Log, Entry 15:
I am dying.
I am not sure who to blame but myself. I was swept up in the flourish of excitement that overtook me in Mother’s message last night. I hurried to town to acquire something to work closer to Lyra, and returned with it shortly thereafter. But, as I was still caught in the blindness of my newly ascendant purpose, I was clumsy. The trinket is safe, but I...
I crushed more than half my rations in my haste. They tumbled from under the pillow where they have been kept since my waking, and in my careless, foolish fervor, I smashed them under these disgusting hooves. I tried to retrieve them, but it was too late. They were well into the carpet.
I have four days’ worth left. Six, if I am meant to prolong myself in a near starving state. I have already stretched my supplies to the limit.
I do not know if I have enough time.
I feel weak already. The moment the remnants squelched underhoof, oozing out of the wrapper that I picked up in disbelief, I could feel myself begin to shudder. I went to be sick, but no fluid came. I heaved dryly onto the floor and rolled around atop the shards smashed into the carpet's awful fabric.
As I write this, I feel empty. Four days. Not enough time. Mother, forgive me, for I am weak and stupid and miserable. I should never have been chosen. From day one I was unsure. Where another in my stead would have been sure and succeeded, I have been uneasy and failed at every turn. Now, finally confronted with the answer to my prayers, I am certain I have thrown it away.
I will try. Harder than anything, I will still try.
But I am not sure it will be enough.
Log, Entry 16:
Writing difficult at this time. For the first time today, the swarm was silent. There was nothing in my ears but the dead of unmoving air. The sound of my own, artificial heart, beating in my shell’s chest.
I was ill again. There was red among the green. I believe this body is destroying itself, as it too knows I will fall apart inside it.
The sun is still too bright. But where the warmth of it infuriated me before, now I ache for it. My joints are failing. The synapses in my limbs are doing the same. Everything is cold. Colder than the stone of the brood-cave, colder than the wrapping of winter when we must cling together in Mother’s light. So cold. And silent.
I can make out the hiss faintly now, and I pray that someone is speaking to me. Wishing me forward.
Lyra has set out an evening. The fireplace is lit. When I sit by it, will I feel anything?
Must stop writing before she arrives. Conserving strength to keep stable during encounter. Will try to write more as an update.
I’m scared.