[JamOfBoy]

A smooth navy blue notebook belonging to a diminutive once-mercenary. Pages are not numbered, dated, or titled.
The handwriting is neat in some parts and more lax in others. Upon the book's front is a phrase:

The Crying Wail of the End,
The Ringing Song of Rebirth

---

In my time existing, I never thought to keep a journal or diary or records that did not pertain to matters of business. Yet as I sit here, watching the hours go by, this new idle sensation that echoes hollow clunks throughout my soul (dramatic phrasing) has spurred me to the more mundane activities; here I am writing about my feelings.

I will not mention my name in these passages. Perhaps it is the whispers of delirium brought about by this fever, but I simply feel like I won't. This ought to be a reflection of myself, and so declaring myself to myself is redundant. Then again, I suppose declaring anything would be, so this line of thought will stop.

My Crow never leaves without making sure I'll be okay. It's a horrid feeling, being the source of concern, especially to those I care for. I share her concerns that the fever keeps returning even after she works her spells yet I play the part of reassurance. It is only a fever and it is only causing dehydration. The incident which occurred at the origin of my fever is surely relevant - I have yet to figure out exactly how. I knew the day would come when my home was something else, I knew yet I wasn't prepared - I have been entertaining the thought that the fever is a representation of this somehow.

I recall now my outburst of anger at Scaldor - is he perhaps the softest among our false-blood? Such a fate was merciful for someone he supposedly hated. Or perhaps there is more nuance to the notion? That he could not stand to look at the figure he had, to some extent, respected all this time and enact such malice. Love, festering in the fringes of that anger, weakening it until a quick death is mistaken for justice. Just thinking about the wasted potential makes me boil, angry, despairing over the information locked within a three-fold century-old soul, the arcane worth behind an equally aged shell, it makes my skin feel like it's bubbling but it makes my mind clear. Wrath heats me up and makes me boil.
And when I boil, my shivering stops. Never had I thought to be thankful for anger. Sorry Scaldor.

Between this and the last paragraph, my Crow returned with food. I ate as much as I could and thought all the while (when she wasn't pecking at me).

If anger neutralises an aspect of my fever, is the source of the fever intrinsically emotional? I know I'm not dealing with the average malady.

I want to visit Lanette tomorrow.