Dear Frederick,
How are you ? I have been longing for you for quite some time now. The arena has lifted off, and as I write these lines down the turnament has just seen its send-off. Long have we awaited this moment. It feels strange remembering us, 40 or so odd years ago, still young and inhabited by the freshness and energy of the age, theorizing about this whole ordeal that would occupy the blunt part of our lives until today.
However, such reminiscenses are not without tears. We are now forever separated, with no hope of reunion. I knew this realisation would happen. One of us would have to go on the ship, doomed to sink. I have chosen that fate and do not deny nor resent that choice.
And so, I ask you, whom I may never see again : how are you ? How is the garden, in this new season of summer, how is the wisteria that coils and binds the walls of our house, how are the tulips fragrant and blazing that stand upright at its feet ? I ask that you observe, and appreciate all of this, our home that we ourselves built, and that we ourselves tended.
With the vegetables from the garden, may you cook numerous and plentiful delicious meals in my absence. May you love them as I loved them in my stead, and may this love transcend the space between us.
On my part, everything has been fine. I will spare you with the results of the first match. Never have we cared about them, and so I will not waste ink on such insignificant talking points.
I will write you frequent letters, but my time and ink are limited.
With love, William.
Dear William,
Everything is well. The garden is as lovely as ever, though in your absence i do not see much of a point to dwell in it. Everyday I take care of it, forever awaiting your return, though I know this is a false hope. What a strange organ the human heart is, that despite knowing the lying nature of this hope I cling to it.
On every morning, I look at the southern sky, hoping to see a flash of light, to catch a glimpse of the arena as it crosses the skies. But I know this is impossible, the construct floating so high above the earth that nothing can leave it unscathed, not even its shadow.
You ask me to cook plentiful meals, but all I can manage to make is simple bread and oat porridge. Without another to share my meal, it feels meaningless to pour effort into something that can be resolved so easily. There is no more pleasure in this house, the walls gray and the windows tainted. Even the flowers outside seem to mourn in the sun, basking only as it is the only thing they know, but still breathlessly awaiting a never-coming return.
I hope all goes well. I hope that She deep within the earth realizes the foolishness of her actions, and waivers all of these spells and enchantments. What a strange organ the heart is...
Longingly, Frederick.
Dear Frederick.
This is madness. This is folly. Every single waking moment I spend in this building, I dwelve deeper and deeper into the throes of realization and denial. The blessings that binds these people, the hopeless blindness they aim at it, all of it is so absurd, so non-sensical, that I no longer feel alive.
Equally, I no longer feel certain of my path.
Is this the right way forward ? Are we really to be crowned heroes ? I ask myself that, then to mind comes the years and years that we all suffered from their hands. That, unwillingly, they wilted crops, salted lands, and drained lakes and forests of their fish and game. And then I remember that they too, did not want that, and that they too, are just trying to live, just as we are.
That they did not ask for this power.
I feel uncertain. I am scared to put a foot in front of the other and to continue walking, but I know I have to, for already the point of no-return has been passed. Whether I want to or not, everything is in motion. An unstoppable motion that will continue until the day I dies; until the day this place comes crashing down into the sea.
We all hurt.
With uncertainty and confusion, William.
Dear Frederick,
We have a death. It was an easily preventable death. An avoidable, pointless death.
But it still happened. And I watched it. And I felt terrible about it and sad that it happened, but ultimately I stayed indifferent. I pushed, and the next match started.
And then there were two deaths. The two constestants killed each other, assening the other with a killing blow.
It was a bloody show of violence and cruelty. By whom ? Me, I presume. I'm the one who pitted them against each other, and who lead to them being so combattive. I killed them. Not by my own hands, but by their own. i made them pick up their weapons, and I made them spill each other's viscera in a bloody show.
The other party is Her. Her who resides within the earth, and who blessed them and with this joyous kiss cursed their fate to be hated and despised.
Sometimes I wonder. What did she hope to accomplish ? To give to just a happy few a gift so tremendous, and to curse all the other people on earth to bath in the soil at their feet.
I am alone, cold, and shivering. Nothing will come save me. Whereas I knew the trap was here, only now do I see it closing around me.
William.
Dear Frederick.
This will be my last letter. There are two matches left. After that... After that the end will come. I no longer want this to happen. The future holds nothing for me, nothing but death and darkness. And it scares me. At least, the knowledge that my death will be swift is comforting.
But even so, I fear for you. I believe we are high enough that nothing can come down, but I can never be truly certain. Ifever something were to happen, I want you to stand still. Taking up the arms and fighting would accomplish nothing. Let them have their victory and leav in peace. I feel tired of it all.
If you must rebuild, if the world is broken but without war, then build. If you must fight, if you must take arms and battle, then stand. Lower your weapons. Run. Live in peace, in my memory. When I am exiled to the land that lays beyond, I do not want to see you there for decades to come.
Even in my absence, please live a long life.
With hope of release, William.
Dear William,
Though no letter of you has been received, I had stayed hopeful. This morning, however, the sun rose, then hid itself. A great spherical cloud makes up the sky, and with a telescope all I see are bodies melded together. Only a thin rim of light crowns the horizon.
I believe I know what heppened, and this knowledge frightnes me to my very core. The faint, irrational hope I had of seeing you has been shattered with no hope of ever healing.
In the constant night of the day, the garden is dying. No longer do they have sun, but a fraction of an hour upon sunrise and sunset. The days are cold, dark, and long. Nothing shines in the skies but the shrieks of a million dead people, all fused into one frightening howl.
Every single day, I look at the sky with my telescope. And every single day, I try to see if one of the figures resembles your own. Why I am doing this, I don't know, as if ever I do succeed in singling you out, then for sure my life will end.
Forever mourning, Frederick.
Dear Frederick.
Do not despair. Do not let the world have its win over you. Fight, and fight until your very last breath. For today is the last day of this world. Whether I want it or not, the utter doom of all things extant are coming.
For having trampled so many dreams and crushed so many souls, this must be the bright sword of divine justice. The garden is now dust, to be scattered on the winds, its beauty and radiance only remaining in the memories of those who saw it.
But, even as you fight, nothing can be done. This battle is between beings greater than one can understand, and no matter what weapon you wield, no matter what strategy you think of, you will not be able to scratch the surface of the Moon.
You will not kill us. You will not hurt us. You will not make us bleed.
You are powerless.
Hatingly, E.