The man holds the envelope in his fingers and approaches the conundrum with an initially strong but inevitably failing confidence. One might think that is odd. After all, he’s been working in the information business for years. Letters are, were, and will always remain a frequent part of what he is and what he does. This letter is different though, sealed carefully with a stamp he can only remember as something of a crest that hung over a mantle in a house in dale, the symbol of someone’s father: a sewing needle that skewers an apple. The man feels something uncomfortable grow and settle in his throat. The last time he had to deal with something from this distinctive address, he left Gondor to get away from it, because the pain was too much and no matter how he looked at it, it was always his fault. He clears his throat, to no avail and reaches in to produce the parchment.
“Dear Finder…”
He chuckles. They would play hide and seek, and she was small so he would always spend so long trying to locate her. A childhood nickname. A brief escape before he frowns and reads the rest, curious to why she might be asking for his contact.
“I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am trying every day to remember what life was like before we left home. I found my way back after you left and decided to remain here with my aging father. I know he never liked you much, even though I was never sure why. He’s probably going to go soon, he’s very ill. I wish you were here to help me through it. I wish a lot of things, I suppose. I wish that I could’ve been a mother, specifically a mother to your child. I can’t help but imagine that whoever you sire will be of an impressive sort, and whoever helps you with that would be lucky to share that life with you, assuming you want that life, that is.
I didn’t want to bother you. I’m probably the last person to want that, but we’re not getting younger. I couldn’t bear what happened in Gondor, and I won’t lie that I am ashamed of what I did. But you know that, don’t you? I guess I’m writing to you because I feel like I owe you something. I mean, I owe you more than I could ever pay, but I wanted to get your permission. Ah, look at this mess of a letter. I never knew how to stop beating around the bush. I wanted to write to you, and ask your permission to engage with a man that has been nearly as sweet to me as you were. I know I can never apologize for or take back what I did to you. It was selfish and foolish of me. It cost me what could have been a life that most people only can dream of. Still, I must look forward, not back. I hope that you can find it in your heart to set yourself free, cause if I remember you, you’ve not moved on by now, you’ve just drifted like floating wood.
Please take care, Finder, and if you can, write me back and let me know. Is it okay? I hope that where you are you find your better fortune too, with someone better than me. Please let go.
With love,
Pella.”
The man’s eyes had welled up since then. A good strategy for coping with conflicting feelings had grown upon him, reaching into his left pocket of his coat and gripping the amulet he had bought just a few days ago. It’s not that he held a candle for her still, and his tears aren’t even caused by his thoughts of her being better than him. He knows, or at least he’s pretty sure; that if they had reversed, and he had messed up, she would have stayed beside him. He ran. He left her behind, alone and hopeless, and now she had asked him for permission to move on. Even as kind as her words are enclosed in the writing, he realizes by now that what she said was wrong. She said that she hopes he can set himself free, and from half a world away he had been keeping her in a cage. The man sniffs, so many things he could say in a response letter rush through his mind.
“Dear Pea,
I loved you more than any-”
No.
“Dear Pella,
It is officially no longer my busi-”
Harsh.
He ends up sending her a letter back that simply is more of a note. It’s a small parchment, enclosed in an envelope, addressed to her, and holding only what word is necessary to answer her question. "Is it okay?" He would be a cruel man to say anything but what he writes. Although years had bought him time, the pain was still dormant until now, and certainly strong enough to cause a few errant splotches upon the parchment as it gives her his answer.
Yes.
