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I am tired. My fatigue is more than can be washed away by a night abed, oh, yes, far more. It is the exhaustion that seeps past the bones and into the soul, one that can only be removed by the blessed slumber of the death.
A mansion on a hill, what I dreamed of in my youth, is what I now possess. I once so favored the window that let me look upon the gentle hills and green valleys as far as the eye could see, tickled by the warm, gentle breeze. The houses built from hewn timbers below are a far cry from the frigid earthen huts of my youth, and the warm days that greet me the full length of the year is foreign when I remember the ice that never thawed and the skies that never brightened.
Despite the assurances of the heat by my servants, I can never feel its embrance. How the days spent in my homeland felt warmer than these. I sit by the fire, the furs that surround me threatening to burn, and those who serve me can scarcely bear more than a few minutes at my side before they must retreat to a cooler room, or even outdoors. I would think myself dead if not for the beat of my heart and the breaths that I take. Oh, to once again be filled with the vigor of youth-
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