Illidan's Private Journal - The Measure of All Things
(fragment, penned in a steadier, slower hand than usual)
I am not good at apologies.
Words are easy when they wound, harder when they must heal.
I meant to tell Lucien I was sorry—to look him in the eye and admit that I lost my temper, that pride still governs me more than I would like. I did not manage the words. But I think he knew. He looked at me as though he'd already forgiven what I had yet to say. That, somehow, was worse and better all at once.
Zoya handed me a basket and sent me into the garden. Weeds and silence—both impossible to argue with. It is difficult to think yourself a great sorcerer when you're ankle-deep in weeds.
When Lytavis came home, I was still there. Soil under my nails, temper scoured clean. I tried to explain myself—stumbled through half-sentences, tripped over truths that sounded too bare in the open air. She didn't need eloquence. She just looked at me, touched my face with hands that smelled of herbs and new life, and believed me.
I did not deserve that.
But she gave it freely.
The world narrowed then—to her breath, her smile, the quiet forgiveness in her eyes. It was not some grand absolution. It was gentler, and therefore harder to bear.
I have studied under men who would flay your soul for a mistake and faced failure with teeth bared. None of it frightened me like the thought of disappointing her.
Tonight, I think I finally understand what strength is.
It is not fire.
It is not fury.
It is a heartbeat shared in silence, a forgiveness given without demand.
And perhaps this is the measure of all things:
not what I can wield, or conjure, or become…
but whether I can keep earning the right to hold her hand.