Chapter Text
My Love,
I write to you in the early hours of dawn, with the shy glint of morning light barely painting the sky. I meant to do this on a more appropriate time, but I confess that I could hardly keep the words that I've held on for many days. Katryen has not stirred when I rose from the bed, which I am thankful for. I did not want to ruin her slumber just because I could not contain myself.
I miss you, Ead.
My hand has longed to write those words, and the drying of ink on parchment has not made the feeling any less insistent. And don't tell me it's only been weeks since you left Ascalon. I imagine you grinning wickedly as you tell me so, but I am aware that in that heart of yours you know that any stretch of time apart is a burden. That I should bear this weight for years is a darkness looming in my soul, but I must face it. You helped me reclaim the strength that I've always had, my love, the steel in my spine that I've forged myself and lost in the throes of my own misery. But now I've a firmer grip on this strength in me, with your aid, and I shall not fail you for faltering now. We have our people to lead.
How was your travel? I have on good authority that the waters were kind when you boarded the Rose Eternal. Gian Harlowe wrote to me, can you believe it? Firstly, he informed me of your safety. Then he wrote a little bit about my mother and assured me that I shall find a most loyal subject in him. I sensed genuineness from the man I expected to be as hardened as the iron-clad ship he captains. He said he had always wanted to write to me after my mother died, but he blamed a hidden cowardice and a fear of condemnation should I take the slightest courtesy from him as an offense given the rumors about the nature of his relationship with my late mother. He said hearing you speak of me finally made him do it. Harlowe made no mention of it, but the possibility of him being my true father is a thin wire I dare not cross. There's no way of knowing, though I guess it matters not. I don't exactly know what to think of him yet, or of the letter he sent to me, but I believe myself touched by the gesture. War has softened me, I think.
So that is how I came to know that you fared well on your travel back to Lasia, at least the part when you were at sea. I have no doubt that there is no threat to your safety that you cannot thwart, but allow me to worry and ask for assurance.
Tell me about the Priory. Tell me everything, dearest, about gaining the position you've always dreamed of. Tell me so I may paint an image of your face, so that I may know whether your eyes brim with tears or you keep it rigid in front of your sisters that now look upon you as their leader. The people in court have intensated their praises and songs of your heroism now that you are not here standing like a pillar by my side as you stare darkly at any over enthusiastic courtier. Forgive me if I find great delight in there words. Can you really blame be for being proud of the woman I love? Sometimes Margret and I would find humor in it, too. The courtiers who never paid any real attention to you in all your years in court are now claiming that they know you well, or better than they truly do. The ones who also called you a witch now hail you as a legend. How I want to shut them up for good, and Margret quite agrees. I stop myself and conceal these dreadful and vengeful thoughts. It is too vile and I hate to disturb the peace that I now enioy.
Loth is set to return to Ascalon soon, bearing news of something he refused to reveal to me in his last letter. I hope his adventures have not made our dear friend too bold in his ideas.
The sun is beginning to rise and soon I would have to face the day and return to my duties again. I will end this letter with a promise of more and a hope that yours would arrive soon. I can hardly wait to hear from you.
Love,
Sabran