I meant to have more, but I got impatient.


The first time he sees the warlock, he can't help himself and lashes out. His brain feels cloudy for the rest of the day, but the warlock manages to subdue him while obtaining only a bloody nose and a scratch on his cheek. Aspen's a little relieved. After all, he's done worse. With only a dagger in his possession, he finds he can't do much damage against someone as experienced as the warlock. It puts him at ease, just a little, but some invading thought makes it seem like the warlock's ability to defend himself is an annoyance. He doesn't quite pin down where this thought comes from.

The second time Aspen sees the warlock, it's a lot of talking about sessions and it's then that he realizes that it's going to be a process. He thinks it might be like something glass is shattered inside him. They have to locate it first, and then tweeze it out, careful to ensure that none of the pieces slice away anything necessary and that none of them are left behind.

The third time he sees the warlock, they begin their session, and he finds that all the spell causes is a minor headache. There's a hum of a spell by his ear, a hand pressed against his cheek before it's drawn away. Faint nausea rises but it's nothing like he expects. If this is it, it's easy enough to sit through.

The fourth is a little less easy, and the warlock proposes it might be easier to have him restrained. Aspen can't do anything but agree.

He told Gwyn when they met that he'd be giving Caspian where he would be staying. He doesn't think people really know it, but Gwyn's kind of a romantic and Aspen's persistent enough to just make him sigh and move onto the next topic. So when Caspian comes, he's glad for the company, knowing they aren't there hidden away on some lie of other business in the Towns.

He thinks he tries too hard to be sweet and nice and that is perhaps what keeps them from fighting again. That maybe if he says enough pretty things, they'll be fine.

The seventh time he sees the warlock, he feels he cannot breathe. Images are surfaced in his mind, as if his life is being picked apart, his name like a single thread in a rug being unwound ever so carefully to remove it from the pattern. He things he might have shrieked and twisted in his binds and his wrists are aching by the end of the day, but at least he can sulk back to his hotel room and wash his skin until he feels clean enough. He hates being lonely, really, with no arm curled around him and no one ensuring his warmth or watching him dream as he attempts to sleep through the night. It's just silent with nobody there. Then, there's no one to distract him from the things he thinks about from the day.

Like demons, ash-gray gloves, his hands grasping at nothing on old wooden floors, the heat as flames threaten to lick his palm, waking up in strange places with only a faint recollection of how he was coaxed there. Back at his hotel room, he sits in the bathtub with his knees pulled to his chest, scalding water hitting his back, his wings, and his neck. Stupidly, he hopes it will wash away the marks on his skin. But when he towels off, the faded slashes at his side and the bite on his shoulder and the faint burn marks under fresh bruises on his wrists and all the other scars he has acquired over the years are still there. They're not so visible until the light hits them, and then they gleam with damaged skin too silver to have been there naturally.

He starts to dress for the night. He ties the string of his shorts and tugs on the robe, his wings sticking through the back. He hangs his towel up and then walks over to sink into the bed. Just like he's done every night.

The hotel staff have changed the sheets and the blankets. All he smells is detergent and soap. It's nothing like the forest he's used to, but he doesn't feel too out of place. He's grown up in these spots, after all. Maybe a little too used to them, and he thinks he might have been a little too civilized in the worst ways.

It lulls him, though. Not to sleep, but the scent envelops him and he pulls the blankets over himself. The thoughts of the day are ever present in his mind, but he manages to drown them out for a minute.

It's a short break, but in the midst of whatever abyssal powers are trying to pull him apart, he finds that he might be fine.


Stephanie,

What is bad? What is good? What should one love, what hate? Why live, and what am I? What is lie, what is death? What power rules over everything? And there was no answer to any of these questions except one, which was not logical and was not at all an answer to these questions. This answer was: "You will die-and everything will end. You will die and learn everything-or stop asking."

Now that any normal person has stopped reading...(I don't need to say, I'm sure, but that's a passage from War and Peace), here is where the real letter begins.

It seems life cannot bear to let go of me.

Somehow, by some twist in fate and the Head of the Institute I'm staying at...

I'm fine. Perhaps not in all ways, and I've no doubt I have stunted my lifeline. The nosebleeds are less frequent, and the headaches are being held off by some warlock medicine. I've been told my health is not entirely on the decline. A little disappointing, as I've seen the idea of fading clumsily into the background as no less than romantic, and that is perhaps the one romantic thought I have ever had in my life.

I'm in France, of course, though I won't say where. Mon français est très rouillé. Of course, though, I'm getting around just fine. I still affirm we are not friends, nor am I interested in rekindling any sort of friendship, but I haven't anyone else to write. I haven't any relatives. Friends. Even acquaintances. I am sure that I could make some, if needed. I think I might still have a bit of charm left from my younger days when I didn't have other things to worry about. People here don't know me, nor of my case. This city is small enough with people that are more concerned about local, than international, politics.

Cole dips his pen back in the inkwell and pauses, the quill lingering over the parchment.

I'm from Uzbekistan, originally...apparently. Well, not entirely. My parents were there on an assignment from the Clave and I was there only for a little over two years. There isn't any information on where they were from - somewhere in the U.K., I imagine. I've also lived in Moscow, Cardiff, Melbourne, Manila, Oslo, Idris, Marseille, New York, and so forth. It's amusing, really, the times I've been displaced. It is strange, seeing files on my name. Some of this is a new finding for me as well, forgotten in my more juvenile years. Perhaps it would amuse you too. I've been told a plethora (which is a generous term for the sparse information about my parents) of things, and now I see it adding up. I half-expected to see notes that said my name was not actually "my real name" - no such notes were found. Thankfully. I learned my parents' names today. It was...Odd. Faceless strangers that now have some label and weight in my life.

It's funny how life works this way.

Ave atque vale,

Nikolai Rostov

He signs it with some amusement, and folds it neatly so he can slide it into an envelope. He labels it with a cursive "N.R. to Stephanie Tide" and doesn't write a return address. It doesn't need one, and he supposes he might never know if it reaches its destination. The thought isn't one he dwells on, though, and he exits his room to go send it.