Aug. 12th, 2012

blue_ajah: (studying at her desk)
The journal lies open on the desk that stands in front of her window, one of several that contain her notes and the stories she has been slowly collecting over the past weeks and months. Her pen rests in the crease between the facing pages, ink still wet on its tip.


Vandene--

It is unlikely that you shall ever read this, as if what I have heard is true you now shelter in Light with Adeleas in the palm of the Creator's hand. Still, I more than most have reason to know that death is sometimes almost as fragile a thing as life itself, and so I write all the same, since in any case I do not think there is any harm in putting these words to paper. Perhaps, Light willing, there may even be some good to come of it.

It seems so very long ago that I came to your cottage in Tifan's Well searching for answers among the books and scrolls that you had gathered there. Now you are gone, and it is I who dwells in a little house, slowly crafting a small library of my own in the hope that somehow in so doing I will once again find the answers I seek.

(It is not the only collection of such things in this town, as it happens, but those secrets belong to others and I will not write of them here.)

I have often described myself as a student of history and a collector of stories, and there has always been enough of truth in that to serve, now more than ever. But I am not used to this, Vandene; almost all my past seeking for the Dragon Reborn and on his behalf was done while traveling the length and breadth of the lands and even beyond them, not while peacefully settled in a town such as this - that is, if there is another place quite like this, of which I am not in the least certain.

Nor do I know for certain if I am meant to find this answer, or in truth if there is anything to be found. There is no Gitara here, no Foretelling spoken, nothing but an occasional fleeting unease and the rare touch of disquiet that sometimes comes when the night breeze rustles through the branches of the Douglas firs and I find myself trying to understand its whispers, as if I were once again a girl listening to the wind.

Perhaps it is nothing more than the restlessness that can be expected from being at peace after so long, with the great work done. Although some would call it exile, I am not unhappy here, Vandene, far from it; I have found much here to cherish. It was you who once told me that to be Blue was to lose one's self in saving the world. You were more right than you knew, but I do not wish to risk such loss again now, not unless it cannot be avoided.

Still, there may be no cause to worry; my foreboding may merely be due to the ghosts of distant memory.

Light send it may be so.

--Moiraine

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Moiraine

July 2013

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