Achtus 1, 2719 — Evening
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He shouldn’t be writing a letter—he was in no fit state to do it—but he’d decided yesterday and-
But so much had changed since yesterday.
There was a tremor in his limbs, the shaking as he set out paper. Picking up the pen, he fumbled and dropped it. He felt raw as if all of his nerves had been stripped so that he felt everything and it was all too much.
He set his hands flat against the table, pressed them hard against the wood, the quiver seeming stronger as he felt the jitters against its surface. He took a deep breath and let it out shakily. He flexed the fingers of his left hand rapidly, spasmodically as if to rid himself of his tremor as he pressed the other hand down on the paper and dated it.
Dearest Aurelie,
So much sentimentality, far more than usual, but he was having a lot of feelings right now. It gave him a moment’s pause, Fionn unsure how he wanted to continue—
if he wanted to continue— but then he pressed on, writing swiftly, showing none of the care that he usually did.
I never wanted my last letter to come across as cruel but I think you took it that way anyway. Your sister made me feel as if I’d ruin you you’d be better off without me and I was so scared that I thought I had to hurt you to help you, but I couldn’t make myself really hurt you either. I wasn't clear at all.
The blond wiped at his eyes, rubbing ink on his face at the same time that he removed tears from his puffy cheeks. He’d thought he was done crying for the evening but he didn’t seem capable of stopping as it turned out. Fionn didn’t even know why he was crying at this point. Was he angry, upset, frustrated? Could he even think straight? He probably shouldn’t even be writing this letter right now.
No, he definitely shouldn’t be writing it right now.
Family Galdori confuse things, they say that they want what’s best for us and that they know what that is, but what do they know? They’ve all got their selfish reasons. They don’t know what it’s like to be us—being passive—none of them do. I’m almost as bad, trying to protect you but I’m the problem selfish too.
The servant tossed the pen down, adding an interesting new blot to the paper as he shoved away from the table. He started pacing, combing his fingers through his hair as he muttered to himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He took them out again. He picked up his pillow, positioning it in a way that would make it good to punch then plucked it up and threw it across the room instead.
His mother. His
fucking mother. She'd come and it had upset him completely. The fact that she'd shown up at all had done plenty to screw him up, but every word that had been exchanged between them afterwards had only done further damage.
At least he hadn't cried in front of her, or Umberto. Plus he'd thought that he'd gotten it all out of his system before he started this, but clearly he hadn't; his vision was a complete wet blur.
He wanted to tell someone about it—Aura, there wasn’t really anyone else—but he also never wanted some of it to be repeated ever again. He wanted to tell her something about it though, it was at least part of the reason why he’d started the missive in the first place, and not solely because he’d already made plans to do it today and would be
loathe to have Eliza Madden disrupt anything else in his life today.
Scrubbing furiously at his eyes, the youth resumed his previous activity.
There’s so much I haven’t told you about what’s been going on with me, but probably you’ve done the same. Maybe you wanted to keep some things to yourself—like your sister.
He chewed the inside of his cheek.
What if he started writing and it all just came pouring out on the page? What if it would be like pulling a loose thread and discovering that it began to unravel everything? Where did he start?
How did he start?
I’ve been so terribly lonely here. I never thought I’d miss other passives so much or want to be invisible. We’re unusual out here and our uniforms mark us for what we are and it all feels wrong. And then when I go out dressed like a human, pretending to be one of them, I’m so afraid that someone will know what I am. There’s no one I can tell this to who isn’t a galdor and they don’t understand anything ...
That last line was scratched out a bit more aggressively than previous ones, his anger or his pain driving his hand.
... and I don’t have anyone out here. Niamh doesn’t count, she isn’t here that often and she’s blind oblivious, and I might want to see you more but I can’t—it’s so much harder now. Niamh brought me home with her in Vortas and I’m different everything’s changed I hardly know who I am what I’m supposed to feel anymore. If I hadn’t gone with her then my mother wouldn’t have visited me today—some idea of me anyway. She didn’t come to talk to me—not the real me, the way I actually am—but just to make herself feel better. She didn’t want to see the real me but she did and I think she was very sorry. Maybe you’d feel the same if you saw the way I really am too.
The page swam before him in his vision, dirty and stained by the ink with which he’d marked it intentionally or otherwise. He used his forearm to clear it, sniffling pathetically.
She wasn’t who I thought she was either and maybe Ana is like that for you too—or you’ll come to realise it later. She probably has an idea of who you are too, and she might not understand what you need or want at all.
I should never have tried to distance myself from you because it was what she wanted. I shouldn’t have tried to be kind or polite. I should have told you what a sly bitch she was, how sweet she made herself seem to get what she wanted out of me, and turned nasty when things didn’t go as she planned. I should have just gone with my instincts and told you to be careful of her. She might not be what she seems and she could well want something from you that you shouldn’t have to give—like my mother wanting me to forgive her for everything she did even before I failed the initiation.
But be careful of me too, Aura. I’m better when I’m around you but that’s not who I really am and I change my mind too easily to do what’s best for you. I do care about you, but I’m selfish enough to be willing to drag you into hell with me.
He paused.
He buried his face in his hands and began to sob in earnest again for perhaps the sixth or seventh time this evening. What did it matter? More than likely, he wouldn’t send the mess of a thing anyway.
***
Achtus 4, 2719 — Morning
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P.S. I wasn’t fully certain if I should send you this letter given the state that it’s in but I’ve decided that maybe you should see it because of how raw it is. It’s perhaps the closest to the truth you’ve gotten from me so far.