The Twenty-Sixth of Ivaris, Sixteen Seventy-Four,
I cannot believe the venom and vitriol of my letter. If I had an ounce of sense in my vapid and desolate mind I would not have sent it. If I were a sensible person I would remember my place and his station; And censored my letter as such, In a very short time he will be King. Pretty words and pretty smiles, I cannot assume that anything I say will be taken correctly or will stay solely between he and I. I cannot assume that his so called bid for familiarity and to step away from such peerage protocol as anything more than an attempted trap. I would do well to remember the scant few lessons my Father taught me; “If it cannot be said in full court without repercussions then it is best not to be said, let alone put down in your own hand. Should your own hand betray you then you have signed your own warrant. You are headed to the rope.”
I cannot believe I spoke so candidly to him. Upon that head shall rest the crown. The crown he has been born and bred. And here I sit entertaining flitting fantasies of love and interest. If I were born to anyone else I would be thought of as a whore, a prince would want nothing to do with a whore. Save only for a night’s distraction. No matter my station, all in his court will see me as a whore and paint me with a whore’s scarlet brush.
In every court across this sphere we call home do courtiers gossip, and I have no doubts that after the Festival of the Ocean Spirits that I am a common and favorite topic. As of late that is. A vain peacock am I for such petty and unseemly thoughts.
Yet I do so hope he returns my letter and paradoxically I hope that he never reads it. That it might be cast into the flames so that my words lay unsaid and unwritten. Two Days, without stop, by train is all it takes to get to the capital, it is the one of the fastest forms of transportation in our modern day. To Opris in but a blink, a scant number of days if the train makes it’s usual stops upon the way.
Has Evandrus gone to Essillion? To that damned place where nearly half a legion has disappeared in mist and smoke. Is that why he has not returned my letter? Does he still yet live? Has he fallen to wicked sorcery? Am I so cursed to always to sit here waiting for his blasted letters? An obedient animal waiting his beck and call? Is this truly love that burns beneath my breast?
Does Evandrus sit up in his apartments with agile iron pen awaiting my letters in turn? I must endeavor not call him Evandrus, not in the safety of my diaries, of which any could read; Nor should I think of him as Evandrus while in the sanctity of my mind, to do so would be folly and breed misfortune. To become accustom to calling him Evandrus in my mind would be well inappropriate. Even worse if I were to slip and call him Evan while in the company of others. To do such a thing would provoke scandal. Informality is another word for disrespect as Uncle is want to say. If only Uncle knew of the letters coming and going from my bower.
I hate myself and I cannot believe my own ego. Must the whole if creation yet again revolve around me? Am I truly this weak of will? I must work to redouble my efforts not to give in to my selfish cytherean urges and instincts. If only I could loose the chains and do as I would. A moments’ distraction and folly cannot hurt.
There are many things I would exorcise from my beloved home, the house of my Father, or would I leave this behind and head to our manor in Opris? I should think the latter, if only to be closer to the origin of the childish fantasies that dither about my mind. Fantasy is not a viable escape, I should work from within the confines of my cage. The gilded cage that it is, I should think that a Galtheran slave would think such a cage a lush palace. A palace of servants and sweet tea cakes, a life without labor and pain. Never knowing the true taste of the lash.
A moment’s punishment of the lash, blood spilled and a lasting scar. I would almost prefer it over the harsh cruelties of isolation and coldness.