It wasn't the journal he had been digging for in his bookshelves. The library was disorganized, books placed where they shouldn't have been. His wife mentioned to him earlier that day that she and a maid would be cleaning the library, and although looking back on it now he only hummed in response to her, he wished he would have told her not to touch anything. He alphabetized the books by author, and she alphabetized them by title, and it was one of the gripes he had with her. Bless her soul, he adored her, but she kept forgetting.
His hand brushed the leatherbound diary as he tore through the shelves, setting other books aside, stacking them atop each other to wait for reorganization. He almost skipped the journal, until he realized that this one was unfamiliar. He scowled, thinking for a moment that someone left their logbook here where it didn't belong, and he had half the mind to go searching for its owner. Although, an unusual curiosity gripped him. He was alone, free to peek, and surely whoever left the book here couldn't be bothered to fret over it if they left it in the library.
He unlocked the clasp and opened the journal, his eyes narrowing at the doodles. They were cute, certainly, but what were they supposed to be? Something imaginary, he assumed, as he combed through the pages, silently applauding the stranger for their handwriting. He skimmed each entry until he came to the last, something about it capturing his attention.
And, it was, in his words, pitiful. Interesting, but pitiful. He had little idea what either a Jedi Knight or a Padawan was supposed to be, nor did he know anything about this stranger's murmuring code, though he was sure to attempt to find information on it later. He assumed it was a historical party. He wasn't as well-read about history as he was the sciences.
He scoffed at their hatred for this code. Though, he certainly felt their regret of finding those they swore to protect dead. It was more familiar in both a disturbing and yet cozy sort of way. He didn't think often about his soldiers, those who died. It was easy to move on and keep fighting.
His only hope was that this person found a better way to cope, even if thinking about it earned yet another scoff from him. He hoped they kept fighting.
[cw: child death]
The journal is aged, looking as though it is used very sparingly. The pages do not have much writing on them, anyhow, only consisting of long to-do lists. The handwriting is done with ink and in small, tidy cursive.
06/02/5996 | 23:51
Today would have been Lucille's twentieth birthday. My wife wanted to visit her and Victor's tomb before we went about our day, and so we did. We lit the candles and brought a quartz charm to the graves. It's a bit exhausting to bless them so many times a year, but I suppose it must be done.
The illness that took her from us was such a simple one. The healers told us simply that if she survived, she would have proven herself to be a strong child, and she would never contract it again. I always disagreed with them. She was a robust girl, and was so lively before the days leading up to her death. Every few hours Lacie and I would visit her in the nursery with toys and water, her condition slowly worsening with each morning. I didn't cry when she died. It pained me more to see her in such agony, swathed covered in furs, her face pale but splotchy as she tried to breathe.
I'm unsure if there is an afterlife. I can't picture it. There can't be anything in the stars waiting for us. I can't imagine either of my children sitting there, twiddling their thumbs, anxiously counting the days until I also die. But, they still live on in this place, I suppose. The cycle isn't a fragile thing. It will keep going until all life in this world ends. I can't imagine that would be any time soon.
If there is a place we go to when we die, I await it patiently. I'm content with my life as it is now, though I miss them both dearly. After all, I have my wife, and I have my nephew. We are a dwindling family, but we will go on as we always have.
