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To the Mother I never knew,

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A sketch I made of Elisabeth after her tea party for our mutual birthday. I am really proud of it, mother.



To the Mother I love,


Grandfather has always told me that through the use of a pen, the words of the soul are drawn forth. I never was never quite as poetic despite being his namesake— a disappointment to you I am sure— but even so, I have decided to write.


In the spring of my adulthood, I have found much and more to worry about. Uncle Sigismund has resigned himself to not marrying again from what he has written to me and wishes for me to carry on our legacy. The burden of my ancient bloodline plays heavily and solely upon me. He also has recently laid bare the sins I committed towards my fellow countrymen by destruction of their manor. Sins that I would commit again on this very day for my heart knows its own evil but cares not. And especially my worries of the wars, mother. The wars and rumors of wars that plague this Empire make me fear for the future that I and, if God blesses me so, my children shall have. Is it wrong for me to feel such anxiety and fear? I am no Lord Protector. Adrian de Sarkozy runs not in my blood, but all the various eyes that are upon me that expect another Conqueror. When they see me swing a sword and or charge head-fast into a problem, they see my grandfather’s uncle, but I am not him. When I stood inside Whitecombe raiding through its cabinets, I thought perhaps I would be. But as much as I wish to be, I am not he.


I have a question for you. Did you carry with you a fear when that murderer stole you from me when you were amidst prayer? Those who discovered you said you were found with a somberness to you, but was that just an external expression you had? Were you lying to all when you breathed your last breath to show me I needed no fear in my life? Nay, you never wore a mask to cover up your emotions. I know this to be true. The memory I most visibly recall of you is when you read to me so I would sleep. You held such a steadfast, bright smile upon your face that night. It was like all the creatures and monsters that hid in my room were, at that instant, swept from their shadows and casted from us into the pits of the Void.


 I should let you know since I am writing that your smile has lived on in my sister. She may not know, but I see you in her as the days go on and it brings me as much joy as it does sadness to see you so close, yet know you will never be any closer. In many ways she and I are much the same in all as well, and yet that worries me the most. She oft cries about things beyond her control and confines in me worries I do not know how to fix. You gave birth to a liar for I never join her in her worries publically, opting to keep a phony stoic expression on my face to give her confidence. But I do share the worries she confines in me in private, hoping that one day all the problems we have will wither away into nothingness. I have tried time and time again to be her beacon to look on, for our protectors only wish to teach us the reality of a harsh world and how our drive should only be for self-gain.


I am afraid, mother.


I do not want to lie to Elisabeth and tell her to be strong for I am strong, I do not want the responsibility of the bloodline on me, I do not want to be in an country with a ruler who spits on my family, I do not want to fight in a war where I will die and I do not want to be apart from you anymore. 


 All I wish is for you to come down and live with me again. To come down and let us relive a time that the murderer stole from my siblings and me. If the priests are right and saints can grant miracles, does that mean if I ask you to, you will see me again?





The only people able to see the letter would be:


Franz de Sarkozy, if he wished to see it, could get it from Nikolai.


Elisabeth Carrion-Tuyvic may also be her nosy self and find a way into acquiring it from Nikolai’s desk if should she choose to.



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