I know it has been a long time. I find I've lost count of how many months it's been since we spoke or since I wrote to you. I am uncertain if you have written to me I would not be terribly upset if you had not attempted to write to me. I understand that I did not leave things on good terms and the blame lies entirely at my own feet. I understand that I can be selfish at times, but over the last few days I have thought of little else than having my brother at my side.
I stitched flesh to the bone not three days ago. I have set broken limbs. I tended to burns. I have seen the inside of more bodies than I was ever able to do in Nevarra City. The people I am with are at war and I am their healer. I am their surgeon. I treated the soldiers and gave them kindness.
I broke my own ribs. A dracolisk burned my arm. Could you imagine that, four years before now? A battlefield with me, in aprons and silly shoes, stitching and mending men who have been giving their lives for a cause? It was novel. It was terrifying.
War is worse than I had ever pictured. Stories make it all seem quite heroic, but it's not, is it? I saw more death than I had ever imagined. I saw good men die, with their blood upon my hands. I heard them crying. I do not think I shall ever forget the days after that battle, nor the horror I still feel at the memories. I think the dreams will be rather haunting, actually. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can hear them whispering, as if they are coming for me. As if they are demanding repayment for my failings. I am not the surgeon I pretend to be - this was the first time I had truly worked on soldiers from battle! - and they must know. Those that I could not save will find me and curse me, I think. I fear that the most: knowing that my failures will have stolen their lives.
I miss you, so terribly. So much. There was no one for me to talk to when I felt as though I was shattering into pieces. There was no one to tell me that I might be well in the morning, that I was performing as I should, that I was marvellous. There was no one to lie in bed with me and tell stories so that the nightmares did not come. I realise now, with the years between us, how desperately I miss the comfort of someone who knows me as well as I know myself. I miss hearing your laughter, and I miss knowing that if I stumbled you would be there to gather me in your arms.
I do miss my brother. I miss you so much that I fear my handmaiden might write to you, so I swore that I would to soothe her poor bleeding heart. I never said I would send the letter, though, did I?
Wherever you are, dear brother mine, I do hope you are happy. You shan't read this (likely for the best, given your predisposition to worry horrendously for a woman who is more than capable of caring for herself!) but it makes me feel better. That's what is most important in this, isn't it? I feel better..
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