.20.

-Looming threats, faded promises-

.x.

"I'm not a slave."

"Yes," Geldauran told Boone with all the patience of a teacher with a young, impertinent child, "you are. You have been for years—slave to Fen'Harel's designs, slave to his whims. The only difference now is that I've told you what you are, and now you'll be marked accordingly."

The vallaslin. In the earliest hours of the morning she'd lain awake, wondering if that was what he'd implied the night before with his cryptic, ominous words. She shook her head, furious and afraid and frustrated. "I don't belong to you."

"Your current situation would imply otherwise."

She wished her hatred were a tangible thing, that it would leap from her body and wrap itself around him and squeeze until his bones were crushed. That he surmised as much was evident in the way he watched her unsmiling but somehow still with cruel mirth. He gestured to his left, where two wooden stumps were positioned side by side. Near them stood the red-haired Elvhen woman Boone had seen several times before. She carried in one hand a small wooden box, undoubtedly holding within it the tools with which to mark Boone's face permanently.

"Sit." Geldauran ordered. Boone's response was a defiant shake of the head. He moved so swiftly all she could do was retreat a half-step before he struck her. She reeled.

"Get up."

Sprawled on her side in the grass, it was a long string of moments before she could comply. She eased into a sitting position, probing at the inside of her bottom lip with her tongue. The unpleasant taste of blood flooded her mouth.

He stood above her, regarding her impassively. He said, as she gently touched a finger to the side of her mouth, "You keep choosing to do things the hard way."

A throbbing ache filled the left side of her face and she wondered if his backhand blow had broken something. She was an utter fool—hadn't really expected his reaction, hadn't expected that her first refusal to do as he ordered would warrant such retaliation. He had warned her, of course, more than once. Watching him warily, she got to her feet.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" He directed her to sit on one of the stumps behind him. The Elvhen woman waiting patiently but she wasn't alone now; behind were three Elvhen men, watching her with the same expression as their leader. She knew why they were there. Despite their presence, despite the combined weight of all their gazes, Boone didn't move. She looked up at Geldauran, who waited with one eyebrow arched expectantly.

"No," she said finally, the word carried on a long, weary sigh.

Silence. And then: "Very well."

She fought them as they converged upon her, struggled against their subduing hands with such energy that when all was said and done, she lay prone on her stomach, struggling to breathe through the pain that seared along her ribs from a well-placed kick. Someone's knee was in her back, pinning her down. A booted foot was pressed heavy against her head, forcing her face down into the grass. They had taken her artificial limb from her, ripping the armlet off; the fingers of her remaining hand had become claws, pulling at clumps of dirt in a vain effort to alleviate her suffering.

"Evelyn." Geldauran said, drawing out the syllables in her name. "You surprise me. I thought whatever rebelliousness you'd harboured had been snuffed out by regrettable events. It is good to know you've still some spirit left."

"Still," he continued, dropping to a crouch at her side and she managed to turn her head slightly in order to see him out of one eye, "I think I must caution you yet again. Do we have an understanding?"

"No," she ground out, her voice scarcely more than a croak.

Something akin to disappointment flickered across his countenance, gone before she could be certain she'd seen it. Wordlessly he rocked back on his heels, looking to his followers and gesturing. Boone closed her eyes.

In the end it was exhaustion that subdued her. Panting, drenched in sweat, her attempts to resist gradually became weak and ineffective. Propped into a sitting position with ungentle fingers gripping the back of her neck, she could do nothing but glare at the Evanuris. He took no notice, instead directing his people to task. The red-haired Elvhen woman set down the small wooden box she carried and removed from it small instruments that looked ominously foreign to Boone.

"In my time," Geldauran said, "we branded those who belonged to us with not only our symbols, but our colors as well. Nadrimasa was—and still is—a master of that craft." Boone's eyes flicked to the Elvhen woman, who had laid her implements out upon a small length of cloth she had unraveled across the grass. "It was by her hand my thralls were marked with the vallaslin. As you can see, she bears my mark as well."

The woman looked up at Boone then. Her eyes were dark and piercing as she studied Boone without reserve. The markings Geldauran spoke of were prominent on her face, an elegant mass of whirling, daedal lines that reminded Boone simultaneously of water and the leaves of a willow tree. They were striking, attractive — if Boone hadn't known their real meaning, she would have even thought them pretty.

"You shall bear it now," the Evanuris intoned needlessly, and then spoke to Nadrimasa in Elvhen. Boone waited, eyes downcast, hurting and wearied by her recent exertion, by everything. This would happen—she would be marked, lose another part of herself while trapped in the lingering aftershocks of a war that should have ended four thousand years ago. Nadrimasa's fingers fastened around a lock of Boone's hair, her braid loosened by her earlier struggling. In the other hand she held a knife.

"What—?" Boone managed, knocking the woman's hand away in fearful confusion. Geldauran stepped swiftly behind Boone and gripped a fistful of her hair, pulling but stopping just shy of causing pain.

"For you, Evelyn, a different type of mark. An expansive one."

His meaning sunk in as Nadrimasa pulled the length of her hair tight, laid the knife against it close to her skull, and sawed. Boone watched wordlessly as the long strands fell to the ground, as Nadrimasa took hold of another section and repeated her actions. There was no longer an urge to fight, merely a deep and powerful yearning for it all to be over, and so Boone closed her eyes and tried to focus only on the breaths in and breaths out in a hopeless attempt to forget. Nadrimasa was thorough, even with her rudimentary tool, but she didn't stop once the hair was cropped short. She began to shave the remainder with the gentle precision that told of having done it a great many times before. Geldauran no longer restrained her but remained standing behind her, his very presence a deterrent. There were no words spoken; instead the only sounds were that of the knife scraping carefully across Boone's scalp. When it was done Nadrimasa stepped away and circled, surveying her work. Boone's eyes opened, but she kept them focused on the ground. The sensation of having no hair was harshly disconcerting.

Geldauran placed his hand at the nape of her neck. Instantly she stiffened, head shooting up, and she bit back a protest as he slid his palm upward over her newly denuded scalp. His touch withdrew and her relief was so great she nearly withered beneath it, a feeling that subsided as he moved around until he stood beside Nadrimasa.

"Well done," he complimented his subordinate, who merely bobbed her head in reply. He studied Boone with a critical gaze. She refused to look at him, instead focusing on the space over his shoulder. To Boone he said, "A much different look. It emphasizes things about you. Your eyes, for example." He stepped nearer, dropping to a crouch. His hand lifted and she twisted her head to the side. He touched her anyway, pressing three fingertips beneath her chin and turning her head back.

"Look at me," he ordered, and she slowly obeyed. His own were relentless as they further scrutinized her, cutting and keen. "I think, after certain improvements, that I will prefer you this way."

"What you prefer matters not to me," she said flatly.

"It may, some day," he countered. "It may matter more than anything."

She didn't like the emphasis he used in that statement nor the indecipherable, shuttered expression he wore. She was left with no time to dwell on it because he stood and moved away, beckoning for Nadrimasa to continue. The elvhen woman resumed her seat on the stump, this time bearing the implements with which she would proceed. She held a small, earthen bowl of dark liquid.

"The ink," Geldauran explained. "While the plants once used to create this color no longer exist, Nadrimasa was able to find a suitable replacement."

Boone said nothing, remained mute as Nadrimasa began her preparations, as she gripped Boone's chin in one hand and began the application with the other. It was painful, extraordinarily so, hundreds of unrelenting pinpricks dotting her cheek and brow and jaw. Boone stifled whatever sounds of pain her body urged her to make, closing her eyes and holding herself stiffly, knowing that to rebel was to invite more of Geldauran's alarmingly bewildering and frequently painful touch. She endured through the facial application, endured as Nadrimasa moved onto the rest of her head. Hours passed. She was given water at intervals, allowed to stand and move about to alleviate stiffness. Geldauran remained present throughout it all, his gaze now a veritable hazard she strove to avoid. When it was done it was nearly evening and Boone ached from the ministrations, a throbbing that rippled slowly across the planes of her face and the sides of her head. Nadrimasa set her tool down, rose, and stepped aside to make room for her leader, who took the seat she'd just occupied.

"Yes," the Evanuris said as Boone fixed her eyes yet again at the spot over his shoulder. "This was a needed refinement. You wear my mark well, Evelyn."

She bowed her head. Whatever she had of herself she had lost piecemeal since the day of the Anchor. Geldauran had taken the last of it now by marking her as his own. Free will was as lost to her as youth and naivete and hope. He stood, speaking in Elvhen to Nadrimasa and the three other men that had borne witness to Boone's transformation. "Come," he directed afterward. "Back to camp. We've an early morning."

.x.

She did not sleep that night. She hardly slept anymore. She lay awake, staring at the tent roof, blinking slowly. Geldauran slumbered beside her, his breathing deep and even, though she knew if she were to make any move, if she were simply to inhale deeply, it would rouse him. His fingers were draped across her wrist, not quite grasping but capable of doing so in a heartbeat.

Her head ached from the precise strokes of Nadrismasa's knife. The entirety of her face throbbed from the application of the ink, the hundreds of needle punctures she had silently and miserably endured. She lifted the arm not touching Geldauran, the arm they had deigned to return to her, and probed at her cheek with one finger. She wondered at her appearance now. There were no mirrors to be found amongst the Mien'Harel and she had only her imagination and her recollection of Nadrimasa's own vallaslin to go on. She was as far from herself now as she had ever been, a stranger in a once familiar body, a ghost fettered by unwilling flesh. She contemplated Solas' reaction to her appearance now, bald and bearing the marks of a slave. Seeing her thus would undoubtedly pain him, another wound Geldauran had made using Boone as a proxy. Thinking of Solas brought swift and unstoppable tears to her eyes. She missed him because of and in spite of everything. Theirs was a relationship born of tribulation and deceit and sorrow and tempered by the same. She'd denied loving him for so long and when finally she'd allowed herself to admit it, embrace it, it had immediately been overtaken by the deaths of those she considered family and the resulting havoc. She and Solas had never been destined for the peaceful, simple kind of love. They had from the onset been destined for tragedy, and the conclusion loomed before them both now.

Boone wept for Solas, wept for herself, in silence.

.x.

The next day brought slaughter. A small human village lay in the indeterminate path of the Mien'Harel, the perfect subject for another of Geldauran's lessons. He made Boone watch, standing behind her with one arm roped loosely around her neck as a potential restraint with the other settling at her hip. As much as she resented the forced familiarity, she dreaded what was about to happen far more. She tried pleading. She tried demanding. She even tried bargaining, a useless tactic, and though she could not see his face she could envision perfectly the cold smile he wore.

"Perhaps, were time in our favor," he said, "an accord could be struck. But our time together draws to an end and there is much still to be done. Including," he paused for cruel emphasis, "this."

On his command, the bulk of the Mien'Harel present dismounted and swept through the village, rousting the dwellers, herding them out into the singular street. They were terrified, confused, angry, but those spurred to potent fury met their ends swiftly, which had the effect of subduing the rest. There were not many, perhaps not even a dozen, but their faces swam before Boone as they were hastily assembled to stand before herself and the Evanuris. This was a nightmare she had no choice but to relive. As before he announced her name and her prior status, a calmly brutal taunt meant for them as much as her. As before the Mien'Harel cut them down, showing no pity or remorse regardless of age or sex. As before Boone crumpled, hitting her knees, her cries mingling with those of the villagers. And as before, Geldauran wouldn't let her look away, following her down and tightening his arm across her neck, whispering heartless things into her ear. She wept as they died, helpless despite all her rage and anguish, helpless because Geldauran wished it so. When the screaming had stopped he pulled her to her feet, directed her toward Hob by placing his hand flat against her back and shoving. She stumbled up against the big gelding and pressed her face against his neck, her tears dampening his coat. He turned his head and nosed gently at her thigh as she tangled her fingers in his mane.

"Mount, Evelyn."

She didn't move, clinging to the horse because he was the only thing here and now that had no inimical intent toward her. She heard Geldauran step closer and cringed, knowing she'd feel his touch. His fingers settled on her shoulder, squeezing, and she astonished herself by whirling around to confront him.

"Don't!" she blared, so thoroughly enraged that she advanced on him a step. He smiled; she lashed out at him, curving fingers into claws and swiping at his face. He caught her wrist and wrenched, pulling her off-balance and toward him. She struck at him with the other hand, landing swift but erratic blows to his shoulders and arms, failing entirely to inflict the kind of pain she wished to. He waited her out with the same faint smile and her fury surged. Muscle memory and instinct dredged up from the person she'd been a decade ago resurfaced and she feinted, lunging to the side with a faltering step that forced him to accommodate the sudden drop in her weight. She straightened, twisting, and struck him open-palmed across the face.

"Ah, there's the fire," he said, seizing her by one shoulder and pushing her backward so that she stumbled into Hob. The gelding started and shied sideways. Still holding her by the wrist, Geldauran drew closer. "There's the fight. I wondered if you had any left in you."

She spat at him, hurled epithets she hadn't spoken in years, showed all the rage she'd bottled and kept from erupting for fear of how he'd use it against her. It no longer mattered now—it could never matter now. Geldauran held her leash, would never release it, had sworn to see her into the grave. She fought him still and he endured it, wincing as she landed a glancing blow along his jaw, as her nails raked along the length of his arm. Despite the lack of his expression on his face she knew he was enjoying this. When his patience reached its limit he let her go, her own raging momentum carrying her uncontrollably backward to land in an undignified heap. She didn't bother getting up and remained where she was, winded and sweating and glaring up at him.

He knelt in front of her, gesturing to his forearm and the ragged, bloody scratches she'd left there. "All that I've done to you, all that has been done to you… and this is all you can do in retaliation. A few paltry wounds, minor pains soon forgotten. The sum of your anger is nothing."

Her eyelids fluttered because his words as always were honed and uttered with unerring intention. He grasped her artificial hand and lifted it, pressing her fingers to the corner of his mouth were there was a faint smudge of blood, one of her blows having struck true. He said, "It pleases me to see you aren't as deadened as you seem."

She felt his lips move beneath her fingertips and attempted to yank her hand away. He tightened his grip momentarily before letting her go.

"Get up and mount," he ordered after studying her for a long span of moments. "If you do not, I will tie you and throw you over the saddle."

He stood, moving toward his own mount. The rest of the Mien'Harel had swiftly and thoroughly looted the village after their bloody task was done and they were on the verge of finishing, carrying out sacks of food, clothing, and other assorted items that could and would prove useful to the small army, leading horses out of stables to use as spares. Boone got to her feet slowly, turning to look for Hob. He hadn't strayed far during her struggle with Geldauran, though he stood tensely, his ears rapidly swiveling forward and back.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to him as she approached, stroking a hand that shook over his neck. He softened beneath her touch, exhaling slowly. Geldauran had mounted and was watching her, and so she took the reins, placed her foot in the stirrup, and pulled herself up and over. Together they waited for the rest of the Mien'Harel to finish their task and once all soldiers were mounted and their horses laden with stolen goods, Geldauran called for their march to resume. The village had been set ablaze. The smoke stung Boone's eyes as they rode east.

.x.

Days passed, her time as a captive lengthening until one month had passed, or so she assumed by her potentially inaccurate counting. Her hair began to grow back, stubble that felt strange every time she ran her hands over it. She still had no idea how drastically the vallaslin had altered her appearance, though it had commanded the attention of various members of the Mien'Harel. The differences were the significance of their marks; they bore their as signs of allegiance as opposed to brands of bondage. Geldauran enjoyed hers, or enjoyed looking at them in order to unnerve her—likely both. In those moments she endured his attention mutely and with a renewed determination to limit his amusement at her expense.

She was renewed in other ways, as well, their scuffle near the village having triggered something within her. It wasn't a desire to persevere. It was the opposite. Geldauran, once-god and king without realm, had no intention of surviving for much longer either. It was not a desire to die but rather the realization that he could not continue to live. He'd said as much to both Boone and Solas in the shared dream. His time in Thedas was limited, a fact he accepted with the full intention to wreak as much havoc against his adversary as possible in the time he had left. Ensnared, captive, and defenseless, she could do very little against him. What she could do, what she would do, was deprive him of even the smallest scraps of pleasure he could gain from the way he treated her. She withdrew completely, refusing to speak, refusing to eat. Her defiance was not entirely unexpected, she knew, but she believed she had surprised him by some measure. Her continued silence went uncontested, but the matter of eating became a struggle between them. Supplies were short, pursued by Solas' forces as the Mien'Harel were, and meals were rationed. Every morning and evening became a trial for them both, which ended always with Geldauran forcing some small morsel of food into her mouth, gripping her jaw in one hand, prying her mouth open. She still never spoke, not even when his grip became so brutal as to bruise her, not even when he succeeded in force-feeding her. She would meet and hold his eyes with an odd, defeated defiance and he would return her look with only the faintest furrow between his brows.

One evening, after he had wrestled her into eating and swallowing a single slice of stale bread, she sat on the chair and rubbed at her chin. The ache there was perpetual given her continual refusal to eat and his continual efforts at coercion. Seated on their shared cot, head tilted slightly to one side, he eyed her through strands of his dark hair that had fallen forward. She waited to hear what he would say.

"It is easier to understand Fen'Harel's reasoning now," he said eventually. He seemed displeased with that realization. She said nothing, working her jaw slowly from side to side. He went on, "I believe it is the result of circumstance and nothing more, but time being what it is—" here he paused with just the ghost of an unpleasant smile, "Well. I have a peculiar fondness for you, Evelyn. Does that trouble you?"

He knew it did. Her voice locked firmly within, she nodded anyway. His smile widened, unhappy and with an edge that made her apprehensive. "It does, of course." He reached for her and she jerked away, but they were seated too close together and his hand found and framed the curve of her cheek anyway. She flinched in anticipation of the pain but it didn't manifest. Instead his thumb stroked over her skin, a soft touch made cruel by who and what he was.

"Rumor has spread through Ferelden and well into Orlais," he told her, "that the Inquisitor has sided with the rebel elvhen faction. Though they are rumors, they still carry weight, particularly with those looking for reasons to be discontent. Your disappearance—your abduction—has somewhat splintered the alliances Fen'Harel sought to make and maintain. That is how it began, the unraveling of all his hard work and dedication, and your demise is what will topple the rest. You won't be alone in the end, no—you and I, Evelyn, we will go together, secure in the knowledge that we are the ones to have brought him to ruin."

"Have you nothing to say?" He queried after a short silence, his hand still framing her face. She stared back at him, unwilling to give voice to any of her thoughts for fear of what they may provoke from him. At her maintained silence he frowned a little, a shift in expression that had her heart anxiously hammering. "I suspect you have a great deal to say, but not to me. No. Never to me, hmm?"

Greatly daring, she shook her head. His laugh was a small, wry expulsion of air. "Very well, Evelyn. Keep your words." He withdrew his hand. Her shoulders slumped in relief. He rose and moved toward the exit, but paused with tent flap in hand. "I'll be back at dawn. There's time enough for you to get the uninterrupted rest you so desperately need. I advise you make use of it."

When he was gone she remained where she was, eyes fixed unseeing on the ground as she pondered the strange and uncharacteristic mercy he had just offered her and the veiled weight his words had carried.

.x.

It became apparent in the following days that everything was beginning to unravel. One morning, as Boone left the tent on the heels of Geldauran, she watched as a small scouting party rode swiftly into camp. This was not unusual; the Mien'Harel relied heavily on scouts to both avoid pursuit and plot the easiest paths throughout Ferelden and Orlais. What was unusual were the two bodies draped across the saddles of two horses and the notably grim expression etched into the faces of the other three scouts. They shouted in Elvhen as they entered camp, prompting a flurry of activity. Geldauran went to them and Boone listened intently to the words that followed, quick and loud as they were. Geldauran approached the bodies, seized one by a fistful of hair, and bent over to get a clear look at the face. His countenance became one of such cold wrath that Boone, unseen, flinched. He raised his voice, shouting words that had the camp erupting with agitated energy. Easing her way between harried elvhen, she made her way to where the horses were corralled by rope and pole. The camp was being rapidly disassembled, and as she took her small morning comfort through Hob's familiar presence, she realized that they would actually be leaving the larger parts behind—the big tent where most meals were taken was being left alone because it would take too long to dismantle. The reason for this was sudden and exhilarating: pursuit was close, very close.

Boone felt infused by a rush of something she'd thought she'd never experience again: hope. It was too soon dispelled, however, because as she felt Hob stiffen beneath her touch she turned to find Geldauran standing close by.

"Do not dwell on thoughts of rescue," he told her, correctly intuiting the path her thoughts had taken, "for though Fen'Harel will find us, he will not prevail. You know this."

She did. She hoped anyway, one of those traits inherent to mortals that made them so resilient at times.

"Do not hope," he told her, shaking his head. He drew nearer, laying a hand on Hob's neck. Boone withdrew, stepping back. "Not now. There is nothing left for either of us on this earth."

"Why," she asked, goaded into speaking by his callous regard for her future, "should it matter to you if I hope?"

"It shouldn't," he admitted readily, surprising her, "but it does, and that vexes me. It seems I have finally become as all other elvhen: mortal, and thus subject to every connected flaw. Yet another thing I owe Fen'Harel for." His mouth twisted into a knot of bitter amusement. "So—do not dare to hope, Evelyn. All it will bring you is further despair. Haven't you known enough in your one meager lifetime?"

"You would take that from me too," she said with simmering anger. "The last thing I have left."

"I will take it from you, yes. It is a kindness, moreso than anything Fen'Harel had ever done for you."

"You don't know that!" she snapped heatedly, filled with the fury she wished she'd lost and forgotten.

"But I do." He made as though to reach for her but checked the movement with another small shake of his head. "Don't you recall? Every secret that was ever yours is mine as well. I know what cruelties the man you love is capable of inflicting. I know which of them he imposed upon you."

"And killing me is kinder?"

"Yes. You know it is, though you will never admit it. Think upon what course your life will take otherwise—beholden always to the whim of the Elvhenan's High Keeper, subject to his designs simply because of the title you held years ago. Do you really think he would ever let you leave the city? You're far too valuable to the peace he wishes to sustain. Letting you venture beyond his reach is to invite unwelcome attention from people just like me."

"So," he continued, drawing even closer still, "I will give you this one last kindness. I will ensure you are no longer his to manipulate and I will free you from his thrall. I will grant you the peace that should have been yours a decade past."

"Kindness," she retorted. "Why not call it what it is? Revenge, and nothing more."

"Revenge and something more," he corrected her gently, a soft tone she hated. "Revenge and benevolence."

She met his uncomfortably intense gaze with narrowed eyes, lips flattening into a thin line, embracing a stubbornness she thought she'd lost long ago. Having taken her measure, he lifted his chin in understanding and she watched as something very akin to regret rippled across his face. "Saddle up," he told her, patting Hob on the neck as he stepped away. "And be prepared. We will be riding hard and fast."

He wheeled around, calling for his own horse. With her hand on his withers, Boone directed Hob to follow her to the lean-to where the tack was housed to prepare for the ride that would likely be her last.

.x.

Evelyn,

I cannot find you.

I suppose it is an example of fate's cruel humor that it is by magic of my own creation the Mien'Harel are rendered inscrutable to any and all methods of arcane searching. That we will find them—and you—is an inevitability, for we now have the numbers to flush them out, to hunt them down. It is only a matter of time, but time is something Geldauran will not let me have.

I have known fear, many times and for many reasons, but I have never known a fear like this, this fear for you, this fear I never anticipated, never expected, never wanted. I have never needed like this, yet another thing I fear. And you—you are at the root of it all, a woman I grew to love, regretted loving, and love still. I have known for a long time that you would mean more to me than any other, but I did not know you would come to mean more to me than almost anything. I have spoken to you already about the matters of my heart. I greatly fear that I will never again have that chance.

Of every adversary I have ever known, past or present, Geldauran is the deadliest. Eons ago, before I sundered the world and my people, he boasted cunning and power to surpass that of nearly every other Evanuris. He was a man of cold logic and reason, devoid of empathy and compassion. I had foolishly assumed that, once trapped behind the Veil, he would cease to be anything other than a terrible memory. Fate is spiteful, however; as he is now, stripped of all his power, he is a greater threat than ever before. My arrogance led to this. I am damned twice over because of it, first through the destruction of Arlathan and now… now it is your life suspended by a thread and it is not Geldauran that wields the knife. It is I.

I promised you that I would find you. I will do whatever I must but I am afraid, so afraid, that I will not do so in time, that he will take you from me as completely as I have taken everything from him. I am not alone in searching for you—Dorian arrived days ago with a large company from Tevinter. Cassandra, leading a contingent of Seekers, arrived at our forward scouting outpost yesterday. Our numbers have grown considerably, but we are still contending with an enemy that has no weakness: Time.

If I am unable to find you, Evelyn… if we are never to speak again… these will be my last words to you. I will scribe them with intent and bind them with despair in hopes you are able to know them even if… even if. I love you, have loved you, am a fool for not loving you as you deserved, as I so desired. I am burdened by the deeds of my past, fettered by remorse. I had to do what I've done. There was no other choice. My regrets are prolific and they lie not in what I've done, but in how I did so. I have erred so much. In following my convictions I have laid waste to even more lands and lives. In my effort to restore the time of the ancient elvhen, I have become a force of destruction.

If the outcome Geldauran promised is truly inevitable, know that I will find you again. I will find a way. If we are denied a future in this life we will make one in another. You are brave, though you think otherwise. You are strong, wise, determined, though circumstance and strife have worn you so that you no longer believe so. I know you are capable of enduring, Evelyn so please, please live. Please allow me to look upon you, to touch you, to hold you once again.

Please.

.x.