Fitz is in the library again, pacing, thoroughly unsettled by everything he's finding. Nothing seems to agree. It's as though rather than one history there are twelve, or twenty, one for each book he picks up and less than half of them titles that he recognizes - and some that he can't even read. He's begun to think, or to understand, what might be going on here, but he doesn't like it - though he doesn't know why it matters.

He's been careening from melancholy to bitter to frustrated over the past couple days, and hence keeping to himself, but he almost wants company now...though unfortunately, the person he wants most to see is the one he never can. He misses Burrich.

Fitz still doesn't know what to do with this place. He's solving this problem with extensive reading, trying to figure out what is happening, but it's not getting him anywhere. He's pacing back and forth in front of a table full of papers and books in the library, swearing quietly to himself and looking fiercer than normal. He's frustrated!

He'd welcome a distraction. We're sick of unproductive pseudo-research.

FitzChivalry is outside, looking for a weapons shed or something. He needs something to defend himself, especially after that strange storm that woke him with a Skill headache, afraid he'd had a seizure in his sleep. He tried questing with the Wit, but there was only sickening emptiness, and so he gave that up before the nausea it induced drove him to vomiting.

Now he wants the familiar weight of an axe at his belt - or at the very least a knife. For the first time since leaving his old life behind, Fitz wishes for his kit of assassin's tools, thinking of what he would use now - elfbark, for himself, to steady his nerves. What he wouldn't give for a bit of that, just now! And it would numb the itch under his skin, the need to Skill.

Fitz is in the room he's adopted as his own, writing a letter that will never, likely, be sent, the door open and pen scrawling rapidly across the paper. It's to Molly, so he knows he will never send it, but he writes anyway, telling her of what has happened and where he is, what he knows and what he guesses and what he fears. He's written many letters like it over the long and lonely years.

He signs his name, simply - FitzChivalry - and then crosses the room to the fire, holding the paper just above the flames, letting out a sigh looking at the crackling orange tongues of fire.