We Need to Talk About Seymour

Dear Jyscal

I find it hard to put my thoughts to this page. No, not because I have never been particularly good when it comes to writing (which you incessantly made fun of me for, my cursive would never be as perfect as yours, I know.) Nor is it because I can barely grasp anything without shaking, no, appearances should not matter to me, anymore. It is the content I struggle with. Do I lather the pages with details like my last meal - bread and wine, if you must ask - or do I write as formally as I can; strict and proper, just as you like it, with as little emotion poured in as possible?

I have never been very good at planning. I think my son knows this best. Yet can you blame me? The future always seemed so ever-changing. I hadn't known stability since I stepped into your life. I don't mean that as an insult, after all, it was excitement that I craved. Aha, I'm meandering, now. I meant only to say, perhaps I should learn from the hard mistakes of the past, and begin this without a plan or a goal or a reason. Perhaps a planless plan will find more success than a planned one, would that not be so wonderful?

Alright, then. Forgive me for being uncreative, but perhaps the beginning would be appropriate. Then at least, while my passion might fizzle out by the end, it may also be more refined, crafted and suited for writing such a sordid tale. Happiness always seems like an easier thing to write about. I suspect it is the simplicity.

And, Jyscal, I was happy.

Even before I met you, I was so happy. I had a wanderlust, or so my parents called it. No stone would go unturned without my foot placed on it first, or so I dreamed. I'd forgive you if you looked at me now in disbelief, but even after all the weight I gained after my pregnancy and how grounded and shut in I became - I still walked with a ten year old all the way from Besaid to Zanarkand. I attribute what little success came from that journey to my youthful wanderlust.

It seems strange to recall memories of slaughtering fiends in such a good light, but through the sweat and the blood and the pyreflies, I recall feeling so alive.The Calm Lands, mountainous and dangerous, meant nothing more than long walks and beautiful countryside, to me. Call me romantic, but I loved the deep crags and canyons - as though I could find a whole new world waiting for me at the other end.

Perhaps that was exactly why I was so attracted to the Guado.

By nineteen, I had seen all there was to see of the valleys and the mountains. I'd grown a little tired of the bleached heather and the same view over Bevelle, as beautiful as it was. I yearned for something different, a view that wasn't overshadowed by icy tundra or a city riddled with hypocrisy. I wanted different people, different customs, different ideas and thoughts and well... something that I didn't find between the crags and cracks and canyons - something new.

When I was fourteen, and saw a Guado for the very first time, my mother mistook my blush as one of embarrassment.

Bevelle had always been a 'pure' city. In otherwords, it bleached out anything that was different. It always had a rigid air, one that demanded you straighten your spine and look down your nose at anyone that happened to pass by. My bow was so well trained that I had mastered it long before I could walk. Back then, it was very unusual to find anyone who did not have bleached white skin. How things have changed, because of us, or, well, because of you.

I will never know why the Guado had come to Bevelle that day, but I have never forgotten how beautiful they seemed. How exotic, with their long silks and noble heads carrying hair that was twisted and coloured like lightning. My mother wanted me to turn my head away, and clutched my hand as she dragged me from the group of gangly strangers - but looking back, I knew I had experienced my first crush.

I would never act on such feelings until years later, however. I do wonder, though, if you had always harboured an attraction for the Spiran skin, just as I had always sought the exotic - did your desire to escape the woods and into civilization also carry in your romantic inclinations?

Well, to rush to the point, we met when I was nineteen and sick of wandering the same old hills. Do you remember, I was a priestess in training? Daughter to an extremely wealthy family (and yes, Jyscal, they were incredibly rich. If you had done better to earn their favour, I assure you, we could have afforded a Shoopuf of our own), I was expected to follow Yevon to an absolute. If I kept myself in line, by the time I was twenty-one, I'd be married off to a High Priest, or if I was lucky, to a Maester.

Yet I had always had this grand notion that I had some control over my life. That, indeed, I could choose when to fall in and out of love. Even more so, I believed that while I wanted to marry for a purpose, it would be for a purpose far greater than to be a Maester's plaything. So I rebelled. I spoke my mind.

Even worse, I spoke freely to the Guado.

If I remember correctly, you came to Bevelle to present yourself to Yevon. Even then, you were fighting to be recognized by the church. Still, Mika had been reluctant to meet your appointment, and you were stuck waiting.

Not being one to start up conversation, our first meeting was a little stilted. I tried to catch your attention, coughing into my hand or scuffing my shoes against the polished floor a little too loudly. I was nervous, after all. You were a beautifully dressed Guado, your eyes closed over and your hands knotted in a kind of prayer. You seemed sombre then, in that waiting room - and though my duties were far from over, serving your company seemed the far more important thing to do. All the same, I could hardly ask your name and why you were here - such a thing would be so dull, unmemorable, and frankly, rude.

So I sat beside you, and pretended I had the sniffles. Really, I should have been aware of how bad I was at planning quite a long time ago.

Still, you gave me some mercy, then. You looked at me.

You never liked your light-grey eyes, but when they settled on me then, I felt something open deep inside of me. You chained yourself to my heart by your cunning gaze that carried an intelligence and an ambition.

"Are you alright?"

And it was in that moment that I am sure I blushed, hard, and had to cover my face to stop myself laughing. What an idiot I had been! To capture your attention with a cough, when I was a priestess in training and should have been more than capable of curing such a minor ailment. Should I have further pretended to play dumb, and beg for your healing hands on my forehead? No, I don't think, even then, I could stand to be thought less of.

"I am perfectly fine. Thank you."

And that was that. Our first conversation. Funny, I'm not sure how I would answer your question, now. Probably in exactly the same way, as I had done for years after.

At least then, I wasn't pretending.

I'm afraid, Jyscal, I will have to cut this short. As, after all, Mika finally emerged and beckoned for you - and you merely gave me a mild glance before making on your way. We did not even exchange names or trained bows.

But, of course, that would change.