Shacia`s Letter

　　Mr. Tip髇,

　　I still had a bit of your blood on my dress from the opera, so I thought to write a letter that only you could ever read. I never got to teach you about blood magic, though I was planning it for our next session that never came to pass. It`s simple, really. There`s no ingredient more potent and uncomplicated as blood - a trade-off for how limited its application is - but I digress. This letter isn`t meant to be a magic lesson, and you`ll almost certainly never read it anyway. So, consider this a confession. The Seamstress is the only other person who knows, and you`re the only other person I trust.

　　Firstly, as you already know, I am indeed the Widow, as the entire damn city came to know me. I`m sure you saw the posters. Believe me when I say that I never vandalized anything, threatened anyone, or committed any arson. Such accusations are baseless rumors. In fact, all I - the Widow - ever stole was the Madam`s necklace, which I hid in the handle of my umbrella. The Madam threw a fit to the Guard, and the whole thing blew up from there. Regarding the old woman in the bonnet and dress, she was my illusion, my scapegoat, and my alibi, the only thing at the Madam`s party that evening that seemed out of place`. If I have one regret as far as that debacle goes, it`s only for what it did to poor Marcus. He used to be a trusting and gullible sort, and this broke him in a way that I never anticipated. Perhaps his pain should be credited to the Madam, but the guilt weighs heavily on me still.

　　So, if all I ever did was steal one necklace in my own house, why in god`s name did I think I could steal from the Palace? And that cursed weapon, of all things? I wish I could truly explain myself, Rorri, but it`s just as mystifying to me. In my desperation, I overestimated my abilities, and I caved in to a silly fantasy dreamed up by a cat trapped in a cage. The Seamstress put me in touch with someone in the Guard, and to make a long story short, I thought it would be enough to pose as one, myself. I had studied the layout of the Palace, I had picked a day that it would be as empty as it ever would, I had long known how to disable magic wards, and I thought that would be enough. You know how the rest goes. Some things just can`t be accounted for.

　　As to the weapon: I had read about an artifact belonging to the Royal family that was enchanted with the ability to disappear. The texts were scant, wrapped up in myths and legend, but I had my own hypotheses regarding the nature of the enchantment and what else such disappearing` could accomplish. That it was said to be made of Obsidian tungsten only added poetic justice to my fantasies. I thought if I could disappear with it and reappear in the place where all their secrets lie, I could steal them and reveal to the world what sick, twisted things they do and discuss behind closed doors& but I just didn`t think it through. I`ll never know how it would have turned out, had the knife pierced my skin before yours. Would it have bound to my blood at all? Or would it only bind to the blood of its own kind? After what happened, I`m inclined to think the latter, especially considering that it was kept in the Royal Vault untouched for so long. I`ve tried to crack its secret since you left it here, but it wants nothing to do with me, and all I`ve gained are lots of scars on my fingertips. I tucked it away in a mildly-enchanted box (it`s a bit harder to notice, that`s all) with the blindfold that you left here, and I put it in my closet for nobody else to find. It`s a gift that`s only for you, the sort you never wanted and didn`t ask for, but a gift, nonetheless. I`m so sorry. I really, truly am.

　　Oh, and if you`re wondering how my wedding went, it didn`t. I had to cover up why I felt such pain when walking, so I claimed ceremonial impurity`, my woman`s blood. Husbands don`t diddle their bleeding wives, so it was an easy sell. But this is what really happened: I jumped into the river, fell down the waterfall, and slowed my descent enough to avoid dying. After climbing out of the plunge pool, I used what shreds of magic I had remaining to dry myself off, then hailed a cab, paid the driver to stay silent, and hobbled into the manor through my secret door. I thought the wobble in my legs would wear off - I thought it was a side effect of the shock and strain I`d put my body through that night - but it`s only gotten worse. I`d meant to slow myself enough that it would have been as painless as jumping into a pond. Perhaps if I weren`t so depleted from my silly heist, I would have been successful in that... It broke me, no different from how you broke your eyes.

　　So I told the Madam about my impurity`, and she believed me enough to postpone the wedding, but in truth, I hadn`t had my blood for at least two cycles. I feel like a glass doll that`s fallen to the floor - not hard enough to shatter, but enough to fracture, and those cracks get wider every day. The doctors don`t understand it. They call it hysteria,` of all things. The Madam has locked me in my room, and I don`t know what she`s told Lord Witherfinger, but the pain is so unbearable I couldn`t leave if I tried.

　　And this brings me to my last confession. I swear I didn`t know before you left. I thought it was simply stress that kept me from bleeding, but after so long, one must consider the other possibility, that I am carrying a child. But worse, I can`t say whether the child is yours or Lord Witherfinger`s. Though we hadn`t yet married, I`d been given to him once already to test my suitability` as his wife. The Madam says I should be flattered to have been deemed suitable`. I wish to all the heavens that I hadn`t been. But, here I am, pregnant, locked up and alone, not knowing what my child will look like when they leave my body. If it is Lord Witherfinger`s, I will do my best to raise the child with whatever semblance of love I can muster, though most of the child-rearing duties would fall to the servants, as it was with me. In some ways, that would be the best-case scenario for all - for my House, for the child, for myself&

　　But if the child is yours? I can hardly bear to think of it, Rorri, knowing what you are. It would have been bad enough for them to be crowned the child of a whore, but to be half-Du閚? Our most merciful end would be swift execution. The Madam holds her suspicions already - she hasn`t let anyone into my room since learning of my pregnancy, and I fear that she intends to take this matter upon herself. She is a cruel, cruel woman. For her, it would not be enough that such an abomination` be simply executed. I don`t know what she would do, but the thought that she might have any access to our child whatsoever makes me dizzy and ill. All I can do is cry and scheme, but in my state, I can only produce tears and silly fantasies&

　　Summer is upon us. Some elves live centuries less noteworthy than this one year has been. The anniversary of your first lesson has just passed, and I cried the entire day. More and more I sense the child is ours. I pray it isn`t. No child deserves the life this one would suffer. But in my heart, I know it is.

　　I haven`t much else to say, and I have nowhere to send this. The Madam keeps glancing at it, but to her eyes, it`s just some inane babbling about the renovation. Still, I see how wary she is. She knows little of magic, but she fears it when she sees it, unless she can control it, as it was with the necklace, or the fire she conjured to threaten me when I was a child. But she won`t even touch the letter, as if it might curse her in some terrible way. (It`s not unreasonable to think it might. I`ve cursed her before - only sinister pranks in my more rebellious days, but still. If ever there were a time that I`d curse her something dreadful, it would be now, and she knows it.)This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

　　*******

　　I can`t remember the last time I touched this. It`s been sitting on my desk, undisturbed, beside the vial of ink and your blood. The child will be coming soon, within a month, if even that. How quickly they grow in our bellies; how slowly they grow in the world.

　　But I am not well, Rorri. I fear I won`t survive this. The pain in my legs has traveled up my spine, some days reaching even my arms and my head. It`s all I have left to finish this letter. Even the Madam sees it coming. She hasn`t spoken of it explicitly, but I can tell. Her ire has dampened. She hasn`t said anything horrible to me in weeks. Perhaps some part of her recognizes her own fault in the matter. I hope that is the case.

　　I told the Seamstress and your human friend about what the military does with your peoples` bodies. I wrote it in enchanted ink - the imperfect kind - and sent it via courier. I told them to burn it when they finish. It was a terrible risk, and perhaps it wasn`t right to burden them with it at all. I don`t know if they can or would do anything with the information, but I can`t in good conscience to take it to my grave, and I have nobody else to tell. But your human friend has risked his life for you once already. He just strikes me as the sort who would stage a coup if he has half a chance. Maybe this will spark a revolution, or maybe nothing at all will come from it, but at least I can say I tried. That will have to be enough.

　　I`ve told the Madam the baby`s name: Pak. I just love the sound of it. If I die without ever seeing my baby`s smile or hearing their babble, at least they`ll have their name to take with them - if that be their only gift from their mother, at least they`ll have that. I admit, what I remember of the M閟poulis is blurry, and the intricacies of your given name are lost to me. But I remember the sound, and it seems fitting that this child should be named for their father, so they can have a gift from you, too. I hope you don`t mind. I know it`s a sound that`s heavy to your ears in ways I can`t comprehend. But I`ve already started calling them that. My sweet little Pak, my Pak Pie, my Pocket - There`s no going back. I love it too much.

　　Though I`ve never been a spiritual person, as I near my end, I find myself praying every single day to whatever good Spirit is listening: please let our child live a good and peaceful life. Please let them find meaningful love. Please protect them from what cruelty awaits them in this world. I pray, I pray, I pray, for whatever praying is worth, I pray they know their mother loves them, even if I can`t be there to say it. And though I`m not in the habit of presuming to know how another feels, I know their father loves them too, even if he is terrible with kids. Or, at least, he would love them if he knew they existed.

　　I suppose there`s one matter left to discuss - the matter of you, yourself, Mr. Tip髇 - and, more specifically, you and I together. I wear the Catseye you gave me every day. I`ve been doing that since you gave it to me, actually, but I guess you wouldn`t have known that since what happened to your eyes happened so soon after. I asked the Madam to bury me with it. I can`t stand the thought of her selling it or, god forbid, wearing it herself. I`ve always been a dreamer (which may not come as a surprise, if you believe in the link between dreaming and magic), and I dream about you all the time. Before any of this happened, I recall one particularly saucy dream in which you asked me to send you something`. Just a dream, I`m sure, but I do wish I`d sent you something sooner. This can still be that, though I know you`ll never read it. I don`t even know if you can. You said you can see magic, so I suppose it`s possible. I feel compelled to record it regardless, even if it is just a scatter of thoughts that only you or I would ever hold dear.

　　I often wonder what sort of trouble we could have gotten into had life given us a closer beginning, if you were born on the Plateau, or if I were born in the Obsidian, or if both of us were born somewhere in-between. I remember when I still thought you were a fleeting fancy, someone who would come and go without fuss, a brief interest and nothing more. How could either of us have known what this would become? Some days I find myself resenting you for the position you`ve put me in, but those days are few, far between, and rife with unspeakable pain. I saw your life, and never could I truly blame you for the events that have passed. You made some terrible choices, but so did I. I saw why you made yours, and it breaks my heart knowing what you went through before coming to me. I`m still working through the choices I`ve made, but perhaps, before I pass, I`ll find forgiveness for myself in the same way.

　　This is the cycle our souls have chosen. I hope in our next cycle, we`ll find each other again, and all this heartache will be but a bygone memory our souls have tucked away. I do feel comforted by the thought. I don`t pretend to know what the afterlife entails, or if there even is one, but that`s the thought I keep returning to. For as often as I ponder death, such comfort is its own gift. All of this is to say, if you had ever doubted it - of course I love you, Rorri. Much as I`ve wished that I didn`t, at times, I still do. And you never needed to say it. I`ve always known you felt the same.

　　I hope you`ve found your measure of peace in a place shaded from the world`s cruelty. I hope you find meaningful love, wherever and with whomever, as long as it`s the sort of love that soothes and heals and nothing less. I hope I taught you something that you`ll carry with you through the rest of your years, something you can pass on to someone else - a legacy, I suppose. Even if it`s just a silly magic trick.

　　Until the next cycle, and forever after, with love,

　　Shacia

　　(P.S. - Your silver friend brought Poppy back to me. He said he had to start a new life` after all that happened, and that Poppy was a loose end`, but I could tell he didn`t want to give him back. I mentioned I was writing you a letter, and he asked me to let you know he`s still upset, but he forgives you, and if you ever make it back to Iridan, he`s been thinking about resuming his boxing ring, and you can probably find him that way if you ask the right people`. He`s a funny one. Though I`ve only met him a handful of times, I think I`ll miss him, too. Every time I sit down to write this, Poppy leaps onto my lap, as if he knows what I`m doing and wants to make his own contribution. So, Poppy says hello, he misses you terribly, and sorry about what happened at the Palace - he didn`t mean to cause such a ruckus! I told him you forgive him. I hope that`s not too much to presume. I asked Urtis to take Poppy to the Seamstress when I`m gone, so at least he`ll stay in our strange little family in some way. I`m sure you worry about him, but I promise, he`ll be in good hands. I`ll make sure of that.)

　　Cabbage

　　Even Cabbage didn`t understand what bizarre magic this was. The weird blind stranger caught the knife or something, and then he wrapped Pak up in the trees somehow and magic started coming out of his ears, and literally one second later he stumbled backwards and started crying. And then Pak got away from the trees, and the blind guy hugged him and started blubbering and apologizing. Against all odds, the only sane person there was Kano, who was watching with the same degree of bewilderment. And then the new guy hugged him, which was weird, and then Kano gave the new guy that letter that Pak was always obsessing over, and he took his sweet time getting through it, and then they all babbled some more nonsense and Pak started crying - it was way too much. Cabbage just wanted it to be over already, so they could get out of this stupid place to somewhere where Pak could see him again.