She shakes as she writes. They're leaving today, and she has to let him know, has to make sure he gets the message.
Her hand shakes as the tears fall, and the ink blots hideously on the parchment. She thinks of writing "I love you," but to twist the knife further within her, fate has made her run out of ink.
She sets it down and seals the envelope hastily and messily as her father calls, feeling as empty as a pen with no purpose, her ink left like blood along the front lines, where he will be, fortuneless and alone.
The ink stains him as he opens the letter.
They don't talk about it anymore.