, young, and beautiful; with close fitting leather and chain, a bow and quiver upon her back, and an effortless, confident stride, she looked like a character from a fairy story. My heart swelled and yearned for her immediately.

I set my pole aside and stood to watch as they passed, barely taking note of the man until after they’d passed by me. They were only a few strides past when he paused, and turned to face me. His dark face regarded me sternly, and his eyes seemed to bore into me. He was shorter than his companion, with sharp features, and long, pure white hair. Where her skin was black as onyx, his was sun-golden, and he moved like a predator.

As he strode towards me, his companion turned and watched curiously. I was taller than he by no small margin, but his presence made me feel as though I were the small one. He placed a hand upon my shoulder, never breaking contact with his eyes. I remember them still; his left was pure white, heavily scarred, and quite obviously blind, but his right was bright red, and seemed almost to glow. We stood that way for a moment, unspeaking, and behind me, I heard my father stand to regard them. Before father could speak, though, the elezen man said only these words:

“One day, you will dispel my darkness, and bring us both into the light. You will shine more brightly than any I have met.”

Then he returned to his companion, and they walked away. Father grunted and asked me what that was about, and I couldn’t respond. I could do nothing but watch the pair as they disappeared behind the next bend, with his words repeating in my head. That was the day I decided it was time to leave Horizon.

Aisling gave me this beautiful leather journal yesterday. About half the pages are already filled; it belonged to her husband, Aonghas, before he was killed. He left it to her, and it’s filled with his memories and feelings. It was an emotional moment for both of us, when she handed it to me, and she asked me to add my own memories and feelings to finish the journal out. He’d have wanted that, she said; he’s a part of me, now, and it’s as much mine as hers.

It felt a little weird, and it was hard to accept such a deeply emotional and intimately personal gift. The memoirs of a lost husband seemed, at the time, to be far too private and important to be shared or given away, but she was insistent, and the look in her eyes was complex and passionate. Compelling. The tears in her eyes caught the light in a way that captured my gaze, and I found myself acquiescing before I really knew what words were escaping my lips.

At her behest, I read through the journal before putting pen to parchment, and I was taken aback. I’d met Aonghas a few times in my youth, and I remembered him as a stony and steadfast man. He’d been quiet and severe, utterly pragmatic, and though I’d admired his skill and, I admit, idolized him quite a bit, he’d seemed to me to be rather one-dimensional. It was as if his entire being existed solely to participate in combat, and outside of the violence, he was a mere weapon waiting to once again be brought to bear.

But his writing... It’s breathtaking. Not because the man is a competent wordsmith, exactly; if anything, it’s the opposite. His earliest entries are at times roughly hewn and lacking in any real direction. Observations and complaints, random musings and a series of tactical diagrams, mostly. But over time, as he chronicles meeting the Scions and interacting with other adventurers, a change seems to come over him. He begins to identify himself differently, to experience new emotions and see the world through a new light.

If nothing else, his writing has such clarity. It’s as if his words come alive, and I can see the days through his eyes, and feel the strength of his emotion as if it were my own. I felt his loss as not one, but several of his most treasured comrades were felled, and I felt the confusion and the joy at finding not just a friend, but a companion, a lover, and a wife in Aisling. I felt the wonder and the joy as he witness the sheer beauty in the rising of the sun for the first time; as he learned to appreciate the leap of a rabbit; as he felt companionship with his chocobo for the first time.

I made a promise to Aisling, and I intend to keep it. I will record my memories here, to tell any who would read it my share of this story, and fill what remains of this beautiful leather tome with the second half of this man’s story; with my half of the story. I can only hope that I can do it justice.