| Collection | Ancient Journal |
| Related Item | Ancient Journal Page #1 |
| Known By Default | No |
| Auto Collect | Yes |
Only roots for dinner again today. That's two days since my supplies ran out, but I daren't complain too much, even here. The roots are plentiful, if not varied; and, thanks to that Hikmalat outcropping I passed yesterday, they are particularly nourishing. I guess all those hours poring over dusty books, learning which plants are safe to eat and where they grow, actually proved useful. Thank the Gift: I won't starve.
Could do with some more flavor, though. I'll say that, though all my old scholarly friends will mock me mercilessly when they read this.
If they read this.
It was your idea, they'll say. You could be snug at the temple, enjoying three square meals with an abundance of color and flavor, and sleep tonight in a soft bed knowing that you have spent that day in the noble pursuit of learning. But no, and here's where they'll wave whatever book they're holding in my face, dust rippling from its pages and shimmering in stray shafts of sunlight, you had to see if the rumors were true. Wisdom and knowledge weren't enough for your ambition. You had to go seek another kind of temple. And you didn’t even pack enough food!
They’ll be right, of course, when they give me this speech—when I see them again.
If I see anyone again.
But I’m right too—by almighty Hikma, I swear I’m right. Those pilgrims who passed through last season couldn’t have been lying. They said they’d seen it: a temple just like ours, but devoted to story—to song—to beauty. Far away, of course . . . across the mountains, at the edge of the desert . . . but there. It exists.
And I belong there. I’ve always known the scholarly life wasn’t for me. I couldn’t even keep a proper account of my days without weaving in tales—snatches of song—the odd sketch. Even in the driest, dustiest academic tome, I saw echoes of color . . . felt the frigid breath of ancient snowstorms . . . heard ghosts of tunes sung over old, forgotten campfires. I knew THAT knowledge was my vocation—my destiny—my true home.
Look at me now: still keeping this Hikma-blasted journal, according to scholarly training, but waxing eloquent about dreams and destiny and old campfires. I don’t belong back there. I belong . . . ahead. Somewhere.
Wish I had one of those campfires here now, though. Or at least that I’d had the chance to practice building a fire, instead of just reading about it.
I bet these roots would taste better cooked.