Unsent Letter
Arthur,
I know that if you are reading these words that the truth about who I am, what I am, has been exposed. Knowing this, I do not hold out much hope that this letter will make it to you, but I write them still in hopes that one day my words will make it into your hands. Knowing I will not have much time left in this world, I have two things I must confess to you in this letter and one final request should I still live when you read my words.
I hope you will understand why I could never tell you the truth about who I truly was, what powers I possessed. It was not just my own safety at risk, but my sister's as well. I wanted you to know, Arthur. In truth, I wanted you to know everything about me. I wanted to be able to confide in you, trust you with all of my secrets. All my life, I was told I had to hide who I truly am, an entire part of myself no one would ever know of me because the truth was dangerous. The truth could lead to my death, violent and brutal, and the deaths of everyone I love. Yet, I wanted you to know-- you, the son of the Emperor whose flames my family had feared would come for me my entire life. You, the man who killed the Seeress of Kil-Kennar, should be someone from whom I should wish to flee, who I should know is cursed by the Guardians who blessed me with my powers yet, despite all of the logic and reason, I still believed there was something about you that could maybe, one day, see beyond the narrow views of your father. I still believe that, even now.
That belief, my belief, brings me to the first thing to which I must confess. I am sure you will not have forgotten that night, not too long after your father's tournament, when I found you in a delirious state outside my room in the tower. That night when I stayed with you and everyone believed my tonics managed to save you from the mysterious illnesses which overtook you so suddenly. My confession is that it was not my tonics that healed you: It was me. It was the powers I possess. I did not intend to use magic on you that night. I never healed anyone before, never been granted the gift, didn't even ask for the gift. But still, the Guardians granted me the power to bring save you, someone who should be their enemy. That has to mean sometime, does it not?
I could lie and say my pleas to the Guardians were in the hopes of saving someone who might one day help save Astaira, my home, but that would not be truthful. I begged the Guardians to help me because I knew that if something didn’t heal you that terrible night, even if you did not die, you would never be the same. I could not lose you, I could not bear the thought of you never waking up. I could not bear it because of the second confession I must make: I love you, Arthur.
I imagine your first thought is that this is just some ploy to try and gain sympathy, to see if such a confession might move you to try and save me from my fate. I know you probably see no reason to trust me now that you found out the truth about what I am, but I swear to you that my words are true. I truly believe there were moments between us where I could see that mask of an imperial prince slip away and the real Arthur was allowed to shine through. It was in those moments, I knew I loved you. It was in those moments, I knew I would never love the way I loved you.
I know that your heart lies elsewhere, that you have your duty and your family to consider, but I just need you to know that somebody, once, loved you without any conditions. I would not care if you were the son of an emperor or the son of the poorest worker in the city. It was not your riches or your myriad of titles or your strengths in battle that I loved, but things I find a can hardly put into words. I find I cannot adequately express why I love you, Arthur, only that I know I do and always will. I wish I had been braver, wish I could have told you of my feelings one of those days when we walked in the gardens or the glass house or even in the midst of one of the many arguments we seemed to have, but I could not. I know myself and I know I would never, never be brave enough to have found the words to tell you.
Which, finally, brings me to my request.
Please, I beg you, if you can, do me the same kindness you did for Aine of Kil-Kennar. I know I have no right to ask this of you, that it is unfair as I have seen how the past events weigh on you, but I cannot let my sister watch me die in the fires, not knowing how much she sacrificed to try and protect me. And, selfishly, as much as I want to be brave enough to face my death with my head held high, I know I will not if I meet my end in flames. I am not brave. I am frightened Arthur. Even now as I write these words with my secret still hidden, of the prospect of dying in such a way terrifies me. I have little left of my life as it once was but I believe I do still have my dignity and I hope that, perhaps, you will allow me the mercy of keeping it with a swift, clean death.
I know that is is likely this letter may reach you long after I am dead and, should my request not be met, I want you to understand that I forgive you, Grá mo Chroí . Be it timing or something else, know that I forgive you, that I know I am asking far too much of you. I am sorry. I am sorry for all of it.
I do not know what waits for us beyond this life, but my dearest wish is that the sun shines there, that I am able to stand and feel its heat on my face and be reminded of you. I hope the next life will still allow me the memory of your eyes meeting mine, your hand holding my own.
Mo ghrá go deo,