By the light of a quiet fire, I write to you, the first flame of my soul.
To my dearest Silvania:
I will not say that your words did not cause me sadness, for I would lie, and you know me too well for me to do so. Your letters have always been a mirror in which my heart recognizes itself, and this last one was no exception.
I also remember that day with unbearable clarity, as if I were still there, standing before you. The proud beauty of your face, the cold determination in your gaze, and that hair of yours, coppery like the autumn sun, fluttering in the wind with the majesty of one who always knew her worth. I never told you then—perhaps out of pride, perhaps out of fear—but in you, I found both admiration and fear. Now, without any fear, only admiration remains, and a love deeper than I ever knew could fit within me. I hope that, in some way, you know this.
You were my teacher, my guide, my protector. You taught me to move through the corridors of power, not to falter under responsibility, and to wield authority with elegance, even when it weighed like lead. You opened the doors of your strongholds to me, but you also let me see your fragilities, both of body and soul. I loved them all—I love them all—because they are part of you, and you are the most valuable thing I have ever had.
You ask me not to rush to meet you, and I swear that as I read your lines, I was on the verge of packing my bags. It was as if I relived those youthful days, when I was still Edictus's assistant, and obeying your commands throughout the kingdom was my greatest pride. What days those were… I pretended to be stronger than I was, because I didn't want to fail you, or him. My face was hardened by war, but my heart still trembled for your praise. No matter how many battles I faced: as long as I knew you were waiting for me, I always found the strength to return.
I think of it now, and I admit that for a fifteen-year-old boy, you were more than a queen; you were a solar eclipse. So brilliant, so unattainable, so absolute. I strove beyond my limits to be worthy of you, to become your mage, your ally, whatever you needed. Even when I returned wounded, your open arms were enough to relieve me.
Beloved Silvania, how I wish to have you here, now. Would that be too much to ask? I know Eleanor needs you, and I don't want to take from her what was also mine. But I cannot help but long for your years to be eternal, to share with you all the years I have left. Yes, I know, it's selfish. But you were the sun in my life for more than fifteen years. How does one leave so much light behind?
Those days of youthful love seem distant, but indelible. And though forms change, the root remains. You were first, second, and third. You occupied every corner of my soul for so long, and even today there are places where only you fit.
I miss you too. Too much. And I promise you: I will come to see you. I only pray that I can do so with good news, for to arrive empty-handed would be to fail myself… and you.
I promised to heal you, and you have waited beyond what is reasonable. Forgive my limitations, as you forgave my stumbles in past wars. But this battle—the most important of all—I do not intend to lose. Can you wait for me a little longer?
P.S. I imagine you know that Finia is here with me. She is recovering from what happened at Border Fort. Her presence has been like an unexpected balm. She fills my days with a light I thought extinguished, and we have reconnected with a tenderness that was previously forbidden to us. I love her as a daughter, and I hope Eleanor knows that she will return to Scabia as soon as she is fully recovered. Although a part of me wishes she would stay by my side forever, I know duty calls us: her, to the Tower; me, to you.
With eternal love, Your soul friend, Dyan Halvest
Gardens of Willfrost, a serene midday...
The gentle mountain breeze danced among the myrtles in the garden, barely stirring the folds of the emerald green dress Silvania had chosen that morning. Her hair was gathered in a high bun, with a few loose strands that refused to obey orders. As always. Like herself. She held a cup of honey and lavender tea with both hands, when the messenger left the letter on the table. The calligraphy was enough for her to know who it was from. She would recognize that restrained hand across half a hundred scrolls.
Dyan.
She didn't open it immediately. First, she looked up at the snowy mountains in the distance and smiled melancholically.
"How long has it been since you looked at me as if the world depended on my words, boy?" she murmured to herself, with a tenderness that no longer hurt, but didn't quite heal either.
When she finally broke the seal, the first paragraphs were enough to take her back decades.
She remembered his face at fifteen: serious, thin, almost ascetic. Edictus had trained him with the efficiency of a sage carving tools, not men. Dyan complied, obeyed, read, wrote, translated. But he didn't live, at least not like other children did. Until he came to Willfrost.
She, still Queen then, discovered in him an intensity that fascinated her. And a devotion she initially believed to be a product of indoctrination. But no. It was something else. A kind of admiration tinged with a love that didn't know how to bloom. He fell in love without knowing it, and she allowed him to do so… to the extent that was fair.
She taught him to play lutes and to dance awkwardly in the West Wing hallways, when no one saw them. She taught him to laugh at his mistakes, to drink wine from small glasses. She spoke to him about politics as if she were speaking to an adult, and looked at him with a mix of pride and sadness that he never understood.
—"If you had been born fifteen years earlier…" she once told him, "...I myself would have done many foolish things for you."
The letter was precise, elegant, like everything Dyan did. He thanked her for her words, for the previous letter. He spoke of Eleanor's change, of the fire in her eyes, of the renewed faith in what they both could build. But also, without saying it directly, he evoked a deep affection that was different with Silvania.
She noticed it. She always had. What he felt for Eleanor was admiration, hope, affection. But with her… with Silvania, it was something else. Something that brushed the edges of what had never been said.
The letter was still there, trembling slightly between her fingers. Silvania put the cup aside and leaned back against the wicker chair, watching the breeze sway the jasmine flowers. The idea that Dyan wanted her to live forever, that their days together wouldn't end, softened and disturbed her in equal measure. He, always so sweet even in his stubbornness, still believed he could cure her. She wouldn't stop him in that longing, though she knew, deep down, that time cannot be reversed with either love or magic.
What she could do was write him another letter. One that contained no instructions, no advice, no restrictions. A letter that simply spoke of them, of what they were, and of the strange comfort it was to know that still, after all, he was still there, reading her with the same eyes that looked at her for the first time in the hall that now belonged to another queen.
The evening would soon fall. Silvania caressed the edge of the paper with a slow gesture, as if tracing the outline of his face. Then she folded the letter and put it against her chest, closing her eyes for a moment.
"Thank you for not forgetting me," she whispered into the air, without needing anyone to hear her.
She rested the letter on her lap and exhaled slowly. She closed her eyes.
"Ah, Dyan…" she whispered. "If I were twenty years younger, perhaps… perhaps all this would be different."
But she wasn't. And though she would never admit it aloud, a part of her still believed that Eleanor would never understand him as she did.
She took another sip of tea, which had already grown cold, and let the breeze brush her hair across her face.
She loved him.
Not as one loves a lover, nor as a child. She loved him as only a queen who was able to see a broken soul can love someone who decided to rebuild himself, with just a few words from her as guidance.
Silvania did not reply to the letter. Not yet. She placed it in a wooden box, along with a few others, counted, where lived the echoes of a love that was impossible… and eternal.