Marie-Therese,
There's something that I lack the courage to say to your face. I'm an idiot. It is absurd to be hiding this among your things, I know, but if I try to say more than a pleasant goodbye before you step through a door and out of the role of my Delfin forever, I cannot trust I won't throw myself at your feet and beg you to stay. I hope you will find someone to read this to you. One of the witches maybe; it would be less humiliating if it weren't a real, normal person. But not the witch of the flowers, anyone but her. And not Vald – if Vald is reading this you must make him stop now, he will find a way to ruin everything if he knows so you must stop him. Even though it's too late because if he's this far, pis det, he'll already know what I can't say.
I love you. That's the long and the short, the breadth, the depth, the general scope of the thing. I love you. I can't tell you how much or how long or why – I mean, I can tell you why, it's because it's you. You, impossible and maddening and so perfectly imperfect, so perfect to me. I want to give you poetry and all I can find is this stuttering repetition: I love you. My heartbeat is yours.
I won't be coming home, not for a while at least, until you're settled. Vald's a good man. He's the best of men. Mit hjerte, you deserve better words than these. But I love you and it's too big for stupid marks on a page. It's like this.
There is a man alone walking down a beach as fog rolls softly in. And I might ask who is the man. How high is the tide. Is the light of the moon enough to see by. How long will the fog last. Why is the man here. Did he stumble this way aimlessly or did he come at precisely the time to precisely the place he meant to. Who does he expect to see coming towards him from out the mist. Will someone reach out their hand behind them to find him. Where is he from. Does he carry a weapon or is he a weapon. Or a signal. Is he a threat to my country; that is a question I will always ask. How much will he cost me–us in the end. Do the Moon and stars always hide their faces whenever he walks this way alone. Why does the man cry as though his heart is breaking when a wave licks over his feet and sea foam clings to his ankles. Will the fog never lift.
I can ask question after question, argue about it for days until I'm begged to stop, but I only know one answer. All my words about the man, the beach, the fog are useless and sad and unbearably painful unless I am behind a window with you looking out at him.
Anders
Merry Christmas, Captain.