I looked again – for the fourth or fifth time I think – at the letter and once more quietly cursed myself. I had never asked for this, oh no. Fate, it seemed, felt it knew better than I what I wanted. If only fate could be dealt with as easily as some of the other foes I had bested over the years.
The first step had been mine, I knew that, and the fault lay with me. Leaving the Golden Wood had been my choice alone and perhaps it all others events flowed from that one, rash and long regretted act. Perhaps so, but nevertheless I had never asked for all that followed: the loss of friends; the pain of words that would never be said; the mantle of leader for this great Order; and now this.
And now this.
What had I done to cause this maiden to show such feelings towards me? She spoke of mistakes and hurts, could she not clearly see that I am doomed to be marked by my mistakes, those past and those to come.
I looked across to the writing table. When had I, a simple woodsman and son of a tender of vines, become so well versed with the poets tools? Axe and trowel should have been the tools of my trade, not the bow and blade that seemed so familiar now... would quill and parchment soon feel so comfortable in my hands?
I was fooling myself I knew. I was no Eldar of Ages gone by, able to convey great thoughts upon a single page. By the Light, I was no Tur either. Would those that had gone before me have missed the signs and allowed one of their own to put themselves at risk?
A simple letter then...
“Daerundros,
You words have reached me and I am reticent to reply lest, in doing so, I cause you more pain still. It was never my intent to convey pity and, should I have given that impression, I beg your forgiveness.
These matters are not to be dealt with by words that once written cannot change nor explain themselves. Please, let us meet in peace and discuss this.
I am often to be found within the Sanctuary’s walls these days or tell me of where I might find you and I shall ride at once but let us meet and speak truly of our feelings rather than have ink and parchment act as poor messengers between us.
May the Light guide thy steps till next we meet.
Taramthir”
I re-read the short letter, there was so much more that needed to be said but how could I hope to explain myself with such clumsy tools. I laughed then harshly, and what made me think my voice would be any less clumsy when next we met?
