To a grave robbing gardener,

An orchard or an ensemble—which should you like to cultivate? You once wrote that, were an ultimatum issued, you would choose music without pause. An earnest declaration, I believed. Yet, I cannot believe that you shall find community with those held hostage in want of coin. Pity, to squander such promise. Unaware though they may be, the choristers like you already. They like your composition well enough to perform it no less than five times.

I have ne'er so much as shared a word with the great maestro Bosc but hold affection for him withal. By the blossom of his genius, I was blessed with beautiful music. For all your menace, you have also blessed these people. Following a demonstration of benevolence, mayhaps you might offer another manuscript—one which bears your signature. Let them see that you are kindred in the arts. However, I bid you first release them from financial shackles. Otherwise, they may resent the intrusion. Should the pleasure of gold exceed that of an ensemble, disregard my advice. But, if you should make your attempt at peace, know this tax to which you cling is poison.

I do so hope that you succeed—if not for your sake, for that of music itself. To deprive society of your fantastically versatile voice would be the gravest crime. Seven octaves? Oghma's yarting, the ear can scarcely fathom ten. You are simultaneously a basso profundo and the highest of soprani. O tell, are you some ethereal spectre, whistling the timbre of spun sugar and starlight? Do you murmur the secret rumbling songs of oak and ash? One can only pray that your vocal quality is a match for your remarkable range. Singers would leap to slit your throat were there the slightest chance of transplanting your voice box. Tis utterly inhuman.

You are utterly inhuman. At times, I nearly forget. We are so much alike, in some aspects, that such difference is a shock of absinthe. From phrase to phrase, you ferry me from familiar banks to foreign shores. In one line, you describe repertoire and spin clever diversions. You speak the same bliss and loneliness that I have borne all my life—the artist's native tongue. Then, you dream of swallowing the still-beating heart of your sister. Alien appetites, I cannot conceive of. You ask what it is to be human. The existential terror you encountered beneath that cavernous sky is no small part. We try not to dwell upon it, lest the madness of immeasurable vastness consume us.

Ere this day, I had not thought of my features as blunt—my teeth especially. That diddling dastard of a sibling and I once harboured a biting habit. In youth, an older boy harassed him behind the windmill. My brother was a dear, toddling creature then—hardly three with wide, watery eyes. As the eldest, I was his steadfast guardian from all but my own bedevilment. Upon intervention, the assailant made to grab me instead. I sunk my teeth in his arm like a foaming hound and held fast through his thrashing caterwaul. From what dim recollection remains, the boy ne'er touched us again. I no longer bite, suffice to say. As for my brother, I cannot swear for him. What occurs in the crevices of brothels is no business for the sisters of clientele.

Many years thereafter, when the raids were o'er, we villagers pried the fangs of trolls from their severed heads—fangs that pierced our kinfolk, taken that we might savour an empty drop of stale vengeance. I kept mine in a leather pouch, hanging by the window. My brother pocketed them when he left—probably to haggle with some city scum. I remember rolling them in hand and pressing gingerly on their points. Now, I wonder if your teeth are so sharp.

Is it naive to assume that your inhuman conscience bears any resemblance to mine? I am certain there is empathy in you. Otherwise, wherefore should you ease the suffering of an aged maestro or avenge the death of strangers? Wherefore should you cherish ghosts? Is goodly gentleness truly so tiresome—so repulsive—to you? Is goodness itself naught but adamant delusion? Do you believe that you are evil?

My mother owned a looking glass—the sole precious object retained from an unknown infancy. Ere the convent, she may have been a daughter of wealth, for, inlaid were the smallest cerulean stones, now plucked and sold. I cannot say if her family was laid to rest or if she was discarded for illegitimacy. The sisterhood claimed her so young that she knew no life preceding.

The goat plague nearly ruined us, but mother and father were canny and resilient. Yet, as the troll raids came and went, those beacons of fortitude were no longer present. At times, I despised them for it and then despised myself for dishonouring their memory. Whilst I ensured our survival, my brother guzzled ale to wash down his troubles. He skulked about behind the tavern for raffle, thimble-rag, and hazard—madcap games of chance. Mayhaps he thought to win back our life as I had won my violin. After all, twas my idea to toss dice those many years ago.

He entrusted me with our very existence whilst he pursued his pleasure. Could that sightless skamelar not sense that I yearned to be more than a lonely girl, growing old in the country? Woe, my feet have grown roots—planted, sure as sunset, in the muck. I was no person to him, but a garden from which to pick his fill. How many nights were wasted scraping him off the floor of the inn? How many years of devotion spent in vain? I taught him to persevere without our parents—poured out my vigour that he might someday gain maturity enough to support himself. Yea, we had our disputes, but I loved him. I loved my brother.

Had I left with Demik, he might have drunk and gambled his way into the grave. Nay, I could not leave til the season was o'er and the goods were ready for market. I could not leave him to flounder and starve. In my absence, he might have made a man of himself or died, an overgrown boy. Unlike him, I would not gamble with lives, his or my own. Somehow, I imagined these months would differ—that I should finally help the idle serpent slough off his shrivelled skin. Alas, I was abandoned instead.

Like a churlish brigand, he ransacked our hut for what puny fortune I had saved and fled into the night. For a span of days, I was even distressed—may the God's forgive me—that some terrible strife had befallen him—perhaps a debt to be repaid on pain of death. Yet, soon enough, I received a letter and in those saucy, smarting lines saw the fullness of his callous narcissism.

On that awful morn, I dipped my quill in fury and sent forth the curdled words which bound us. Then, I threw down my mother's looking glass. By Ilmater's tears, I wished the reflection of that filthy, sorrow-twisted face was my own flesh. I wished that the world would fall away like those glass fragments or that I would fall away from the world. Admittedly, I wept and bled o'er the shards once the deed was done. They cut into my hand whilst I shoved them back in frame. To this day, I have not recovered the full set. In the centre of the glass, there gapes a jagged void—the surrounding webbed splinters numerous enough that one cannot discern an image. I like not to look at it anymore. Thus, I wrap the item in cloth and stow it at the bottom of a clay jar, filled with clumps of tinder.

Sometimes, I do wish to punish the universe. I have longed to land an axe in my brother's thick skull—to cleave him like a rotten log. Twould thrill me to strike Madame Margaret across her wrinkled scowl—her and every other gossiping hag or boorish louse who shows contempt. In moments, I want to throw myself down and shatter, simply for being. Nonetheless, I cannot shatter myself nor can I shatter the universe. Given pause for thought, I do not even candidly desire such, considering the consequences.

In truth, I verily doubt that you would destroy the universe either. You could not even destroy the neighbouring village. There is too much beauty in it. After penning liquid rage and rashly hurling heirlooms, I played on Emberceuse—vent of turmoil and balm of the spirit, as Siakepesk is to you. Yea, I have lost people and objects and opportunities, but I have not lost music. Neither have I lost wonder. I have the nectar of the pale golden honeysuckle and the clumsy bobbing of pond ducks where my herd takes their drink. I have the crisp scent of rosin on my sleeve and the painted cathedral of the cosmos, even if those stars are destined for dissolution. Music and this sum of luminous minutiae just may constitute a world worth preserving.

We can attempt to punish the universe. Yet, however much we burn away, it shall continue—vast and wicked as it ever was—and we shall be gone. Inhuman grandeur aside, are you not also a cog in the ultimate timepiece? As such, I find hatred to be the least efficient use of energy. At times, my temper festers, pestilent with myriad frustrations—my family, the village, the livestock, the house, the endless daily catastrophe of living. To ignite rancour is simple. To maintain it entails commitment. Hatred is as effortful as love, but yields a bitter crop. After the labour necessary for survival, how can I give what remains of myself to music, when I lend so substantial a portion to loathing? I do think that I shall ever forgive my brother, but I hope, someday, to cease hating him so fiercely.

And, with that, I have told too much. Behold, the naked soul of a pauper. Speaking of which, did you, perchance, stand at the summit of a mountain in the nude? The phrase 'bare to the wind' paired with stinging 'mountain air' elicits some concern. Twould be no surprise that the fire of life should dwindle in your breast. By the gods, you shall catch your death with such stupidity! Do you practise bare to the wind as well? Bouncing bollocks of Bane, how is it that you render me scaldised, yet I have not seen a hair on your head?

As we waltz about the subject of scandal, know that I do not endorse your interpretation of Madame Margaret's mania either. Tis true that letters are an intimate form of communication as unattached maidens are involved. Still, there is nothing in our prose to suggest so-called sordid entanglement. I daresay you haven't an ounce of coquetry in the whole of your being. A proper suitor praises and soothes their lady love. I am uncertain that you are capable of writing a single page without some derision. Tis also customary for paramours to present a pretty token of sorts—gathered wildflowers or jewelled trinkets. All that you have presented is a dollop of ointment. Be this the source of Madame Margaret's misguided crusade, then she truly is batty as a weasel in a wedding gown. I would consider laying her upon the sacrificial fire, but fear she may already be some cantankerous spectre, bent on tormenting me.

In any case, sincerest gratitude for sending the aforementioned ointment. Unfortunately, the cause of said scrape is entirely unheroic. One of my goats—a tawny male with crooked horns—dashed underfoot as we scaled a steep patch of hillside. The injury is nearly healed, though I applied a dab of your mixture out of curiosity—a pleasant sensation. Til the need arises, I shall safely keep it. The jar itself is quite lovely as well. I am fascinated as to how one might produce glass of such vibrant ruby hues. Tis, perhaps, an exorbitant vessel for a humble salve.

Unfortunately, my faith in your kind declines with each letter. A people with no healers among them is a troop of pompous idiots. Wherefore should one relegate such vital knowledge solely to subordinates? Besides, to call healing a soft occupation is hogwash. Required are a keen mind, a steady hand, and a stomach of steel. In our initial correspondence, you insisted that your grasp of the discipline was rudimentary. Now, I wonder if you were not simply reluctant to be perceived as one who mends rather than one who rends.

There was once a young boy with whom I frolicked about the hills and country houses—Neville, he was called. I miss him, occasionally, in the same bleary, somewhat honeyed way that I miss all of childhood. Ere his parents migrated south, we met beneath an old beech tree to practise embroidery. My work was serviceable, but he was an artist. Of course, our limited finances came with a limited colour palette. We hadn't a single shade of purple. Still, his patterns seemed to breathe—not realistic, but a brighter echo of reality.

As our skills progressed, we brought our threadwork to the market, yet he told his brothers that the lot was mine. Neville's embroidery surpassed any skill he might have claimed, but it was not a manly art. At the time, I did not understand wherefore he should conceal his proficiency. With age has come awareness, yet I still see only bromidic bunk. This so-called unmanly art bolstered his spirits and bought bread for the table.

You are a competent healer. Whether or not that is respectable amongst your own, I am grateful. Vivek and Lyros surely share my gratitude. I cannot speak for Maron, but if that mercurial bird deigns to clamber upon your shoulder, he must favour you. Medicine is admirable knowledge for nurse and warrior alike, so be not ashamed. Tis, as you said, insensible to punish excellence.

I am, additionally, relieved that even one so vicious and vainglorious as yourself does not abduct innocent vocalists and parade them about like performing monkeys. Perhaps my own conscience is confused, for this, moreso than any misdeed you have committed, would provoke offence. Yea, I can abide devouring and bloody contest, but ne'er enslavement. Somehow, that seems the cruellest outcome.

Having read of your depravity, tis now the small, scattered droplets of mercy which oft astonish me. Fervent rapacity aside, you did not take the Tovhet quartet by force. Instead, you treated the keepers of the instruments with a modicum of respect, albeit interrupted by a bit of grave-robbing. You cremated the slain and, not for sport, avenged their agonies. Would you have done so ere that fateful day when Lyros played in spite of death—ere the voice of creation entered into you? Yea, I believe that music has bestowed upon you something resembling a heart.

As per your request, I have considered my dream of the Ketze Sonata, and found the memory unusually intact. I am not one for remembering those apparitions of slumber. Yet, despite time elapsed, the pianist's features remain clear as they were upon waking—stocky for an elf, with broad shoulders, and a somewhat swarthy, pockmarked complexion. There was, indeed, a pronounced cleft about his chin and a scar as well—another beside his rounded nose. Beneath thick brows and a wide forehead burned a pair of penetrating brown eyes. The elf was dressed pragmatically in worn yet unmistakably modern attire—not at all like the illustrations, but rather like a human man. Even in euphoria, that countenance displayed a purposeful intensity—inescapable furor.

Though you are neither man nor elf, I envision for you a similar sense of gravitas. Your presence, even on parchment, has palpable weight. You occupy expanses, spread like a swathe of sky across the mind's canopy. In contrast, I feel positively miniscule—a dandelion on a precipice, piece by piece dragged, as you feared, screaming into the sunrise. All that you have writ of my condition is accurate—some of it, regrettably so. Indeed, the flower of my maidenhood swiftly wilts. I shall not be pollinated, for the touch of man, I scorn. The touch of woman is yet another font of unfulfilled yearning, as I cannot name one among my village who shares such inclinations. Nay, I embrace the bite of the string on my finger and the kiss of boxwood on my neck. Emberceuse is a demanding lover, but she indues my being with significance—inspiration and aspiration combined. With this, perhaps, I may be content.

However, I am given to wondering if we—safely swaddled in mystery—must be content with disembodied voices. Are we not overly cautious where details are concerned? If you are amenable, I should like to make a game of said details. With each correspondence, tell me something of yourself—something corporeal, that I might incrementally assemble a mental portrait. Likewise, I shall grant you the same. For example, I am bestrewn with an infernal dusting of freckles. As the summer sun shines, more appear. Mother compared them to constellations. I compare them to a spatter of dirt that resists all scrubbing.

All heartfelt effort aside, I have detected no substantial evidence of Emberceuse's wondrous ghosts—not of the magical variety, anyway. Yet, a most peculiar desire has come upon me. I had thought to continue practising the Pagarre Caprices, but find myself—with an uncommon urgency—drawn to Sante's first concerto. Three and half years have passed since playing this piece, yet it settles in my hands with the easy warmth of familiarity. Perhaps such pondering borders on conspiracy, but might Emberceuse commune through repertoire? In any case, I anticipate your response and pray that your decision regarding the choir nourishes that fruit most earnestly desired.

From,

One who only sometimes wishes to punish the universe

*Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Major, Op. 20 (Saint-Saëns)
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