A man proposed marriage to me. Isn't that quite the scandal? So far from home and beyond mother's reach and yet a man still suggests that he might be a suitable match for me. His reasons are entirely selfless, which is a novelty in itself; I recall being taught that men would want me for my features and connections rather than my wit, but she and I both stand quite corrected. I shan't tell you his name - there's no need for some dour Mortalitasi to come knocking at his door and putting the fear of the dead on him.
I like him. I'd be displeased if something were to happen to him.
You will be quite content to know my wounds are healed, but that isn't why I'm writing. I'm not sure why I'm bothering, seeing as I don't intend for you to read a single one of these, but that's hardly important. I'm writing them for myself, as selfish as you have always known me to be, and thus I have no reason to act as though this letter holds much in the way of merit. I'm better, I do not wheeze when I walk and Anders has stopped trying to ply me with magic and tea. Everything is as it should be, I suppose, if one has a measure for such things.
There are always issues, though, aren't there? There are always things I want to say, things I want to mention, things that I am afraid to voice. I've spoken with a friend or two about some things and I feel as though my heart itself has been ripped from me, but I know how to repair the damage. I know how best to stitch the pieces of myself that are broken, but I'm afraid to admit the truth.
Have you ever been in love? Truly in love? Have you ever wished to spend all your time with someone? I've felt a confusing mix of it all lately, not sure how best to manage it, and speaking to others just makes me anxious. Me! Anxious! Perish the thought - I'd be clipped around the ear before I could even suggest it were our mother here to make note of it. I'm afraid of what it means to me, to admit what I feel in my heart, and I wish you were here. I'm scared of what it means to admit what I think I know, how it will change me, and I do not wish to be changed by something like this. I do not think that mother and father would love me more for it, even if I might never match their estimation of you.
You would make it better, I think. My friends - dear, dear creatures that they are - have tried, but they are not my brother. They cannot soothe me.
It's better that you're not here, I suppose. Ghosts wandering the halls, war, battle, death. I've seen enough of it to know that you're better off far from me. I'd loathe seeing your face anyway, it never was as handsome as it could have been.
AFTER THE GALLOWS HAUNTING.