-IS 520-
S-
Geddoe asked where you were. I think he's going to kill you.
-F
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Commander Schvarzeleber-
Thank you. It will not work.
-Sasarai I
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S-
Congrats on managing to fend him off. What got him so angry this time? He didn't say a word when I asked before the fact, which is par for the course.
Also, I heard about your fingers. I'm sorry. Do you think you'll be able to use them again? What exactly happened? Seriously, feel better, and if I can lend you a hand with (almost) anything, let me know.
-F
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Commander Schvarzeleber-
I thank you for your good will. My hand is recovering some, but, alas, I doubt I shall ever be able to remove the signet ring. The last three fingers are functioning as one, due to the scarring and the fusion of the metal to my joints, and the entire area is an unpleasant, bracken color. It feels, and is, rather peculiar that I shall seal this letter with physical, rather than emotional, difficulty. At least I have the assurance that my life, and our correspondence thereof, will endure for sufficient time as to overcome this impediment.
However, certain parties have attached epithets to my person that, like the wound, will never fully remove themselves. Sir Latjke has taken to calling me His Eminence of the Scorched Earth. Nearly everyone else merely uses "the Miner." I find it rather funny.
What occurred is easy enough to imagine. As Geddoe remains a part of Our Southern Frontier Defense Force, We have records of his unit's transactions in the field. Years ago when his unit took on the archer, and subsequently the Karayan girl, they spent more, and on certain items that alerted us to the nature of those beneficiaries; for the archer's employ, the accountant suddenly began reporting expenditures on long-distance weaponry, as for the Karayan girl, and for that girl's indenture there was also the matter of acquiring feminine attire. We also have records of where these transactions are made and who with, though Ace has certainly performed his share of "creative accounting" in his time. Ace's replacement in the unit is of a more honest stock.
Using this information, We have, as We will give you credit to have guessed, been monitoring Geddoe and his affairs. Among the things We deduced in this manner was his unit's losses of certain members to age, and the acquisition of new fighters, unregistered with the Southern Defense Force. Over time, there was a record of extensive time spent in the study of magic, unnecessary and rudimentary for a man of Geddoe's power. Sir Latjke investigated the matter for Us, and discovered that Geddoe was grooming his replacement as vessel for the True Lightning Rune. Our Divine Father would not have this, and orders were dispatched for Sir Latjke to prevent this transaction. He did. Why Geddoe chose to come after me, I am uncertain.
Rather than set up a ruse to attract me to a place of his choosing, he simply waited for me to be engrossed and vulnerable in the One Temple. We had been on Our guard since your letter, but I am a private creature at times, and did not suspect even Geddoe to be so capable nor callous as to lie in wait for me at the sacred library. He came alone, and as he is not the type to enact a desperate, single-chance maneuver, managed to shut me in to the room in question. The actual details of the attack and the single accusation made during it are inconsequential. We managed to detain him and protect Our person for sufficient time for Our guard to gain access to the room and come to Our aid. However, after having been struck so powerfully by his initial attack, I would have been unable to do more. Upon the arrival of Our guard, he successfully resisted arrest, and it is my belief that he subsequently escaped Crystal Valley, as neither he was never apprehended nor his body found.
Perhaps his accusations are not inconsequential. He called me "murderer." He may have been unable to separate my commands and intentions from Our Divine Father's mission. Geddoe's wrath, upon reflection, is justifiable, and his attempt on Our person is at least as appropriate as Ours on his second. If he interpreted Sir Latjke's removal of the protégé in question as an attack on his person, Geddoe's retaliation may have used me as a similar substitute for Our Divine Father.
Or perhaps I am vain to assume so.
Or perhaps he simply hates me. I generally fail to understand that man.
The wound is a casualty of his first strike. I perceived my predicament in time and raised my hand to shield the magic. My instincts...well, they saved my life, but the laws of science and magic dictated that his lightning would converge on the most conductive object borne by those targeted. I am thankful to have raised my left rather than right hand; to have had my casting hand and Guardian Ring crippled would have ensured Geddoe's victory and spelt my death, not to mention the loss of Our Rune.
His other attempts on my life have been almost half-hearted in comparison, if indeed they were his. I was unable to coax even a vengeful admonition out of him. Granted, I lacked the time for words that were not arcane, and he is not one to issue intelligible noises during combat. By the time my guards arrived on the scene, all hope of a clue as to Geddoe's motivation was lost to speculation and secrecy.
Were it not for your advance warning, I would not have strengthened and alerted my guards to a sufficient degree, and it is likely that aid may not have reached me in time. I thank you deeply. I am sure you understand.
This is a touch poetic, but I just stared at my hand for ten minutes and did naught else, moving the two remaining functional fingers and observing the deadness of the rest. I lack the skill to draw it for you, and I doubt a portraiter will construct a likeness on such short notice, if it disheartens and fascinates me so to look upon it. I think, perhaps, I shall continue to use the hand and the ring embedded in it; it seems the true purpose of a limb so maimed, to be used as a permanent conduit for the sigil atop it. It is a "hand of office" if you will--Sir Latjke's tongue, again--but so dreadfully ugly.
I just stared at it another long moment. Perhaps I should have a glove made. But then, I would have to remove it for all official functions, so what would be the point?
Have you ever been wounded in such a way, Futch? Rather, what do you do with your wounds? Do you dwell on them as I, of do you refuse to let them change you beyond the smoothness of your skin and the strength of the nerves beneath? No doubt you have suffered in your years of warfare, as I, and likely more in your indenture to the lower ranks, and still likelier due to your particular mounts. But I have neither seen nor heard you brood over a scar as I now am.
I wonder if Geddoe knows. It is almost certain--after all, the world knows. I am now Sasarai the Miner, Black-Handed, marked apart from Our Divine Father and Our younger kin by his trophy of imperfection.
I wonder if perhaps Geddoe reflected similarly on the loss of his eye. I wonder who took it.
Once again, We thank you for the blessing of your friendship and correspondence. Writing to you proves positively dolorifugic, as ever, and We pray for your health and safety.
Fondly,
Sasarai I "the Miner"
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Sasarai-
I am so sorry. I'm glad I decided to write to you at last.
I did mean to write you earlier--and I did, actually, just didn't send it--but I suspect that what happened to me was also happening to you. I forgave you, somewhere down the line, but I got used to not writing you and not hearing from you and besides, I thought you hadn't forgiven me for going behind your back.
It's a funny story, actually. I didn't mean to. I did ask Klaus about the kid, Orosi, and he wrote back that the boy was the spitting image of you. I remembered Luc and got shocked enough that I looked it, and Slate was curious. I didn't tell her anything and just wrote back to Klaus as normal, but Slate's a smart bird. She asked what would have gotten me shocked, and Klaus showed her a picture of the True Fire Rune. And then Slate went out and shat on Orosi's glove while he was playing in the garden.
Klaus told me everything. I'm sure he actually had to ask Slate to do that, but the point remains that I didn't ask for the knowledge. If I could have found out without blindsiding you, believe me I would have. But once I found out I couldn't ignore it.
I can't believe it's taken me fifteen years to say I'm sorry. And I know you are, so you don't have to say anything. I'm the one who did wrong in going behind your back. Even if I didn't directly mean to.
I feel really cheap for blaming a bird. She missed you, you know. She said she told you so.
Things have been going on here as ever. I'm in the process of choosing which of my knights to send down to the Islands to help chop through yet another of Albert Silverberg's webs. By all that's holy to you, Sasarai, how can you stand by and let him and that bowler-wearing one-demon-army do everything they've been doing? I know you know about it. As usual, you probably know more than I do.
Whatever. The answer is probably you're helping him. Looks like we're on opposite sides of a war again. It means that these letters are going back underground, but I don't want to lose you again, especially not to my own stupidity.
I should answer your question before I forget to. I've never been wounded in the way you described. I've had my share of burns and scrapes and scratches, but nothing that's made me navel-gaze. Like you suggested, it might be because of how many of them I've had and how often I fight. And I haven't always been this vain. That took time.
About that, actually. I haven't been wounded since becoming the Captain. So I've had all this time to learn what I look like and I know my body really well. Maybe I'd get sentimental over scars now, since I'd have to re-learn myself. And that might be what's really up in your corner, since you've looked pretty much the same for at least half a century, probably more.
So tell me, first--are you aiding that mass-murdering, backhanded, twisted excuse for a Silverberg? Second, if you are, how are we going to continue this correspondence? Because, seriously, if he finds out and I find out that he's found out there is going to he Hell to pay. And third...if the answer ends up being that we have to stop this until he dies, would you mind if I killed him?
Take care. Please. Stop staring at your hand and smile, damn it. I can't imagine what the weather in the Valley's been like if you're that depressed.
-Futch
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-IS 521-
Futch,
Are you forgiving Us or condemning Us? We have ceased to be able to tell.
In either case, We forgave you long ago. But, as your last admonition to us was along the lines of your having taken control of the reinitiation of our friendship, We shall take it with a measure of salt; more than a grain, but a fair sum less than a shaker.
We are, in fact, aiding that "mass-murdering, backhanded, twisted excuse for a Silverberg," as Gregory Harras no doubt has made clear to you by now. And that truth raises concerns with Us, regarding you, and Us, and this epistolary.
It is as the bards would have it, and have had it in the past; you and We are ever on opposite sides of the wars that arise, and yet, are friends. We are driven to correspond, yet must remain closed off for the sake of others we hold dear, and we similarly stand in each others' ways. There is no way we can both attain our worldly desires as long as the other still lives--and yet, we cling to each other for causes far deeper than that to which our positions have resigned us.
We take into account the joy that flooded Our heart upon receiving your letter, after that void within Us had assimilated itself, and We had ceased to hope that Slate would ever rap her little beak into Our window and wax snide at Us for some past or present or imagined slight. Perhaps that happiness is the same, or even less, than the euphorias of years and letters past, but its relative wonder to the melancholy We now find Ourself in is staggering. It is a jolt, even, a numbing power akin to a Rune's, the fast-addictive kind.
Though Our heart is heavy, We move that in light of temporal, spiritual, and political concerns, that we continue this correspondence with utmost trepidation. To keep these letters regular is a danger to our positions, persons, and--as evidenced--provisions. It is with great difficulty that We move that we no longer attempt to convey our mundane lives, that we sacrifice the possibility of extended happiness in favor of ensuring that we will never tire of nor grow reliant upon each other. Our attachment could easily prove as dangerous to one in Our position as the bond to a wife or child. It has shown signs of approaching that fate.
We pray for your acceptance of this motion. And yet, no, at the same time We implore the heavens that you will not dismiss Us. We do not know what to think.
Fondly,
Sasarai I
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Sasarai,
Don't you fucking dare.
I spent fifteen years working up the courage to forgive you. You are probably going to be the last person in this world I'm allowed to actually connect to, and you want to limit that? In case you can't tell, we're both stuck where we are and how we are, on top of our goddamned tenths of the known world, but in the end, we are all we actually have. And you're all for getting rid of that? You goddamned ascetic.
Okay, I had to ask Slate for that word.
I wouldn't be this angry if I didn't know you were serious, though. And also right. But I don't want you to be right about it being better for us to not be close. Because it is. It's better for everyone except us. Well, it might even be better for us. In the same way that sitting on your ass instead of flying is.
I'm sorry, my dear friend, but I'm really not inclined to comply with your request. I want to keep writing you and hearing from you and poking fun at the fact that you're a lightweight drama queen for as long as we're both breathing and sentient.
But the real problem is that, as much as I love this whole star-crossed thing, you're right. I want to know you're happy, but I don't want to know you're happy because your pet vampire killed another of my friends, or that that asshole redhead in the Islands gave you a repeat-customer discount. I can console myself with knowing that you aren't your deeds and you aren't your country and you aren't your dad's quest to blanket the world in fog and policy...but to some extent, I'd be lying.
I expect I'll hear from you, sometime not tomorrow. But I will hear from you, and you'll make it matter, I know you. And I'll try to miss you less, because it's better for things that aren't me either, the same way you aren't your wars. There's going to come a point, though, where I'll have to be selfish or I'll go insane. You too, I wager.
Take care, my friend. See you when I see you.
-Futch
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