February 15, Year 1472 in the year of Glabados

I cannot believe it.

All these years…the people that I thought were my parents…had deceived me?

They had told me I was their daughter. A true daughter. A good daughter.

And now I find a note on my father's desk. His apology for not telling me that I was an adopted child.

Many years I've spent with him, and with his wife. And they never told me once. Not one word, about my origins. Of course I kept quiet when my 'father' had given me one of his be-quiet-or-you-will-not-have-supper looks. I never questioned him…and he never told me. I feel so cheated. Deceived. My entire life shattered in one finding of that cruel note.

I should be thankful to my fiancé for living to this day. Last week I was still at my 'father's house, packing my bags…when a band of robbers, of ruffians, came riding up to the door. I had no idea who they were. I simply heard…a bowstring, a scream, a loud thud, followed by my 'mother's squeal and another consecutive fall of a heavy object. I remember little from that day…all had happened too quickly. After my mother…had perished at the hands of those robbers…they ran after me. 'Give us pleasure,' some of the male ones said, while the single female robber just stood there and giggled. The horrible fools. The bastards.

If Beowulf had not chanced by my home on that day, God knows what or where I would have been. Had he not shredded them to pieces as they pinned me to my bed, had he not petrified them where they stood—I had little hope of survival as I know it.

Little I have to look forward to, save visiting Beowulf at Lionel. He had kindly offered me a place to stay in his quarters inside the Templar's barracks; for the house that I had lived in was not legally mine by church law, and therefore it was owned by the church. What is 'law'? A code of morals? A code of living? Someone's thought patterns? Or is it merely someone's attempt to control all?

A sack of five hundred thousand gil I have taken with me from my foster parents' home; they had squandered the near ten million that I have made during the years that I worked, day and night, for their so-called 'needs'. For once, my fears are confirmed. They are simply using me as a tool. A mere tool. Hmph…the thought of that nearly makes me sick. As if I wasn't sick enough already, bedridden due to the terrible wounds those fiends have inflicted upon my body. I could barely lift a finger, let alone lift a leg, and far less to walk. Curse those beasts to eternal hell!

Priest Buremonda had visited me in Beowulf's quarters…whether Beowulf allowed it or not, I would never know. However his mere presence is more than enough to make my blood boil over, and my wrath to escape the bonds of my control. He was fortunate enough that I was not strong enough to lift even a hand against his putrid face. Oh, if only I had the strength to do that…

Every morning and every night my beloved would come to my bedside, replacing the bandages that bound my injured leg and arms with fresh new ones, and he would wash me over with small amounts of water. Such care…I have not felt in years. Maybe never. I wish we could marry sooner…

Cardinal Draclau had become far colder to me since I left his guidance a year ago. His normally warm, cheerful outlook had changed for a stern, unforgiving stare, much unlike the Draclau I knew. What is going on with this world?

At night, Beowulf would often sleep on the same bed that I was in; considering that we were in the same room, it would have appeared quite normal for any templar inside the barracks, for some of them did hire women to sleep with them…ugh, the thought of some cheap, honourless whore sleeping with a man in high esteem with the church disgusts me. Enough with that. Beowulf caressed me through the night, running his large fingers through my hair. I've grown accustomed to that feeling…it's very nice and comforting. Of course, he dared not to approach any closer, for my limbs still had not healed fully. 'Broken bones' the priestesses said I had; I doubt that they would be after Sunday.

Sooner or later Beowulf would become a fully trained Templar of Glabados…and I will, in four years' time, be able to wed him and we shall live in happiness forever…

An oath we have sworn to each other, under the knowledge of not a single priest, but a promise that we have bound ourselves onto our minds. 'Together we shall be—in life, as in death'. And truly we will be…for I truly love him, and I feel that the reverse is also true. Death will not separate us, and neither shall time nor space. Our love…shall break the boundaries of the universe wherever it seeks to part us.

Over the past few hours I have recovered to a stage enough to allow me some movement; Beowulf had forbidden me to leave his room for fear that I should injure myself again in my infirm state. However, a few interesting things I have read from the bookshelves at his study table; a manual on how to 'be a black mage' and some simple instructions on 'Perfect Statues: how to make your own garden statues without chisels'. These are sure to be useful to me—as well as him.

I cannot write any longer…the biting pain in my broken hand is returning, and I will have to end it here.

Reis Dular