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Dear Sir Garroth,

There was a time when I never ran out of things to say to you, but in your absence you have somehow finally found a way to render me speechless. More than once, I've found myself turning to where you always stand at my side. I turn to speak to you, and when I find myself alone the words die in my throat. I know that you are no longer here at my side, I know it, but still I turn to you.

I remember, all too keenly, that I am alone just a moment too late. And the awful part of it is that I am never truly alone— Constantly I am surrounded by familiar faces and well-meaning friends, constantly I am drawn into conversation and introduced to those whose lives I've missed, I am never actually, truly alone and yet, unfairly, without you here it all feels hollow.

I am supposed to be angry with you. It grows more and more difficult to be angry with every day that passes. Though not many days have passed, I know this already. I know that before long I will lose my grasp on this anger altogether.

I don't want to stop being angry with you. Is that a terrible thing to admit? I fear it might be. I don't have much else to hold onto, though. I don't know what I might do if I let the anger pass.

I dream of you. If you were here, you would chide me for such boldness, but you would flush so beautifully and touch my waist as you sent me away, and that is precisely why I have dreamt of you for so long and dream of you still. I have come to know the man beneath your helm better than any other I have ever known, and I miss him so dearly I feel as though there is a pit in my chest where his heart no longer beats against mine.

I dream of the night before the war's end. Of the two of us alone in what remained of your office. We pinned a tarp over the hole in the wall and moved a bookshelf in front of it before daring to light a hooded lantern. We kept our light low, and it painted your face in sloping shadows and statuesque bronze. We sat closer than we needed to, at the corner of the desk, knees brushing, heads bowed together. I watched line after line of dark ink fill the page as you transcribed what I described to you, and it was just the same as every other night we spent writing reports by candlelight, but there was something undeniably different about then. Perhaps it was our closeness. Perhaps it was that over the past many months, something had grown between us in fleeting moments of respite. Something warm we basked in. Something we never named aloud.

We breathed the same air. We held one another's gaze. Our hands brushed, simple touches lingering, and neither one of us pulled away. You stopped writing and set your fingers on mine. The touch of our bare skin as you traced slowly over the ridges of my knuckles was like a shock of lightning. You were without your gloves, without your helm, and though such a gesture would have been natural for anyone else I knew it wasn't so simple for you. Just that simple brush of touch was unspeakably intimate, far more so than if we were sharing a bed completely undressed pressed together from head to toe, and more addicting than any sip of rosewater.

Though the night itself feels terribly far away, I wake up believing it was only hours ago. I wake up thinking I'll turn my head and find you laying in the dark on the other side of the pallet, your vulnerable back trusted to me. Every time, it takes me far too long to realize my bed is cold, and far longer to remember why. Just when I wake up, I struggle to recall that I went to bed alone.

Then I see your candle burning at my bedside. It reminds me so of the low light we shared in your office that night. And it reminds me too of why I lit it in the first place.

In my dream, you lean in the rest of the way. You kiss me, chastely, and when you pull away, you rest your head against mine and cup my cheek. You search my eyes for something I can never name, and whatever it is makes you smile when you find it. That small smile of yours that's hardly more than an upturned slant to the corners of your lips, the one I hope every day to coax out of you, because to see it on your face is akin to watching the sunrise. You kiss me again with that smile on your lips, and this time you kiss me deeply, slowly, as though you are learning to savor the taste of me, of us intertwined, and it is exactly as I have imagine a thousand times over. Because it is nothing more than what I imagine, and I will never know anything more.

It's always you who leans in. It has to be. I waited too long. I'm waiting still.

This, I think I'm coming to realize, is why my anger has left me so quickly. Without it, without you, I'm so terribly, chillingly alone.

In my dream, you taste of home. Of something indescribable. And when I wake, I wonder if I will ever know the taste of home again. I don't even know if that’s what kissing you is even like, and now I will never know if I ever would have gotten the chance to learn.

This is not the kind of letter I would ever send to you. I wonder what might have come to pass between us if I sent you a letter like this before you were gone. It doesn't matter now. This letter doesn't matter. I'm going to burn it before anyone else can read it. Forgive me for never letting you read it.

Forgive me for not taking the lead just this once.

Always yours,

Sir Laurance

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