I am no longer entirely certain how many days we have spent aboard this ship.
Everything still looks blue.
The sky is blue.
The sea is blue.
Even my suffering now feels blue somehow.
Ryn keeps reassuring me that we are close to Port Roderick already.
According to her, the journey should end soon.
But honestly, it feels like she first said that roughly one hundred years ago.
And yet somehow the world beyond the windows remains exactly the same.
Blue.
Even writing the word itself has started making me slightly nauseous.
Over the past several days, I have been helping Ryn learn how to write journals.
Though “helping” may be an overly generous description.
In truth, I know very little about writing properly.
I already admitted this to her honestly.
Back home, while the other students studied theory, structure, rhetoric, and narrative formulas…
My master taught me almost none of those things.
To this day, I remain fairly certain he considered me far too stupid for such lessons.
Instead, he only ever told me three things.
And because I genuinely know almost nothing else, I repeated those same three things to Ryn exactly as he once told them to me.
The first was:
“Never write what you want to say.”
“Write what you are afraid to say.”
The second:
“People do not remember facts.”
“They remember feelings.”
And the third:
“One day, your writing will be read by someone who is desperate.”
“Write as though you are speaking directly to them.”
Ryn listened very carefully to all three.
She nodded several times as though the meanings were immediately obvious.
Personally, I still do not fully understand them even now.
The heirs of Roderick Street truly exist in an entirely different category from ordinary people.
Fortunately, she is kind enough not to mention this too often.
I also explained that learning writing from me is probably a terrible idea regardless.
Most of the time, I do not even consciously follow those teachings myself.
Usually I simply write whatever happens to be inside my head at the time.
Which, now that I think about it, may explain several unfortunate incidents.
At any rate…
I believe this will likely become my final journal entry for now.
Perhaps I will write again someday if something interesting happens.
But after we return to Port Roderick, I intend to finally go home.
And honestly…
What exactly would I even write about there?
My homeland is small.
Quiet.
There are no sacred cities.
No giant ruins.
No ancient rituals hidden beneath the roots of impossible trees.
No terrifyingly competent merchants weaponizing international trade law.
Nothing particularly special at all.
Most likely this journal will simply end up resting quietly on a bookshelf somewhere inside my room.
And perhaps that is enough.
Though…
After thinking about it for a long time, I realized I do not truly want to close the possibility of traveling again forever.
At first I told myself this journey would be my last.
That once I returned home, I would become normal again.
A proper DeLuna.
A respectable storyteller.
Someone who reads more.
Studies properly.
Memorizes things correctly.
Perhaps then I might finally become someone my family could genuinely feel proud of.
But whenever I try imagining the future too firmly…
Something inside me hesitates.
I cannot explain it very well.
Perhaps spending too much time with caravans slowly damages the mind in subtle ways.
Or perhaps the road itself leaves marks that do not disappear so easily afterward.
Still.
I think returning home for a while will be good for me.
And if someday the road calls again…
Well.
I suppose we shall see what kind of fool answers it.
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