It is one thing to hope, and one thing to believe. I have come here, potent, willing and considering myself ready. I feel saliva build at the back of my throat at the passing footemen, I smell the torrid rain through bent trees in soaking, wretched woods, the threat of ambush a reality. I know that which I have overcome, and that focus has got me past more than just throat-slitting. It is a miracle I made it here at all.

I washed my clothes and hung them to dry using the twine I always carry, always with the horrible portent it will be for someone's neck some night, and I wash in a tub, in a decrepit old inn on the east of the town. It is enough to get by. Only that.

I put out a notice for Silas. I hate that it pains me, still.

Akin to the peculiar idea that my twine will be a weapon, is the notion that Silas' life is not yet unbound from this plane. It is as though I feel him, moving through the world, a phantom in the street, of my mind.

I find myself looking out across the town, through these stone windows, barely larger than slits, and see the late evening settle like a head a pillow. There is much to do in the coming days. There is much to believe in. To pioneer, beyond the realm of faith, and into action. Blackbird