It was odd to be returned to her clinic. Everything looked the same as when she had left, more or less. A bit more dusty, her bread moldy. Pell was gone, too, no doubt flown out the chimney, and Fero had been quite glad for the food she'd brought him. It was almost like coming home, if it hadn't felt so hollow. She'd been in prison for two weeks, but it had felt much longer. Her breath was still short and nervous, as though she expected to have Stormcloaks upon her at any moment.
And she'd been foolish. So, so foolish. How had she thought it'd be a good idea to write Basille about troop movements? Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if he had been a blacksmith or a baker, but Basille was a military captain, and under command of the Legion. She could understand, really, how Ulfric had thought that she was a threat. She'd assured him otherwise, of course. Unfortunately, he had not been easily swayed.
Her release had come as quickly as her arrest. One moment, she had been eating her breakfast (cold cereal and bread), and the next, she was being led out of her cell in chains. Perhaps Ulfric had decided she wasn't worth the coin it kept to keep her in prison, or perhaps there'd been an uproar about a priestess being arrested. She didn't know, and didn't care. All that mattered was that she was free.
Not without cost, of course. Her release had come on terms: First, that she would cease her letters to any legion soldiers while in Windhelm. Secondly, that any letters she sent out from Windhelm would be sent by an approved courier.
And lastly, that she would surrender her ownership of the clinic and vacate Windhelm within the month.
That was hurt the worst, of course. Diana was proud of her clinic, and she had done much in the way of fixing the building and making it a place that felt safe for the locals to go. She'd already arranged for one of her assistants to take over the running of the place while she was gone, and she'd send funds when she could. But having it out of her hands made her nervous. And sad.
In the days that followed, there was little to do. Pell returned to her, and looked none the worse for her two weeks apart from him. The occasional patient came and went, and all of her assistants spoke a bit too gently to her for her liking. At last, there seemed to her only one thing for her to do: Write a letter.
Ardost,
I don't know if you're alive. I don't even know that, if I send this out, it'll find you. Maybe that's not the important part. Writing it feels good, though. Like I still have someone I can talk to.
You're right. It's a miracle that I'm alive. I disrespect Kynareth by continuing to flaunt my luck, or whatever it is that protects me. I've been foolish. By all rights, I don't deserve to be here. I'm a stupid girl.
But I have to keep trying. I won't stop trying. Isn't the saying to get back on the horse? I suppose mine is used to me falling off of him, by now. I seem to do it often.
I miss you. I wish you had told me you were leaving. You were one of the best friends that I had. Have? You're too proud and clever to die.
If you find Lucretius, please let me know.
I hope you're alright. I'm sorry I didn't send anything to eat. I haven't been in the mood to bake.
Love,
Diana
