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t was a matter of a few weeks after Sebastien’s death that I found his personal journal. I had not been looking for it, nor had I intended to pry into those thoughts that were most certainly his and his alone. The dark brown leathern covers looked well worn, used and kept amongst my husband’s private things. I thought, in our years together that were now all but too short a span of time, I had seen him writing in it, as he had seen me writing in my own, but far more immense book. This one now beckoned. It was an invitation, and I could almost see him standing there in front of the fire, holding his precious tome out to me and saying, “I want you to know, Faelyn. I want you to know all of me. See this beast of a man that you have married and locked your soul to for all that he is.” Wordlessly, but not without gratitude I accepted that invitation. Continue reading →