My Dear Octavia—How long is it since I have written? I have not been diligent in my counting of days. I recall seeing the moon wax and wane, then wax again. Those who accompanied me in my first foray into the local wilderness I have seen come and go at least thrice over. For me a day passes much as the last; I watch them immobile, spiritless and restless at once.
I confess I am not over well.
Here is a curious thing: the people where I am rarely sleep—some not at all—and so do not dream either. You will understand this is for me a … unique challenge. My hunger has never been urgent per se but the indulgence of my prior life has left me unaccustomed to deprivation. In the absence of another’s dreams I have had to endure those of my own mind’s making, which before had been mercifully scarce—and I would rather it remained so. Now I sleep rarely also; my thoughts never quiet, and my body weakens.
Perhaps my acquaintance, the Alchemist, has for me a solution. I must seek him when I am of a clearer mind.
My sincere apologies for the brevity and bitterness of this letter. I will endeavour to leave those qualities to our brother and renew my vow to you of being
yours affectionately and forever,
Tristan
