Dear Anon. LETTER IMature

"The world wasn't always like this. At least that's what they say."

For 7000 years, Maegard was peaceful, ruled by ten families, each believed to be descended from the gods who could control the elements of the world. But in 8308, the world is controlled by humans, the royal families are exiled, and magi are running for their lives. Now all hope lies with the new generation of royals, rescued, concealed and in training to bring Maegard back into the light.

          Dear Anon,

          I never meant to ignore you. I never meant for so much to happen. I must seem so selfish to you, especially as I ask you, for my own sake, to forgive me. These days, I can barely keep record of my own life, and there is irony in those words, I assure you. To say I have been busy or occupied is to underestimate the situation. You know me to the strings of my soul, you know how alone I can get, and how I turn to you for comfort. For so long, I have felt lost between everything, between worlds, between purposes, between existences. Mother always told me that the human world is a sanctuary for me, and that I should return there. But I am always drawn back here, to beloved Maegard, because though I might try to deny it, it holds one half of me.

          It seems I cannot go one paragraph without complaining of my woes. I put duty upon duty of myself and then, in my torment, act as if the fault is not my own. There is one duty, however, that I do not regret, and it is this that I am writing of to you now. I am to be the royal storyteller, in the most unique of ways. My family has been far from acquainted with the Incarnate in the past, I have been exiled and defaced many times, but this is a new age, a new generation. They have offered me nothing but kindness, shown no more than in this offer. Royal messengers have warned me that I cannot give too many details, but I can say that I am charged to tell one story in particular: the story of the king.

          "An inventress", he calls me quite affectionately, and for that reason he says, I am not to record his past in the normal way, but as if it was fiction, as if he was nothing but made-up and alive in the palaces of my mind. When I asked him why, he answered me so surely, saying that as his memory grows weary, as he fears it will become as fleeting as breath in the wind, he has realised. Nothing lives longer than a dream.

          I sense a sadness in him, Anon, the sort that hurts you just to sense it. There are parts of his life he has sealed away and must now unlock for the sake of posterity. For hours on end already, I have sat with him and written every word, then I have retired and written them alongside my own. Is it possible to lose yourself in somebody else's life? In their dreams, their fears and their desires? I feel as though I have. When everything is over, I feel as though this story will clasp another part of me and leave nothing to spare. I have returned to the dark days over the months, the times when magi and man fought each other to the edges of the world. Late at night, I find myself remembering what I saw in those days and fearing I will wake up there. Only by repeating his famous words in litany do I convince myself this will not be.

          "We are of the light."

          I must end this now, Anon, but I swear I will write again, and perhaps soon after that, you might read his story for yourself, so that we can all remember, and then forget.

          Voqari vra, dear friend,


The End

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