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..
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.
I wonder if mother even cares. She might be somewhat upset that I won't be marrying whoever it is that she has chosen for me. I've not heard anything but, of course, she hasn't known where I was. Now, I suppose she thinks that I am quite dead, that everything has been taken from me - she didn't have my ring, but dear Byerly held on to that for me.
I thought I might die, you know. We were kidnapped, in a sense, and taken away all our possessions. It felt as though I walked for a thousand years, but it wasn't nearly as long.
Are you upset? Do you miss me? Was there a funeral?
Perhaps. I wonder if mother will even come to find me or my remains - or possessions since I am sure that no such thing was promised. Perhaps you might ward her away; perhaps you might tell her it is foolish. Or, perhaps, you will come. You will come here and see me alive and well and flourishing in this organisation, in Riftwatch, and you will celebrate me. Finally.
I am just getting angry. I'll end this now; there's no point at all.
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UNSENT LETTERS
AFTER THE GALLOWS HAUNTING.
After her 'death'.