[Sunsets over Moonlight]

. . .
At Grimhjall's peak sits two letters near the depictions of titanic figures, mentor and student. They're joined by a set of flowers, peredegrine, azilaena, saniskriti and marignolia. So neat, delicate, tender, they're woven in wait as if who sits in stone would pick it up and give it a read:
. . .

Dear Jokul,
 
I watched you die again after not accepting it the first time. Plain now, your absence. Some may think it a blessing and I don't know where it is I stand.
 
It's been fourteen autumns.
 
With a gun to my head, I would not be able to tell. How the years start to blend together that the melting snow and blossoming flowers and blaring sun and changing leaves and raining snow happens in an instant. You are dead and so is your student, so you've died twice before my eyes. It makes five lives lost, each harder than the last. Magi do not die like the elderly in my clinic whose hands I hold. They do not die like the soldiers whose breaths I watch stop. We die so loudly and my ears still ring. Fourteen autumns later and they ring and bleed.

---

 
Dear Bartholomew,
 
My first time writing a letter to you was in response to one you sent me. I remember what it was. You tried to redeem that old sin of yours which could have cost [      ] something he treasures dearly. Had anything happened, maybe I would not write you now. I cannot tell. I don't know if my heart is capable of holding hate- and if it did, not for any long stretch of time. I am regretful for my delayed responses to your requests. Now, I can say that I agree to join you on your venture to cleanse Mount Grimjhall. Only due to [     ] joining you was I so hesitant to agree. 
 
Why then?
 
Like a self-made martyr, you killed yourself. Your mind in shreds before my eyes and all I can see is [     ]. Your daughter much like [    ] and it eats me up inside. I am only has troubled as what our meetings could allow. I wish I were more torn, more beat up and crying snot and unable to wake or get out of bed. 
 
I woke the next morning as always.
 
Am I a bad person? Perhaps you've always hated me. I will never know. But I know I did not hate you even if you could be pushy or if you saw what I did not see. I respected you and to see you fall breaks my heart. To see you dead breaks my heart even if I woke up without issue the next morning, cooked breakfast for my family, saw to my duties, wrote in my study. 
 
I feel disingenuous writing how I wish we spoke more. If I did, I would not need to say it. Perhaps in some ways, I was fearful of getting too close to you. Fearful of something like this happening. Hindsight makes it easier. Hindsight makes it easier to want to keep distance. I do not know. I do not know why I am writing, but I am. I feel compelled to, compelled to apologize for my distance. A friendship with me would not have kept you alive... but I will do right by your daughter. Your... maddened... action... was the catalyst for people's earned hatred. I could have stopped it. I could have... I could have protected her and I failed.
 
I will do right by Prosphene. That is my promise to you.
 
Sincerely,
Sunsets over Moonlight

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

. . .
Forty two autumns and a letter addressed to a peculiar name sits on the heir's desk, trapped amongst the balled up papers, the ripped papers, the opened books, the sticky notes, the crumbs, the stains, the-
 . . .

Dear, little sun,
 
Who cannot hold their papa's hand tight and cower behind his legs when a strange nears. Little sun, whose hair they tie on their own, butt not sat on a stool, face towards a mirror and his shadow right behind. No brush slides through the silvery-blonde in loving learning, O little sun how they learnt well on their own. Two strong feet have kept them tall, kept them balanced, kept them here, alone. Little sun, their puffed out chest and mimicked steps, forever trailing in the thick prints their papa left before he did. They who burns so bright and small, the tears streaming down round cheeks like balls of hurled fire that fizzle out soon enough. Dry the tears, papa is not home to wipe them. When will he return? They and I can only wonder- longingly, as all revolved around them so, when will the cosmic bodies draw nearer? The distant suns shine so bright, much like papa. Too far, too far, too far. Fret not! Time alone is time busy and well spent. Lay on your bed, distant, sun-bound child. Feel the rays embrace you so while he is away. Listen to the birds and wind singing as he would, the soothing sort of sound that eases your unfamiliar soul. When laying and reading becomes boring, sneak into his study and eye the work you cannot understand. Letters bound to who-knows-where written to who-knows-who, but it is his. Curly, straight, line winding vines found itself onto the page. Blessed are you, this papa of yours.
 
Little sun,
 
Carve a space on his shelf and make it your own. The bottom one, the tips of your toes cannot bring you to the highest, even the middle. Dust off the time that lightly coats the spines and stack your own in its place. How will your organize your collection, I wonder? Not by size nor height nor page count- but year of publication. The increasing numbers fascinates your growing mind. Papa will be proud. You know it. I know it. He knows it-
 
Little sun,
 
Papa is coming home soon. Clean the house top to bottom. Stack the dishes, make sure nothing breaks! Scrub the floors, dust the curtains, polish the books and- he'll be there so soon. Prepare his slippers at the door and don't forget to reach out and take his bag. Ask him how his day was and listen well. The shoes he slips off are yours to fill. Yours to fill, little sun. The war papa sits within is frightening, is it not? The papers speak as much in words you do not understand. Lonely nights get lonelier and lonelier, fearful of his return. So find a book once he settles and crawl atop his lap. Open it to your favorite page and plead, with the prettiest of pleases, for him to read it in his voice that sounds like the wind and birds and the water and flowers.
 
Little sun,
 
Your papa loves you most and I love you more.
 
Sincerely,
ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

. . .
2114 AC, Uner, dated to not forget the year. How many autumns? Forty-two still. The Luminary, heir, author, poet, exorcist, mother- sits as none of those things in their study, writing, writing, writing...
. . .
 

Today reminds me of the celebration I held for my son when he turned three years old. I celebrated the turn of their births every year, each more grander than the other because I don't know when I was born. I don't even know exactly how old I am now. I want them to know and feel all of the love that I could not.

Earlier in the week, I was walking down Faoi street in the western corner of Pekeo and happened upon a boarded up building on a quaint corner. It wasn't like that some time ago- I suppose I don't know what my definition of 'some time' is. I remember when my son turned seven years old and my youngest was a few months away and I brought them here. An elderly man operated and owned the building for decades and his daughter was young, maybe in her early twenties doing what she can. We spoke sometimes and I could tell she did not love the store as much as her father. It was a bookstore called [ ].

My children picked out three books of their choice each time. The only caveat was that each book had to be a different genre. My youngest enjoyed books with a lot of illustrations while my son liked longer books whose prose could soothe the soul of any who read it. I always purchased books from the secondhand pile or works produced in languages other than common. It was through the elderly owner that I got in touch with the book collector who specialized in ancient texts. Nothing grand, mostly recipe books, journals, essays, poetry.

Sometimes, I brought my husband there, just the two of us. We would walk the aisles and sit in a little nook, me talking, him listening. He always listened- or maybe I talk too much. I planned to show my [ ] one day. Maybe he knows about this hidden gem already and the elderly man was blessed in the past. I cannot tell. Maybe it wouldn't be boarded up like it is now.

When my son was turning three years old, it was a series of original illustration in the bookstore that inspired the gift I made for him. An artist by the name of [ ] who had original copies of their pyrography work available caught my eye. On the little wooden shelf sat an image of a carriage burnt into a smooth slab of pale wood. It was adorable. I paid the price of the original copy, went home, dug out the yarn from a drawer in my study and tried to mimic the shape of the carriage.

In my spare time, I tried other mediums other than writing. Crocheting and embroidery became staples of mine that I usually kept to myself and out of conversations with friends. They would want to see it or ask about it, then I would have to perfect it rather than enjoy it. It took me two weeks to crochet a shabby looking carriage for him. The top was purple, wheels big and brown. I made other things, too. I baked a small cake and my family gathered around once the day arrived and sang and clapped and prayed and ate the meal I prepared. He smiled so much that day. What a happy boy he was.

The bookstore owner passed away due to health complications, his daughter told me. She never had the heart to take up his passion, so she shut it down. To cover the expenses of the service, she sold the entire inventory to various sellers or got rid of what was unwanted. I did not find out until two years later. He never seemed unwell. He could control a bit of mana, so I figured certain ailments were beyond him; I was wrong. I didn't know what to say to her other than condolences. I wish I went sooner and treated him myself. He knows me. Everyone in Delphina knows me yet he wouldn't ask for my help. What is the point of my skills if I cannot help those in need? What is the point of my wealth if I cannot aid those without it?

I was reminded of when my son turned three years all of a sudden.

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. not him not him not him not him not him not him not him anyone anyone anyone anyone anyone anyone anyone but him nononononononono nononononononono
2116
. . .

I heard something horrible happened. This bad feeling clawing streaks into my heart has deepened its beat and crushed my ribs. Something awful has happened and I ignored it, hoping it wasn't true. Something despicable, something unforgivable looms in overcast and I am unsure when the downpour will drown my garden of flowers.

 

Something... has happened to you. 

 

Something... awful.

 

Something...

 

...I met a knight a long time ago. He was a boy at the time who could not see colors as I did. Reds were brown and yellows and shades of muddy blues. This stuck most at the start and I don't remember why. I couldn't foresee something horrible happening to keep my distance forever and ever and ever so it wouldn't hurt later. Or be impossible to believe.

 

I think I hate myself. I don't understand myself or my values or why I did not compromise the integrity of Sunsets over Moonlight, soon-to-be Monarch of Delphina, its Heir and Her Luminary, to walk with you. My knight in shining armor, a piece of him that walks with me when he could not.

I will never walk with you again.

 

Because something horrible has happened to you and I wish it were me instead, but you wouldn't want that. I feel like I've Iost years of my  life, like the memories have died with you. Who took you...? War, something evil and unforgivable. For some nights, or maybe it has been months, I lived in denial. 'In loving memory' condolences find it's way north, taunting me and I refuse it. I refuse it, I refuse it, I refuse it, I refuse it, I-

 

I am sorry, Ezra.

 

No part of me has been primed for this even if She is grief and I should understand and I do, but I do not. It should have not been you. Why was it you? Why did it have to be you? If not you, then who? Who better, you must've thought, than you. You're selfish. You're selfish and selfless, Ezra. How could you? Before I gained the courage to accept your invitations once more. Who will watch me when I walk? Who? Who? Who will protect my wailing heart beyond the safety of my home. Fear, constant, and it is your fault.

 

Yours.

 

Why?

 

...Why?

 

How long will I shed burning tears in defiance? My tears will not undo what has been done. I want my heart to empty and stay kind... For you, my dear, sweet and fond memories:

 

I will eradicate and burn it all in the kindest, cruelest sense. Watch as I excise all that would dare take night and day from my life. This, my eternal promise to you, Ezra.

 

Sincerely,

Where the Sun sets and Moon shines 

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

He doesn't hear it. No one really heard it.

. . .

Goodbye to days running amiss in mine

heart. Fiery flirts amongst dangerous loans

of shortened spirit plagued by plangent moans,

bewitched into bending, inceptive time.

Sagging against currents bound dull, and fine

engravings marked eternal into stone

the days when no one soul stood as alone

as that hunted by fire and wrapped by vine.

 

No more can I look those days in the face,

fragmented glass scattered across the floor

forming threads into the broken, sweet vase.

O shattered heart and day and night and torn

taunts into my ruined spirit, severed grace

grants no succor, never here, nevermore.

. . .

[ry0un0suke]

Forty-eight autumns, counted so it is never lost. Look back and no one looks forward, not expecting to make it this far. How many now? More than four, maybe four. The numbers lose their meaning. On their desk, something as a reminder of their existence in the realm, scribbled messily into their journal. Maybe written near loved ones, their nose always stuck in a book, stuck in a journal writing about:
. . .
All things end, I can know, understand, accept, yet feel unhappy about this truth.
All things change, I can know, understand, accept, yet feel unhappy about this truth.
Why does it bother me so? Dying? Why does drastic change unnerve me so?
I am good, I swear, mother. Beholden to all You are and will ever be.
Yet summer turns into winter without warning and I am stranded.
Or summer is hotter than usual and the rivers dry up from a draught. It is not pleasant.

  
I am good.
I swear.
In acceptance, stubbornly, yet I accept-
and I am good, great, excellent,
without any crimes as he has said I
am innocent.
. . .
Mother, I do not ever want to lose him.
I won't accept it if it comes
and I beg You to take me and never him.
Never.
I will never match his light
great in all he does, that of the wheel itself and I
am too young.
Too young to handle that weight on my heart,
Mother,
it would kill me.
I would rather die than grieve him.
I am thinking about dying and loss
I cannot stop thinking about dying and loss
it is spring and I
CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT DYING.
. . .
I am going to die soon.
Not naturally, no...
Something will emerge from the dark's deepest crevices,
coil its tendrils around my throat,
strangle every plea from me
and leave nothing to mourn.
I am afraid... to leave my house.
I am afraid that I will never say goodbye.
I am afraid I'll be forgotten.
Nothing left to mourn
memories short lived and bitter,
who I am will fade in time,
my accomplishments too small to celebrate.
I will die before I make him proud-
truly proud
he will never be proud.
. . .
Mother...
...I am bad.
I wish I was perfect as he and worthy but
I am not.
Why must I be perfect?
Who said I should be perfect?
I think I should perfect.
. . .
I am afraid to write about You.
. . .
I am afraid to beg for my life.
I cannot look the end and not feel afraid.
I will plead to live
until my throat is rough and dry,
my eyes swollen, red.
Dying in the dark,
without a soul noticing I was missing.
-I am afraid
that nothing will soothe my heart.
Mother I am so afraid.
It chases me relentlessly.
I will die
or they will die.
And I must hold an impossible weight
I am too weak to carry.
Mother,
I-....

[ry0un0suke]

How many, little sun? How many passed, how many left.

. . .

Dear little sun,
 
Who put on the shoes with a flat, skinny heel, toe wrapped in plush bows, wore shorts that bloomed like a big flowers, ends hanging a delicately woven lace built by handy spiders. You got your favorite shirt that you never wore because no occasion felt right for his gift to you. No occasion rich or important or just, until now. One of your own design, because rarely did the kingdom erupt on that summer day, but you know. Today was special because you say it is so. Before he arrived at home, you tidied the house more than usual, employing luminescent bugs into jars, lining the brass bottom in flowers, each adorned in one fitting for the season: beaming saniskrti, like the sun you are.
 
There is time before the lock clicks, so you combed your memories, thinking of what he loves most. By the seaside where tropical fruits grow best, so you went to the coastal market with enough coin to fit in your hands and prestige to your name. On the table, an assortment of golds and reds and silvers, and the merchant laughed a hearty laugh, giving you a bag of mangos and extra, telling you to tell papa he gives his regards. Everyone knows papa, everyone knows you.
 
So you went home, mangos chopped, careful of your little digits, the knife sharp as you. Pineapple skinned, cut into lines, its yellow, tangy shape pressed into little stars using the molds hidden in the cupboards. The mangos carved into leaves, at least they looked like it against the pineapple's star shape, beckon the stars, little sun. You shine so bright in the fruit's reflection.
 
All laid on a platter down the path of jarred glowing bugs you scattered, leading from door past the foyer and paintings hung on high ways, down where the retainers gather, past the guest seating and into his most used study.
 
The door clicks, knob turning and you scatter, moth beckoned by moving light, light of your world. Little heels click, hiding at the end of the lit path through the shared home and he calls your name curiously, concerned, but you hide, answering only in a genle shut of the door. By the front, he rustles, peeling away the layers of summer even if winter shines like line on blanketed snow. His steps, larger, older, follow the path you left. All watch, the cooks, the retainers, resisting a polite giggle or two.
 
And it opens.
 
And little sun, there you are, platter of fruit on a little table clothed in a pressed, velvet sheet. You're standing, pose prepared, rehearsed, jumping up to extend your arms wide. Overjoyed, you utter some thanks before the fruit, not for it or even the heavens above, but him.
 
Silence lingers, the glowing dim light from the bugs brightening the room and reflecting off of the fruit's shine, showing off that special shirt for a special occasion. You say to him, "Happy birthday, Papa." A day that should mark every calendar of every household, a special holiday celebrated by the masses. Hold the love of every citizen in papa's kingdom, every thanks and appreciation possibly uttered, every gesture and language and expression present in the delicate cutting of mangos and pineapples.
 
Little sun, there is no day more important than this.
 
Sincerely,
ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ