Artemis returned home, shutting the door behind him with a solid click. Glancing around, he sighed. No, this wasn’t a home, it was just another shack of a building in which he would reside until he tired of it. He had no home- the very notion of a home had been erased along with any compassion he’d once had for humanity. He grumbled, locking the many different latches on his door, some of which could only be operated from the inside. That done, he balanced an empty glass bottle on the handle, a small, dry smirk twitching across his lips. Should someone turn the handle, he would know very quickly. He might have become a bit paranoid over the years. But that didn’t mean the world wasn’t out to get him.

Turning from the door, he crossed into the kitchen, unceremoniously preparing his tea, his mind reeling over the events of the day, and then drifting over the past week or so, the events that had taken place since he’d met that infuriating golly. His fingers drummed the countertop absently as he waited for the tea to finish brewing, poured himself a cup, and made his way to the small bedroom to the right of his front door. From there, through the wooden slats, he could easily take note of any who might come knocking on his door. A practical thing, but something that had thankfully not come in use since he’d gotten here.

He didn’t bother peering through the old, dusty windows as he crossed directly over to the desk that sat beside his bed and had a seat, glancing down at the crudely fashioned pocket watch that lay open beside the candle on his desk. It read twenty o’clock. “Mmmh,” Artemis hummed absentmindedly, rummaging through the knapsack of the few belongings that were actually his- had been his for years- and pulled out a bottle of ink, a quill, and a leather-bound journal that was probably far too fancy for one of his status. He flipped it open, noting his last entry. He hadn’t written anything since he’d come to Vienda.

Reclining his head marginally to one side, he mulled things over in his mind, unsure of where to begin as he dipped the quill he’d obtained from his own hawk into the bottle of black ink. Another ‘hum’ huffed though his nose as he skimmed the last entry of his journal. Nodding to himself, he began to write.





His fingertips drummed on the table rhythmically. He stood, stretched, glanced at the messy penmanship which marred the once-beautiful parchment. Ink stains, scratches, and overall messy writing spanned the sepia surface. His tongue clicked, dissatisfied. He regained his seat, took a sip of the still-steaming tea, winced as it burned his lips and tongue and throat to settle in his stomach. He grunted, as if the pain didn’t matter- hell, it was almost pleasant in its own little way. He gazed into the rising steam, almost playful in the way it swirled in graceful little arcs. The pocket watch ticked away, counting the passing time, the ticking the only sound outside of his own breathing. He retrieved the quill, refilling the ink, and again set to writing.



He winced internally, pushing the thought from his mind.



Until today, not even an hour ago. Still, he was uncertain if she had been being herself, entirely. She had been quite sick, after all, and might have been softened around the edges if only by her exhaustion. Still…



He blinked, set the quill in its holder, and glanced at what he had written. None of it looked right. It had all felt right when he had penned it, when he was thinking it, but now that it was on paper, it felt very wrong. He wanted to rip out the page, but to do so would be an insult to the woman who had given him the journal in the first place. Indecision was a bitch. He sighed agitatedly, standing, and grabbing up his sword from the table. He’d not practiced in days- he needed to do something active. He needed to move. He needed to simply not think for a while, and just let his body move of its own accord, and work out the stress that had been building up.