Rodan's Embrace

Pillage the Wreckage

Jonah

It was necessary for me to acquire new journals. Though my passion for documenting history has waned over time, because who am I to decide what history is? Who am I to dictate to future millennia exactly what's happened here when I cannot identify my own history from Stravos'? Months have passed, and I still feel as empty as I did the day I awoke without the soft skin of my wife's hand in mine.

No, I am no one to decide for others what "history" means, or what defines it, or what is it defined of—because I am not dependable; I am a man who played at being another man until I felt that I'd become him, that I had become entitled to all that he owned. History is not nearly as crisp and clean as we pretend it to be: history is malleable, bendable, and breakable. Because people keep secrets. Because humans lie, cheat, steal, and roll around in the den of greed and overabundance whilst never concerning themselves with those who must sleep in the mud. This will never change. Continuing the tradition I adopted at the Burke estate, I no longer document—no—I tell my history. The leather-bound volume in my hand is destined for historians, yet they shall never touch it. Tears threaten to splash the pages as I grip the tome because what I must write inside it... it must be the truth.

He was supposed to be dead, and Ella and I were to live a long, happy life together—I would have told her the truth and she would have been so angry with me—but I must believe that she would have forgiven me because she's the only person who truly knew me. The only person whom I allowed to know me.

Ella had grown into an entirely different woman than the one I married, but I loved her all the more for it. She was brazen and beautiful in her words and actions. Strong. Incredibly so. If I would have told her three years ago who I was, she would have giggled and simply accepted the truth.

What I wouldn't give to be back in our chambers with her, with her rage, anger—hatred, even—I don't care. I just want to be with her.

And I will.

There must be a way.

Every weekend I take a carriage out to the Burke estate, a venture for which I pay a hefty sum. I was dumped in this tent with more than enough money for me to carry out the rest of my days without having to labor again. I discovered the coin after an entire week of lying on the ground. I'd cut a hole in my tent through which I could see the stars. They were the only thing that brought me comfort in those earlier days of the betrayal because I could inhale the scent of Ella. I would open the trunk ever so slightly and only for a moment. Long enough to breathe her in and stare up at those stars. The sole other comfort arrived when I understood that she, too, slept beneath that exact celestial blanket.

There wasn't much to be done, parked outside the Burke Estate, other than to stare at the window of our old chamber and hope to catch a glimpse of her silhouette. But luck would not permit me such a lovely sight. All I saw was darkness.

The carriage rides grew expensive and while I had plenty of money, I wanted to save as much as possible for mine and Ella's future. I would continue to work, to document the war—collecting the meager sum I earned from that task—and I would save the money that they left here with. I would buy us a small cottage near a body of water where we could fish and sail together.

Such fantasies are the only thing that keep me from going fully mad. It's nearly impossible to plan. I cannot be certain Ella feels the same longing for me that I do for her. Perhaps she's happy with Stravos—he was always a kind man, and I cannot imagine him behaving any other way than kind to her for the trick he'd pulled.