Large, looped letters can be seen scrawled over poor quality pages, sewn into a portion of thin scrap leather. It is obvious that little thought was put into it’s construction: it is more a craft of necessity than a work of artful binding. The first entry reads:
I.
I've never seen the point in journaling. My sisters were never much for it -- not much for letter writing either, but that's none of my business anymore -- but our cousin Nelly always said it "kept her head clear," so I figured maybe...
Right, anyways. Things are fine! Absolutely fine. The forge is absolutely spectacular. Haven't a care in the world!
Stars, I'm so mad.
If he'd given us notice before leaving, perhaps I wouldn't be so angry. No--scratch that--I'd still be about ready to [the words here have been furiously scribbled out]. I shouldn’t be so cruel in my thoughts—he was my best friend, once…
I wish I could say that I was alright with his leaving. It isn’t like Ford didn’t warn us, not really. He always spoke of leaving, eventually. Giving us space… I’d hoped we’d gotten through to him, but I suppose Hudd and I always were fond of unfounded assumptions. I’ve never seen Hudd like this before. He’s daft and careless and I adore him that way, I always have, but without Ford, things are different. I’m beginning to feel the way I felt when they were showering each other in professions of mutual affection, while I’d just sit on the side and pretend to be cheerful over it all. Back when Ford shoved me into telling Hudd how I felt.
I’d give almost anything to go back to those days. Summer always was kinder to us, you know.
Or I suppose you wouldn't know. You’re just a few scraps of parchment—not even a proper book.
Stars, I feel stupid. I should’ve known this would happen, shouldn’t I? He was Ford’s first. It only makes sense. That bloody idiot, running off… If he mattered so little, Hudd wouldn’t be like this. It’s like a piece of me is missing—the analytical, common sensical piece. Reason has abandoned us and now we’re just a mess of tactlessness and feelings wreaking havoc on our own livelihood. I think I’d weep with self-pity if I weren’t so incredibly irate. He has no right…
Part of me wants to talk about things with Hudd, but quite honestly I’d rather stay bitter towards him and Ford both, at least for the time being. I’m his bloody betrothed but apparently we’re nothing without fucking Gafford.
I should be enough for him. I should be more than enough for him. He’s supposed to love me, love me more than anyone in the world. I don’t care about flowers or courtship or any of that utter shite I’m always on about—I just.
I don’t know.
I knew when I got into this that I wouldn’t be the only focus, but… But damn it if I’m not enough for Hudd, I’ve got to be enough for someone out there, don’t I? Stars above, what if I made a mistake? It’s too late to go back now, I suppose. We’ve crossed a few too many bridges without wedding as is—surely that alone would ruin my chances with much of anyone worthwhile.
And I love him. I really do love him. He’s… comfortable. Like a light breeze on a hot summer’s day. It’s not like with Jack, or with Ray, or with anyone else I’ve ever met… Maybe if I weren’t so fond of him, being second wouldn’t hurt quite as much. But it does, and I’m an idiot for letting it.
Suppose this makes me the daft one for once. Funny, how love does that to a girl.
I think I’ve let on a bit too much for now, dear journal, though I’ll be sure to keep up the habit… Without Ford to vent to, I’ll be needing some sort of outlet, after all. I'm done writing for the night, I think. Please wish me luck—I’ve got to go win back the attentions of my betrothed.
— Ellie
