I often wonder why the child stays. She has talents that far exceed her age, to be sure, but Winterhold is a cold and cruel place. Its Archmage, ever colder, ever crueler. I do endeavor to soften my nature around the child, and doing so is made easier by the sweetness of her nature, but when she had asked out of simple curiosity as to who my sister was, the wickedness of my humors bade me snap at her. I could hardly look at her, so great was my shame, and my regret, which rose in my throat along with sickening bile. And ever docile and dutiful Imsine, she only took her leave, and I have not seen her since. In my cowardice I have remained in the same place, here, seated at my desk. How do I tell a child of why the mention of my sister puts me in my worst form? How do I tell a child of the wretched sorrow that makes my tongue so bitter? I cannot tell her. Not now, when the innocence of youth still rounds her pale cheeks and colors them with ruddy crimson. No child need hear of the tragedies of a monster. But I must apologize, this I recognize. She is sleeping now, Divines willing, but I must apologize. It isn’t fair that I took out the agony I feel with my sister onto her, a mere child. Especially one that looks to me for guidance. I cannot be the Witch of Winterhold when I am with her, I must be… Must be what? Who are you? If you cannot be Witch of Winterhold, who can you be? Omma?…
( this is violently scratched out, to the point where the very parchment seems to tear a little, and an inkblot covers the majority of the word. the script of the next words is more jagged, more disjointed and careless than her previous script. )