Written By Berenice
Feb. 27, 2023, 6:54 p.m.(5/10/1019 AR)
Relationship Note on Anders
I had hoped for a better death for you.
I knew you were marked for it. It was an inevitability from the moment we first met. I knew it was only a matter of time before the letters ceased entirely. Permanently. But I had hoped for the sort of death you wished for yourself, face to face with your attacker in battle. I wished that, if you had to die, you could at least die fighting. Or else, if you had been captured, I could have kissed you goodbye before the execution. I did promise you that, if it came to it.
But not this, darling. Not this.
I've always been fond of stoic men. There is something to the strength of them, but more importantly, there is something to being the agent of seeing them unfold. To earning and inspiring their smiles, their laughter, their affection. It tickled my vanity, earning yours. The most hated man in the Compact.
_I_ liked you, though, and that's all that really mattered to me. You were, without question, the most fascinating correspondent I've had the pleasure of trading letters with; perhaps it was the distance, the rarity of our meeting in person -- just twice, as memorable as they both were -- that made the impact of each letter received so very salient. Or..._especially_ salient. It was your eloquence, wit, and insight that made each letter so very treasured.
You compared me to a hurricane once, one seen on the horizon, feared and yet admired for their challenge. The sort a sailor could not resist turning into to face. I still count it as one of the finest compliments I've ever received. I think you know I could have ruined you, dashed you upon the rocks, if I'd so chosen, but in the end, I was surprised by my own affections. By my own fondness for you. I expected yours, vain creature that I am, but not my own.
Rest well, darling. I am sorry we did not have more time to enjoy each other. I am sorry that I am left without someone living to hate for your death. But I shall keep the favor you left me, the memory of your company--
--and, most of all, your letters.
I knew you were marked for it. It was an inevitability from the moment we first met. I knew it was only a matter of time before the letters ceased entirely. Permanently. But I had hoped for the sort of death you wished for yourself, face to face with your attacker in battle. I wished that, if you had to die, you could at least die fighting. Or else, if you had been captured, I could have kissed you goodbye before the execution. I did promise you that, if it came to it.
But not this, darling. Not this.
I've always been fond of stoic men. There is something to the strength of them, but more importantly, there is something to being the agent of seeing them unfold. To earning and inspiring their smiles, their laughter, their affection. It tickled my vanity, earning yours. The most hated man in the Compact.
_I_ liked you, though, and that's all that really mattered to me. You were, without question, the most fascinating correspondent I've had the pleasure of trading letters with; perhaps it was the distance, the rarity of our meeting in person -- just twice, as memorable as they both were -- that made the impact of each letter received so very salient. Or..._especially_ salient. It was your eloquence, wit, and insight that made each letter so very treasured.
You compared me to a hurricane once, one seen on the horizon, feared and yet admired for their challenge. The sort a sailor could not resist turning into to face. I still count it as one of the finest compliments I've ever received. I think you know I could have ruined you, dashed you upon the rocks, if I'd so chosen, but in the end, I was surprised by my own affections. By my own fondness for you. I expected yours, vain creature that I am, but not my own.
Rest well, darling. I am sorry we did not have more time to enjoy each other. I am sorry that I am left without someone living to hate for your death. But I shall keep the favor you left me, the memory of your company--
--and, most of all, your letters.
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