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My dearest Cecily,

We continue to fall apart without you here to aid me - I do not know how much longer I can clutch all the strings myself, and there is no one I can trust. I was never made for this, I know, but if I leave how many lives will be lost...or worse yet, ruined? I suspect that it is worse to live in Ushaw Moor than to die in it - no place I have yet been makes me so badly wish to leave it, and yet I cannot.

I cannot because I spent much of my Shabbat crying. I cried with Gideon, promised that I had a home for him away from this madness and death. What if I had not been here? Where would he find solace? I cried with Sir Beckett's betrothed - she happy, and I terrified for her soul. Quoniam in aeternum misericordia eius, I hope my words lodged themselves in her heart and take root. Who would she have turned to, were I gone?

Of course, as well, I wait for you - I will wait for you, best beloved, until the town is in cinders around my feet. Who knows how close that day is?

I remain,
Marosa

Date: 2012-03-19 11:31 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] spazzychic.livejournal.com

The silver path seems so short.

The fae at her side is silent, perhaps because words would not properly pass through such a small mouth full of such large teeth.

Sometimes she runs forward, seeming like it's almost the end.
With a burst of fallen leaves, the path stretches ever forward.
Sometimes she's entirely still, captured.
This realm has many beautifully displayed swirls of chaos, or blooms of living death.
Sometimes, she doesn't quite recall where she's going, or why.
But she remembers a woman, with blue eyes and curly hair.
Far too ancient to be kind, and far too kind to be ancient.
She needs her. Marosa.
Her?
She remembers.
Sister to Sean, whom she dreams she loves and hates.
Child of Winifred De Laurent, Childe of Sebastian Dubois, Child of Andreas Cappa...
Cecily. Cecily?

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