this time when he is in the garden, he is alone. he has determined a patch a gillyflowers beside a zemini vase and a pool of stream water, their bright yellow complimenting the hard bronze. shucking off his gloves, he attends a rest upon one of the many white settees and remarks the dying day. the gardener was due for a visit tomorrow but for the time being this pavilion of heaven was his own; and so, he picked out the letter from the pocket of his tunic and reread its contents, smiling and aglow, blushing like a madman, as he made his way upstairs to the welcome of his desk.
a candle was lit beside him, though not with fire but his own light. his bed was tidy and his chambers clean, absent of mourning, but speckled as ever with evidence to suggest that the room was not entirely complete. there was a jacket upon the hook too big for him; a chest lay open, with treasure from the sea; and finally by the window was a book, the one his beloved admired most, enclosed with petals peaking from between pages. with a pen in hand, and a half empty soul, kenneth curated his next letter.
𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄,
( 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘬 … )
that’s a lot of muck in your mouth. as content as i’m sure you are with joy and what else stifling your stomach, i insist you eat more edible things to keep your head on well. well, i hope since you have heeded my advice. ever heard of toast? eggs? the very fine wealth of food awaiting in the belly of your palace? pay the chef a visit, let him know you ought to eat at least thrice a day if he wishes to keep his employment. better yet him, for i am far less lenient. on the other hand you seem to have eaten your library’s poetry collection as well.
were these words from another paramour’s mouth i’m not certain i would believe it. many people tend to say things they only think they mean and so, all sort of pleasantries pour out of them as if drink from a soul. i have lived long enough to study that, to know when they speak from delusion to when they speak from their heart, because outwardly the two seem very much the same. this would be the case were it anyone but you, however. for i know you mean every word it is that you say, that i risk incorrectness to suggest exaggeration, and that alone pains me; i do miss you, and regret it tears you to miss me too. i will turn my ear from the sea, and pretend as i speak of you that i know nothing of its inquiries and meetings with your interrogative hand. leave me to my incomplete, incoherent and unsteady sense of peace, then, and i will leave you to yours.
i will not comment on the condition of that ship. consider perhaps, that the ship deserved it. — additionally, i will not comment on your penchant for gossip beyond this: perhaps my heart is indeed severed into two and belongs, respectively, to two, but it will remain a mystery what side beats louder and larger than the other. what i do know is that, i will not be returning the hearts i have taken in return to compensate for this. they are mine to keep and, correct, they are doomed to never be returned. now, were you to challenge the bandit in such a way, i can’t say for certain whom it is i would wish to win. perhaps the torrid nature of my heart should like to see you fight for the sake of fighting, plead for the sake of pleading, despair if i disappear with one only to return with the other. i am selfish that way, i could not look away.
why don’t you visit me soon and find out?
yours, without light
lest you return to me.
kenneth vareck.
to my fussy aunt ludmilla,
( or perhaps I’ve confused the two of you… )
very well, if you insist — I will pay the chef a visit. perhaps he can assist me with finding more poetry to regurgitate upon this paper? something about lard, lemons and a love eternal. upon my word, I know you’ll enjoy it.
you seem to have found me out in my longing, knowing that it stems from my heart and not delusion, and for that alone I hate to be predictable. perhaps you would reconsider your words, for mine only come from a place where no rationality can reach. I see you everywhere, my sunlight, in silk sheets and sparkling champagne, in the emptiness of my arms and within me, a chasm that aches for you. now what is this, if not delusion?
as for your heart, I hate to learn that it is torn in two, but I wish you would dedicate the half reserved for me to my opponent — I will have you whole, or not at all. perhaps where you’re selfish, I am greedy. the privateer, however I’ve learnt, favours whatever piece he can get. he leaves no stone unturned, no opportunity lost, to snag what he covets. I can only hope to gain such drive some day.
you will have to forgive the brevity of this letter, my love. turns out I am needed in a thousand different places at once, ( there is only one place where I would rather be ) and work can no longer be delayed.
yours, in spite
despite.
nikolai lantsov.
by then he had each schedule memorised, the precise hour of the afternoon when the mailman rings kenneth’s doorbell, who would be available to pluck the bundle of envelopes & he wondered if the bright scarlet of his hair or the relentless galloping of his heart would be what almost give him away from the shadows. the saints seemed to have been particularly merciful, for the servant did not bat an eyelid towards the privateer standing paces away. there was a sight preserved only for the prince’s eyes, kenneth, sat by the window, one leg dangling across the ledge as he strums that strange instrument in a melancholic tune. how nikolai ached to bend towards it, to forget every other sound in the world, if only to hear the sound of his lover’s music. somehow, he managed to wait — diligently brewing his surprise, as somewhere in the horizon, the sun dipped into the sea.
when moonlight was still scarce but ketterdam’s streets were bright with life, sturmhond put his ingenious plan to motion. it required the help of the old woman manning the stall across the street from kenneth’s townhouse, though he couldn’t risk revealing himself to her. instead, the help of a few pebbles was sought, several thrown one by one over the canvas roof. all attempts made in vain because there were pennies in her hand that needed counting & saints forbid she does it too quickly! an audible sigh left him, but it wasn’t a hurdle tall enough to deter him, so at last he cleared his throat — loud as thunder, crackling like fire. the woman raised a brow towards the sound & sturmhond began his climb, up the pipes, feet finding helpful crevices between bricks to assist him in this endeavour, slipping in from the window left ajar & directly into his kenneth’s chambers.
he sprawled over the bed like arrogant royalty, inhaling the scent of peach and caramel deeply, fingers splayed across the silk sheets as though it was his lover’s skin. quite a while passed & the privateer began imagining the events which must have cascaded since the old woman’s sighting — the frantic knocks on the door, blood rushing in her veins from having acquired such vital gossip firsthand, palpitations thrumming in her voice as she notified the staff of sturmhond’s desperate intervention, and the staff’s collective hysteria in this knowledge. he could hear the shuffling of footsteps somewhere in the distance, albeit short-lived, and the sound of fabric hissing against a marble floor. his own heart leapt with excitement, anticipation, and terrible longing, when the doors were thrown open. ❝ well then, darling, ❞ he grinned, bright as the sun & warmer still. ❝ I’ve come to collect what is owed. ❞
