I have been coughing
for seventeen years.
My throat is sandpaper.
My skin is on fire.
My nose could flood Delos.

Yesterday, Crixos said I was diseased.
I forgave him immediately.
I will never forget.
I will absolutely get him back for that.
And if I die, I will haunt him in his sleep.

My bed is now my kingdom.
My blanket is a loyal steed.
I've sent messages to my friends
so they know I'm still alive
(but only barely).

No one has written back.
I can only assume
they have all perished.

I tried to eat biscuits.
They betrayed me.
Now I eat hot soup
and the occasional dramatic sigh.

One day, perhaps, I shall rise again.
But if I do not, please know I died nobly
in bed, tangled in my sheets,
heroic in my suffering.

I bequeath my mother-of-pearl hairbrush
to Kassie and my jewellery to Yilui
and my paintings to Aina
and my furniture to Nezaya
and my pillow to Crixos
(because that is all he deserves.)
and most of my journals to Cyrene
and my designs to the Virtuosi
and my ships to Zahr.

Tell the world I was taken too soon.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Glacian, in the year 978 AF.