Dear Eleanor Willfrost, Queen Regent:
You said in your first letter that you didn't care. In the second, that you would read me with scorn. But between every line of yours, even the cruelest, I can read what you don't dare to write: that rage gnaws at you, yes, but also that you still read me. And that, however minimal it may seem, is enough to know that I am not indifferent to you.
I will not answer you with soft words. Not anymore. You said my letters were sweet, that they aimed to calm you. Today I don't want to calm you. If my words ignite your fury, so be it. I grew tired of waiting in the shadow of a "someday," and I decided, at last, to live. Not as a court mage, nor as a silent advisor, but as a man. As this man who loved you without disguise and without conditions.
You always attacked me before embracing me. You always hurt me with your words before your silences enveloped me like a refuge. And something tells me that, behind this fury, as so many times, there is also a silent desire for me to respond. That's why I will continue writing to you, even if you no longer reply, even if your letters are meant only to burn upon reading. Because I know you will read every word. Because I know you.
You were my light, Eleanor. And though you never wanted to look me straight in the eye, you were. How much love does it take for a queen to see a man beyond his position, his utility, his devotion? I don't know. Perhaps too much. Perhaps what I offered you wasn't enough, or perhaps it was enough, and that's why you fled.
I don't leave with resentment, but with truth. And with the dignity of one who has given all he could give. I did not want to become a shadow following you, nor a servant begging for affection among the remnants of your power.
Betrayal? No. Don't accuse me of what I didn't do. I didn't leave you without guidance or without a legacy. I left projects, ideas, open paths that we walked together. Perhaps you will discard them out of pride, perhaps you will take them and erase my name, but they are there. And if any part of you still believes in what we built, you will know that I did the right thing.
If someone broke our promise, it wasn't me. I don't say it to hurt you, but so that you don't distort what you know deep down: that if there was a traitor to us, it was not Dyan Harvest.
Don't repeat that you will rule with an iron hand. You know that you will follow, whether you want to or not, the path we forged with hope, with virtue, with love for the people. You will be a just queen. Because that is who you are. Because you don't know how to rule any other way. Even if you deny me, even if you erase me from your decrees, even if you burn this letter after reading it.
You can hate me if you need to. You can write to me to scream, as you so often did with a broken voice at the end. But you know—though you may not want to admit it—that if there is anyone who will remain here for you, it is this man whom you did not want to see as an equal, but who was the only one who truly loved you.
Your silent embraces, your elusive kisses, your wordless goodbyes... I keep them as one keeps something known to be unrepeatable. You don't have to love me, Eleanor, but don't pretend you never did.
If your intention was to hurt me with your letter, you failed. You made me remember why I loved you. And why, despite everything, I still write to you.
With rage sometimes, with pain too, but always, always with truth.
Dyan Harvest