We buried the hunter last night. I only wish that I had been mourning
Matthew Davies rather than fearful that we were wasting time.
I was terrified when I prepared to kill the
thing that wore Matthew's face that the scar would start to ache.
And
it did. As he died, my scar grew the same sickly green color it once
had been, though it was not yet a network of branches extending across
my belly.
I do not understand why. I was
doing it to protect my friends, to ensure the safety of others. Did
something inside me know I had done something wrong?
But
I am not a fighter. I have said so in the past, and it is still true
now. To kill is to go against my own desires regardless of the
circumstances. The pain and fear it causes me feeds the Forest no matter
what justification I can offer up.
I am only
glad that my hesitation does not seem to have cost us the way out of the
Forest. We have kept moving since burying Matthew, and we have yet to
see the star-marked tree.
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