A/N: Once again, this has gone far too long without an update. Blame my continually busy and flipping upside down life for that. Moves, being kicked out of new homes, relationship dramas, broken cars, job shenanigans… the same old stuff, but boy does it eat up time and motivation. Anyway, sorry for the long wait. I'm not giving up on this fic, man. Not ever.
Historian's Note: This story takes place before, during and (eventually) after the original story through Millennium World, following the canon established in the manga. There will be spoilers, so proceed with caution.
Soundtrack: 'Haunted' on 8tracks.
Beta: SkyTurtle.
Disclaimer:Yu-Gi-Oh! and related characters are © to Kazuki Takahashi.
…
Haunted
Part VII
Raven Ehtar
…
Dear Amane,
It's been a little time since I last wrote to you, and I apologize. I know it is no good excuse, but your big brother has been getting ready for some big changes. Can you guess what they might be, Amane? I'll give you a little time to think about it and tell you about mother and father.
Father is away in Egypt, at another one of his digs, but he will be coming home next month, and its possible he will be staying much longer than he ever has before. You remember that father was great friends with the owner of the museum where he worked? He was a very short man with a mustache and eyebrows like a family of caterpillars living on his face, and mother was upset that he smoked those nasty cigarettes in the apartment. He called us 'Yin and Yang' because of our hair. Though to really be yin and yang you would have to have lighter eyes. Anyway, it seems that Mr. Caterpillar Face has made father his partner at the museum, which will make him a co-owner!
Just think, Amane, our father a co-owner to a whole museum! He's very honored, of course, and keeps saying how he can't believe Mr. Caterpillar Face would do something like this. Mother says it's only what he deserves and is long overdue in any case.
But being an owner of a museum, even if he shares that with another, is going to mean some pretty significant changes for him, and not all of them he will like. For a start, he will not be able to spend nearly the amount of time he has been used to in the field, participating in the digs. As an owner, father will have to spend much more time close to home, in the museum itself to oversee all that goes on and restoration of artifacts. I think that he will eventually come to prefer this, because being in the field… much of the time it must be very boring. In the museum he will get to work with artifact after artifact with no long dry patches between.
So he will be spending most of his days at the Domino City Museum - which is a name I bring your attention to, little sister, to remember, for it has to do with my own news. Have you any guesses yet?
Mother, as well as being very proud of father and his accomplishments - though I am unsure precisely what it is he has accomplished in this case - is also very pleased at father's enforced localization. She says that father is getting no younger, and it will be much better for him to continue his work in a much milder climate, not breaking his back moving stone, climbing in and out of holes, breathing nothing but dust and sand and taking who knew how long between baths. Much better for him to be holed up in an air conditioned room and plying out secrets of the ancient world there.
Really, it is good to see mother so animated, Amane. I don't think I have seen her so lively in, well, in the last six years or so. I think that our mother has missed father, who has only become even more absent and dedicated to his work since the last time you saw him. It has been very difficult for them, and it is good to see that the promise of having father near again had so improved her mood.
And it's not just been the long stretches between father's visits that has been so difficult for her. You may recall the many times over the last six years when I have had to transfer schools, sometimes to districts outside our own, for various reasons. Such changes in routine have always been hard on me, it's true, but they have also been hard on mother. It's not easy to transfer a son so many times, or to find schools willing to overlook the string of previous schools and any poor patches in grades due to the frequent changes. I've been a burden to her, I'm afraid, though not for much longer.
Have you made any guesses to my big news yet, Amane? I have given you some clues, and now I will tell you.
Since father now has close responsibilities at the Domino City Museum, we will all be moving to Domino City. It's a very modern city on the coast with some interesting communities. But this is not my big news, merely a part of it.
If you look at the date of this letter, baby sister, you will see that I have recently had a birthday - my sixteenth. It will be some years still before I can celebrate my Seijin no Hi, but mother and father have both deemed me old enough to live on my own. We are all moving to Domino City, but I will be living in my own small apartment on the other side of town. With father's new position, he will be able to support me until I graduate and can support myself. I think it will make things easier for mother to not have me underfoot, and with father back in the country the majority of the time, and actually spending time with her, we don't have to worry about her being all alone.
And having my own apartment will be good for me, as well. I will have privacy, much more space than I have even been used to before, and I will be closer to my new school than if I were to stay with mother and father.
Ah, yes, my new school. Because of the timing of this move, I will be transferring after the school year has already started. This is unfortunate, but I will be starting my first year of high school, and in an area where no one knows me at all, where no one will ever recognize me.
It is a very liberating feeling, Amane, to think that I may start completely fresh, with none of my past casting a shadow over my future. All I must do is be careful not to make any of the same mistakes as I have before.
Are you surprised, Amane? Your big brother is growing up and getting ready to live on his own, in a brand new city! I'm excited to get started on this next chapter of my life, and only wish you were here to see it begin with me.
I miss you, little sister, and really do wish you were here with us still to brighten our days with your smiles.
I will write to you again once I am settled in my apartment. Until then I beg your patience and wish you all the best.
Your Loving Brother,
Ryou
...
The boy runs through the streets of the village, the pounding of his sandals offering a counterpoint to his delighted laughter.
It is not an uncommon sight, especially in the season of akhet, when farmers and their sons are left with little to do than pray that the gods would be generous, but not unreasonably so with the inundation. It is the beginning of a new year, the great river's banks are spread wide and continue to rise even now. All a farmer may do is sit and watch, and wait for the river to pull back her skirts once again so they may sow the fields in the rich black silt it will leave behind. For work there is the repairing of tools and of home, the endless task of every family, or one may go to the temples and building sites, offering labor in exchange for taxes. In the first case, the skills required might be too much for a child, and in the second the labor too arduous.
So children were allowed to run, more free now for these four months then they will be for the rest of the year to come. With no work, the youngest are allowed this freedom, as the majority of families cannot afford tutors. They run, they play at games of strength, of skill, of speed, they swim in the river's more languid eddies, hunt up small treats of lotus roots and duck eggs, and play at flirting. None may know the joys of life as children unbound, and in a month of one festival after another, the village of Dendera had come to know the sound of laughter, of shrieking voices raised in untamed joy.
But this child is not running for the sheer joy of the exercise, is not sharing his laughter with peers who run with him. He runs, darting down side streets and alleys, dodging stalls and people who share the streets with him, all to avoid the adults that are pursuing him. Three men, all in clean kilts, all carrying short staves at their hips and one with a flail of braided leather in his hand fought to keep up with the small boy darting from street to street. These are not playmates at some game, but guards that pursue the boy with anger and purpose.
In two years, the boy has come to be known in Dendera. The skinny boy with a shock of white hair, he is known by sight to many of the villagers, and certainly known to the guards. He is known as a petty thief and vagrant, who takes a delight not only in the act of theft itself, but in escaping with his prize even with pursuit snapping at his heels. In fact, the guards have come to suspect that the boy gains more in enjoyment by his thefts if he knows that the watchmen chasing him will fail than he gains in terms of food or wealth. This time the boy has snatched a wig right off the head of some noble's daughter. It is a very pretty wig, made of human rather than horse hair, set into hundreds of delicate, perfect braids, each tipped with four beads: red, black, white and gold. It is a thing of skill and beauty, every little head motion of the girl who wore it a musical rattling of tiny beads. To a street urchin, though, the wig is worse than useless, as anyone would recognize it for what it is and report him to the town magistrate.
Last year had been a fat one. The gods looked kindly on Their land, blessing it with a full flood, rich silt and kind temperatures. There had been plenty of food - so much so that stall owners had been less prone to noticing when something went missing. And this year looks to be much the same. There is no need to steal something like a wig, where at best one might trade it for food.
To steal a wig in the way the boy has done only calls attention to his crime. If he is hungry, there is plenty of food in much easier places to get away with theft.
It is obvious to all that the pride of making off with his prize like a jackal into the desert is the true prize the boy seeks. This is his game, and there is no greater joy than being the best at it. Though it is far from a safe amusement, as the serious men with serious clubs are there to prove, and none of them is more eager to catch the boy than the watchman with the leather flail.
This watchman is the highest ranking of any of his comrades, a Captain, and eager to be noticed, recognized and perhaps even promoted beyond the office of a village watchman. He has dreams and ambitions that would make his peers gap if they knew the extent of them, but to which he holds himself rigorously. This one boy, who somehow slips even the tightest nets left by his men, who consistently gets away with his every theft and takes a positive delight in mocking the watchmen for their inability to catch him, had been a thorn caught in his flesh for some months. It makes him seem incompetent, it interferes in his ambitions, and the jackal-boy's cheeky smiles and mocking laughter only serve to enrage him further. None are more determined than he to catch the little thief and put an end to his games forever.
The boy does not care. Much has changed for him in the last couple of years, and he is no longer the frightened, trembling creature he had once been. There is new confidence in him, new vitality that animates him, and he revels in it freely. It had brought him food to strengthen his body, clothes to protect him, and a sense of power, of indestructibility that a past self would never believe.
He laughs again, looking backward over his shoulder to watch the stupid, heavy police try to catch him. They are so clumsy, they trip over pots as they run! Pots that had always been there! How stupid can they be?
"Come now, iwiw, why so slow? Your heads still stupid from so much wine?"
"Itja!" The boy's insults only enrage the watchmen more, especially the Captain bearing the short whip. The big man is a vision of rage, flushed with exertion and yes, wine from the night before, but the truth of the boy's jab only makes him feel his perceived incompetence all the more. "Itja!" He screams again when he takes a corner too tightly and smashes his shoulder into the unyielding mud brick of a home. "Your blood will feed the crocodiles!"
The boy laughs again, and turns down a very narrow alley. It has been fun to lead a fruitless hunt, but the time approaches to put an end to his games. He is beginning to grow tired as well, and if he allows the watchmen to chase for too long, they may finally think of something clever to catch him. And the boy did not doubt that the Captain would make good on his threat and feed him to the river. Best to make a quick and clean getaway.
Maybe tonight he will sneak into the Captain's rooms and leave the wig with him, since he wants it so badly. He is getting quite good at his sneaking, and he is sure the watchman will appreciate such skill and professional consideration.
The alley is narrow, and the boy can barely run down it. The three guards, who are all full adults, can fit, but must slow down and go single file. This is one of several such alleys and other inconveniences the boy has memorized, all leading away from his abandoned ramshackle of a home outside of town. None have discovered his hiding place in the years he has lived there, and he will not lead anyone there.
He reaches the other end of the alley, and the watchmen have fallen off his tail even further. The wine of the Tekh festivals truly has slowed them, and the boy may make good on his escape almost as soon as he decides to really try. Sunlight and open air claim him, blind him as he comes sprinting from the alley, stolen wig clutched in one hand, stolen sandals slapping the earth-
The wind is knocked out of him as he collides with what feels like the wall of a hut, and he bounces off, falling to the ground, dropping the fine wig into the dust.
For a moment the boy is stunned, hands and feet seeking purchase as his eyes adjust to the sudden light.
What did I run into? he thinks to himself. There is no wall there, so what…?
His eyes seem to take forever to clear. When they do he sees a man standing over him, thick and heavy as a water horse, staring down at him with the same slow comprehension as the great wading beasts.
The boy's heart fills with hate for this man who has slowed his escape, but he has no time - no time! - to stop and punish him. The watchmen are too close, now, and he must flee in earnest. No time even to catch up the stolen wig, he must leave it behind, and after so much trouble to get it!
He gets to his feet, stumbles, is ready to run to the next trick of alleys and lose the watchmen - perhaps they will not chase so closely now they have the wig? - and takes a running step in the same moment a hand, rough with calluses and hot against his skin, grabs his arm and halts his flight.
The boy only has enough time, a split second, to know it is the Captain that has a hold of his arm before the limb is yanked almost out of socket and he is slammed against a hot mud brick wall. A strangled noise escapes his lips, part yelp and part gasp from the pain and impact. Bright constellations bloom before his eyes as his senses are knocked loose and he loses focus once again on the world around him. The slow, stupid watchman is saying something, but the boy concentrates on getting air inside him first.
"Caught you at last, little itja," the Captain crows. Though the boy is stunned, and much smaller than he, he keeps a firm grip on the boy's arm, as though afraid the boy will slip away like water if he loosens his grip for an instant. "What good is a fine wig to a useless bug? Idiot! If you are to steal, steal what you may use! Not just a useless itja, but a useless and stupid itja!"
The daytime stars that swim before his eyes finally begin to fade, leaving the boy with nothing but the pain throbbing through his small body. It's a sharp reminder, it brings the boy back to reality, to the truth of now – that he is caught.
Caught! Him! He has never been caught before. Always he has managed to slip away, quite often undetected. He is very good at coming and going unseen, so none know their possessions have gone, or were even in danger until they find it is no longer where it ought to be.
In an instant the old terror washes over the boy like the river's current; the constant, nagging dread that this exact situation would come to pass. Caught by the law jackals, to be dragged to gaol and sold when it was discovered he had no family and no owners. To become a slave, to lose his freedom, the one thing he had left… He might prefer the crocodiles, after all.
The boy forces his fear aside, and although it still coils in the pit of his stomach, it does not show on his face. He sneers at the stupid slow watchman, in defiance of his helplessness. "Stupid thief? Stupid thief you could not catch, iwiw, so your brains must be made of shit. Tcha!"
Rage ignites in the Captain's eyes. It's almost enough to make the boy regret his words, but he will not take them back, not even as the man lifts him from the wall only to slam him against it again. His skull bounces against the mud brick, spine and ribs lighting up with pain. It fills him with joy, this power he has over the Captain. His pain is proof of his power.
"HadbaHak!"
The two other watchmen, even slower than the first and puffing like overworked cattle, finally catch up with their leader. They stumble out of the alleyway and into the light, blinking stupidly before they spot their Captain, holding their prey at last, but with an expression that promised death as assuredly as his words. If they see danger to the boy, though, they do not care much. They have not their superior's ambitions, but they have been humiliated and frustrated by the little white-haired thief as well, and are only surprised and pleased that the chase is finally over.
One stops immediately he understands the situation and folds over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. He drank heavily at the Festival of Wag and Thoth, and the chase under a hot sun has driven home his foolishness. The other, panting and holding a stitch in his side, ventures a smile at his Captain, nodding to the boy.
"Caught him at last, Captain! It was only a…"
He trails off, the words of congratulation dying in his throat as his Captain looks at him. He sees the fury, the half-mad rage on his superior's face and recognizes it for what it is. He knows better than to risk turning it towards himself by a careless word.
Swallowing what had been on his tongue to say, the watchman halts and holds himself as much to attention as his body will allow, awaiting his orders. The other watchman, still doubled over and puffing, notices nothing.
The Captain all but snarls at his underlings. The boy watches as the muscles along his sweaty jaw jump and tense, the painful grip the man has on his arm tightens even more, until it feels as though the bone may snap like a bird's. He does not cry out, but turns his wince into a grin, his grunt of pain into a taunt. "Pack of dogs, running down hares. So proud of so little."
The Captain's arm moves so fast that the boy doesn't even see it, knows nothing of what is happening until his vision is washed over with bright darkness, the side of his face blooming with agony.
"Quiet, itja! You are no hare, you are a jackal, and you will be put down like one!"
His vision and thoughts still a blur from the strike, the boy is tossed to the side, to be caught by one of the watchmen. He tells himself to run, to get away from these fools who have taken their hands off of him, but he is confused. There's no knowing which way leads to freedom, which to more captivity, and he stumbles over his stolen, too-large sandals. Before he can even sort out his own limbs he is held again by another set of hands - gentler, but no more likely to let him slip free.
Shouts of the Captain sting at his ears. He is calling to his two subordinates. "Get up! Get up and hold this little itja shit. He is going to learn right here and now what awaits useless thieves in the afterlife!"
Two hands are on one of his arms, and then another two come and take hold of the other. He is being moved, forced to walk somewhere, his stupid heavy legs tangling and making the two watchmen carry him. But where are they going? Why won't the world clear so he can see, can slip away again to safety? Why won't his body respond?
They stop moving, and the boy feels hot brick against his bare back again. His arms are still being held firmly, held out to the sides, leaving his center exposed. It is not a good position in the presence of enemies, and another small wash of fear laps over him. He shakes his too-heavy head, his cheek and eye throbbing, and tries to understand the danger he knows is there.
A voice beside him, the puffing watchman, speaks up. "Captain… oughtn't we to take him to be judged?"
"Quiet, or you will be next! This little shit is beyond judgment, beyond any mercy some fool judge may be tempted to give! He will be punished and by my hand! Understood?"
There is no reply. There does not need to be. The boy recognizes the madness in the Captain's voice, making it crackle and strain. It is blind rage, hatred gone so far that even if the Captain were to recognize what it for what it is, he wouldn't care. Too far gone, too much hate, all that can appease it is retribution. All that can slake it is blood.
The boy knows, for he feels it as well.
His surroundings begin to come into focus as his vision clears. This is not a busy street, but a small crowd has gathered around the drama developing, drawn by the shouts and the sight of watchmen with staves at the ready. Tradesmen, women, farmers, even children his own age and younger watch with curiosity as he is held by two men more than twice his size against a wall, forced to face a third full grown man standing before him.
As his vision clears further and he is able to make out the Captain, his intestines turn to water. Fear of a kind he has not felt in years clamps around his ears as he realizes what is happening. He is held, spread and defenseless, and the Captain is drawing back his flail. He is about to be whipped, not even across his shoulders as even the lowliest slave might expect, and it is to be by a man with the twinkle of insanity in his eye.
Arms held, terror squeezing his heart, there is nothing he can do. The Captain's arm comes down, forward, white teeth bared in a frenzied grin-
-the lash bites with teeth of fire-
-a high, keening scream fills the air-
-smells of terror and blood-
-copper-
-flashes in the darkness, the screams of villagers as they try to run-
-helplessness, terror, rage, hate-
-twisting at his guts, pressure at his spine, pain-
The screams become louder, piercing shrieks that attack his ears. Distantly he feels the twin grips at his arms disappear. He is falling, but he does not try to catch himself, his hands instead going to his right eye, where the lash bit him, catching blood-
All around him are sounds that have filled his nightmares for years. Screams of terror and of pain, the voices of men and women raised in confusion, the pounding of feet against the earth, the crack of shattering pottery…
The boy pays no heed to the cacophony all around him. He gives thought only to his face.
He has never been whipped before, although he has seen it done to others more than once. He has seen the long, gaping wounds they can leave when in the hands of a cruel man. With his small, dusty hands filling with blood, he knows that he has received just such a wound, even if he could have doubted the possibility with who had dealt the blow.
The pain is more than the boy has ever known. Even starving, even travelling alone along the river for days he has never encountered such biting agony. From the center of the gash the white hot pain reaches out to all of his face, a throbbing sting that strikes him with every beat of his pulse. Soon his whole body is trembling in sympathy, and his stomach clenches, nausea rising.
The boy clenches his teeth, holding down his morning meal as best he can. He dares not touch his face. If he does, then his entire skull may break apart from sheer pain. But he must know what the watchman has done to him, how bad it is. He cannot see out of his right eye, and he must know…
Slowly, with fingers muddied with blood and dust, the boy probes his face, assessing the damage. What his fingers tell him make him lose the battle to keep his stomach still.
The flesh of his face has parted in a long line. From his hair line, across his eye, and down his cheek, past his lips, almost to his jaw. Blood is pouring from his face, a small river of gore cascading down and dripping into the dirt with soft patters. The entire right side of his face is burning hot and slick with blood, but his eye…
Even more gingerly than before, he searches with blood soaked fingers around his eye socket. The gash is deep along his brow, along the ridge above his eye - he is sure he feels bone - and even deeper below his eye, digging into the flesh of his cheek. His eyelids - the boy feels dizzy with the new wash of pain - they are scored by the passing of the lash as well, but not nearly so deep as on either side of them. It is more like scratches and not, as he feared, a complete split of the lids, leaving him with four instead of two. As for the eye itself…
It is where it is meant to be. The lash had not plucked out his eyeball as he had feared, and in that alone he knows the Gods have smiled on him. Whether or not the lash had cut his eye or if he were simply blinded by his own blood was less certain. He would not know until he has more time to examine his injury. Now…
Now he needs to escape. Shock is wearing away, allowing the normal instincts of flight and survival to assert themselves. He is no longer held, and must run for safety.
The silence strikes him first. What had been only a moment ago a storm of screams and feet - what had been the cause of that? - now there is only his own breathing, and the soft sound of some chicken clucking not far off.
Hand cupping his injured eye, the boy raises his head and looks around.
There is no one. In the dust there is a pair of staves and a flail, dropped by the watchmen without a doubt, along with the shards of a large jar, a half-eaten piece of bread, and the churned footprints of a fleeing crowd.
The boy frowns, and then cries out at the pain such a simple act causes to lance through his face. Where has everyone gone?
He looks around, and cries out again when he sees the crumpled body of a watchman right beside him. It is the less winded watchman, the one that had dared to question his Captain's rash handling of their prisoner. He is, without a shadow of doubt, very dead. His eyes and mouth are open, wide in an almost comical depiction of terror, screaming even in death with his gaze towards the Gods. Shrieking at Heaven. His body is already twisted, his fingers curled into claws, as though to attack or snatch at whatever it was he saw in the afterlife.
The boy scrambles back, away from this mad specter of death, and looks around, suspicious of other such gruesome discoveries.
There are none the boy can see. Beside the body of the watchman and the tracks of a panicked group of people, he is alone. What was it that killed one of his captors, and chased away all the others so effectively?
He does not have long to wait for answers to both riddles. As he looks about himself, a moving shadow draws his attention. It is a small shadow, low to the ground where no shadow had any right to be, and moving swiftly toward him. For an instant the boy is frightened and draws away from the oncoming shadow. But as it draws near he recognizes it for what it truly is, and all mysteries are solved.
"Little God!"
The white serpent, larger since the last time he has seen it, and much larger since the very first time beside the river, pauses in its progress long enough to rear up and give a hiss of greeting, black maw ringed with white fangs, violet eyes sparkling in the sun.
His face still hurts beyond words, but the boy cannot help but smile. He has only ever seen the Little God a handful of times since the very first, and every time it has been to save him from some predicament. He knows not why he has gained such a valuable ally, but he is grateful. Even more than the assistance the Little God is so good as to provide, the boy no longer feels so completely alone.
It is good to not be alone.
He holds out a hand to the serpent, who pauses to flick a tongue out at the blood pooling in the boy's palm. The triangular head tilts to allow the serpent to look at the boy, one violet eye to another.
There is communication in that look, one which the boy, without knowing how, understands.
He swallows hard, his legs shaking. It's a warning of what's to come, he knows. Soon his strength will leave him, and he must be safe before that happens.
Pulling his hand away, the boy breathes, gathering every bit of strength he can to himself.
"Little God, please help me. Take me somewhere safe, somewhere hidden, where I may rest and heal without being discovered by these dogs."
The Little God tilts its head again, its eye that was also the boy's eye examining him, weighing his ability and strength. Then, abruptly, the Little God drops to its belly, turns on itself, and slithers quickly away.
Trembling as he does so, the boy stumbles to his feet and trots after the rapidly receding tail. He pauses only twice, once to stoop for the dropped flail, and again for the dusty bread. He knows not where the Little God is leading him, but he will need protection and food in any case.
Today is not the day to die, and neither will the morrow.
…
A/N2: I've had this chapter actually written so long and just in need of editing… and then the editing didn't take very long once I got into it… Makes me think I'm missing some huge mistakes. Meh.
Seijin no Hi: This is the Coming of Age Day, marking when a child crosses over into adulthood at the age of majority (20). At the time the fic is taking place this would be on January 15, but after 2000 it was changed to the second Monday of January.
Iwiw: The ancient Egyptian word for dog, referring to their bark. (My sources for ancient Egyptian language are a little sketchy and hodge-podge, so don't take them as 100% accurate, as I can't be sure.)
Itja: The ancient Egyptian word for thief.
Gaol: Ye olde word for jail. (Not Egyptian.)
Tcha: Not an actual word, this is just a derisive noise, like 'tsk' but more violent.
HadbaHak: This is Arabian Egyptian (close enough?) for 'I'll kill you.'
Akhet / Tekh: Akhet is the season of flooding (mid-July to mid-November) and Tekh is the first month of the season. This is also the first month of the year, so lots of festivals.
Water horse: A hippo.
Ryou's Letter: One mistake I noticed in my editing but which I'm not fixing is that I have (accidentally) made it so that Ryou's mother is still alive. If we go back to the in-canon letter he wrote to her (see A/N2 of previous chapter) he's asking how Amane AND their mother are doing, suggesting that they are together, i.e., in Heaven. In theory this could be fixed later on, since this letter is taking place before the in-canon one and she could die sometime between. While true, this doesn't allow for much time, and if she died so soon before meeting the rest of the crew at Domino High, I would feel the need to show it… and I don't wanna. Why not fix it, then? Again, I don't wanna. It's a small enough continuity error, and Ryou's mother will be dying off screen at some point later on anyway, and I like how the letter in this chapter flows without having to cut all the parts she's mentioned in and try to lever in a not-quite-explanation of how she died since the last chapter. I made a boo-boo, but it's a little one and won't be causing any bigger boo-boos later.
Thank you for reading, everyone!
