2nd of Glade, Year 4622
Dear Eleanor,
I awoke from a nightmare, this day. The more I give away, the more I let go, the more I remember the people like you -- the souls I've given up, letting the maw that is our reality consume you, always for what feels like the sake of my own continuation. I struggle with these memories, as they contrast in my mind. Blaidd's smiling face, followed by his features, beaten by a hammer, blood forming puddles through the uneven pavement. I carry this... optimism, imagining that every face I meet will persist until some pleasant end, but I'm met these days with the reminders of my failures; the dead left in my wake, the people who lost themselves in my righteous forays.
Today, I will be divorcing my husband, Lord Wendell Venger. I hope he will not become another one of these memories -- the bloodied, battered and slain, the many who put their faith in me only to be diced against the stones settled beneath their feet. Thomas and I will be marrying the very same day, my lover of lovers; the one man I think I am certain to love for as long as I live. We are meant to choose a name together, and I still do not know what that name might be. I thought of you, and Blaidd, and Kaedwyn, while pondering on the choices. A Sil'Norai name, I thought, but... I am not so sure. This world does not love people like us.
Not too long ago, I severed my connection with the Black Sigil, and can no longer access the Dead Realm. I would sometimes save these thoughts for the specters that wandered, beckoning them to listen to a mind-addled man, but as that layer of reality has become unavailable to me, I must communicate with the dead in other ways, it seems.
I hope you are doing well in Muid. I thought to find you, you know -- your spirit, but... I did not want to remind you of the way you died, or how short a life you lived. Maybe, though, I'll pack up these letters and bring them to you one day, in the afterlife.
Forever your friend,
Taelian of the Pyred Bedlam.
- - -
He sat quietly, for a while, looming over that letter. He remembered a time where he would've thought such emotion to be a peculiar thing, oblivious to the fact that his tone was largely flat within his words. It was difficult for him to be wholly passionate, most of the time, and lately the sheer flux of emotion in him had made him feel as if he were living in an imposter's form. He was weary of all of the pain, the disappointment. Maladan had pulled away for reasons he wasn't entirely certain of, and what felt like blooming love had embittered within him. Wendell tried to forgive him, but somehow could not. Their conversations verged on arguments constantly, even if they tended to conclude with a remembrance of the fact that each loved the other.
Even that, though, was tiring . . . and he did not want all of this to be tiring. This was the day of his marriage -- to a man he truly loved, with whom he would forge his future. He tried to think of that fact, and to feel warmth. And, to some extent, he did; just... thinking about him, his handsome face, their conversations deep into the night. He knew he'd feel better when Thomas was holding his hand, wearing whatever suit he'd acquired for the ceremony. Taelian was dressed in a velvet, midnight-blue colored tuxedo, with gilded gold and ruby epaulettes, an elegant, platinum and ruby colored necklace adorning the space around his collar.
His hair was done well, his skin radiant. Looking in the mirror, he couldn't remember ever feeling more handsome, and... that did feel good. He just wished this moment did not need to be accentuated by someone else's pain.
"Thomas!" the man yelled, calling out to his fiancé from within their bedroom. "We're sure to be late if we keep dawdling. Can I see you, yet?"
