So here we are again,
Writing letters that may never be read, I at my desk, scribbling into the dying light of a waning candle, wondering if my words will even be read by your eyes or burned to warm myself when crying and the lashing of my own sycophantic tongue have exhausted me. Of all the ways in all the days, there will never be a way I can speak what is on my mind, but once again I try. Not for altruism, not for relief even, but to express the solemn understanding that I will never be what you needed or deserved and my own inability to accept it even after these decades have crawled by has not dulled that particular biting failure of my character.
I saw in you worlds of opportunity I'd never had, worlds of hope and freedom and joy; a twinkling in the night's sky that was its own constellation in hiding. And the way you smiled when I touched you- I realized there was more to my existence than I'd been told growing up. By then I was too old to really give back to you what you deserved, I selfishly took from you again and again and again; in my naivety I thought it would last forever, so I drank deeply from your wisdom and possibility, I took everything you gave me and I locked it away in my heart for fear the world would see my smile and try to steal it again.
You were the sun I was given the honor of glimpsing, you were the reason I woke when there was no sun and only stars peeking through the rotting wood, why I held you until the night had passed and why I still smile at the memories you graciously bestowed upon my weary soul. It was in those nights that love was made. Real love.
There was a time when I thought I might have the courage to tell you about the years I spent in Pamor fighting rats for the scraps of food dumped out by the arrogant machinists and clockworkers, or the years I spent under the kiss of iron and leather churning out clockwork for the very machines that kept those sociopaths in control, but I doubt I'd have ever had the courage. The thought of bringing even a second of fear or anger to you makes me ache, and while I may be able to survive as a failure, I would not be able to live with myself as a monster.
You may be surprised to learn I had an ongoing relationship with Isira before you came into my life- not as a follower, strictly speaking, but she and I crossed paths smuggling contraband up and down the End of The World. Apparently even deities need hobbies, so she wanted to learn how to sail. We made a lot of money, but more than that I learned how to trust again. A feral escapee to a cabin girl to a goddess. Life is strange, isn't it?
