#epistolary

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [22/04/26] ❞

The gentle scratch of a quill across parchment echoed through the stillness of the chamber. Zuko was working diligently again, the candle beside him emitting a flickering, amber glow. Shadows stretched long and somber across his weary face, a testament to the hours spent pouring over scrolls and composing replies to the ministries.

Occasionally, an attendant would step in bearing fresh documents for Zuko - just as he had requested. It was clear to all that he worked tirelessly, the toll etched into his face. Zuko, ever ready to offer a benign excuse, attributed his sunken visage to the dim lighting, rather than confronting the truth; his horrible sleep schedule and overwhelming sense of obligation that weighed heavily upon him.

Since the day he ascended as Fire Lord, sleep had become a stranger to him. Burdened by the weight of legal disputes and the relentless pursuit of reparations, he was beyond stressed to do a good job. An apology, or desperation perhaps, to show the world that the man now at the helm of the Fire Nation was not the same as the one before, but a new, different leader seeking redemption.

The assurances of change were genuine, and he vowed to make amends. He brushed his palm across his face, dark strands of hair slipping free from his topknot to frame his now-matured face. The night stretched interminably (more like the morning) before he would even consider finally setting the scrolls aside and surrendering to sleep.

There was something almost therapeutic about the way he threw himself into his work. It was rhythmic, giving him structure and control when he felt his fate was continuously controlled by the demands and wishes of others. Here, in this solitary chamber, his work helped him rediscover his sense of self.

With a languid motion, he flipped a piece of parchment he had reviewed the week prior. His eyes, weary and unfocused, drifted across the formal text. His reading stuttered only for a moment when the vivid scarlet strokes at the margins caught his gaze, suddenly reawakened by curiosity.

That hadn't been there before. He looked at it closer.

His jaw hung slack, a stunned silence hanging in the air. Before he could control himself, Zuko’s lips curled into an involuntary snort at the absurd inscription before him. Then the realization set, disbelief taking over his features as he scrutinized the circled ink. The Fire Lord himself was being subject to critique within his own scrolls.

Who would be so impudent to do such a thing? He tapped the end of his quill thoughtfully against his chin, weighing whether to craft a reply to this audacious message or leave it unanswered. It was for him after all, was it not?

Zuko felt himself drifting off to sleep again. Perhaps it was a good idea to rest and leave the rest of the documents for tomorrow.

...

Another night, another shift to organize state records. The room was dusty, cluttered, and uneventful. As the royal family's Archivist, you were responsible for ensuring that everything was in order and that the documents were filed correctly. What was unusual, however, was that an attendant brought you the same scroll you evaluated the night before.

You nearly fell out of your chair when you lifted the sheet, revealing a strange inscription beneath your own ramblings. You hadn't anticipated the Fire Lord to respond, let alone read your commentary! You may have been sorely mistaken in believing that he was not reviewing his own documents properly...

Biting your writing utensil anxiously, you read the same lettering over and over again. Would he fire you? Were you in trouble? 'Do not deface official drafts.' Fuck. In that instant, the evening’s monotony shattered. So what if maybe you were a little bored the night before assessing reports for hours?

Who could blame you? Even the Fire Lord himself seemed to be dozing off at the same work. After staring at the handwriting for a good ten minutes, you made up your mind. Maybe you were plain stupid, or perhaps feeling a little brazen, but surely there wouldn't be any harm in replying, right?

You had basically already dug your grave anyway. May as well lie in it.

You placed the paper amid a heap of other documents, trusting Zuko’s attendant to carry it back to him. Expecting a reply to take a day or two, you were surprised when, mere hours later, the attendant reappeared at your workspace, bearing news.

"The Fire Lord says this one is urgent."

He rapped a nail lightly against the topmost paper, then swung the door closed behind him with a decisive click. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, unabashed in your eagerness to discover if he had written back.

Despite yourself, you smiled at the writing. Why were you smiling? He basically told you to cut it out. Ah, whatever. He complimented your seating chart! The stoic and unimpressed Fire Lord, liked your seating chart! Okay. Maybe you were the sleep deprived one. You slapped yourself out of your stupor, and got back to work.

...

This back-and-forth between Zuko and you became increasingly common. He was intrigued about who you were. An Archivist, obviously, but also someone of significance if you had access to... well, everything. He was certain that anyone else penning the final drafts would be perplexed by the irrelevant annotations in the scroll margins.

Still, there was a peculiar amusement in waiting for what you would conjure next. You were a subtle shimmer illuminating his otherwise dull routine. Each report exchanged ignited a new conversation that brightened his day, and while it was embarrassing to admit, he found himself looking forward to your cheeky remarks.

Zuko's face burned with shame. Surely he hadn't actually done that, right? He flipped the scroll over, cheeks aflame at the barely legible list. Were you seriously the only one proofreading?! And who appointed you to be making royal commands?! Zuko was horrified by his foolish mistake. At the very least, you had not chastised him too harshly.

He sipped at his tea, grumbling.

...

Neither of you knew who the blue ink belonged to, but you could deduce it was the attendant who bore witness to what were effectively your personal correspondences to the Fire Lord. You had both burst out laughing at your respective workstations at the sight, Zuko undeniably flushed from being caught red-handed.

...

For a time, it was like this. Making each other laugh through careless spellings and fleeting quips. Zuko had never actually reached out beyond the margins of your exchanges, but God, he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to cross that boundary. Nothing truly barred him from doing so; after all, you worked for him.

Perhaps there was a part of him that relished in the mystery and taunting. He wanted you to crack first. He grew somewhat protective of you, too. Regardless of his own hypocrisy, he was concerned by the fact that you were always awake to respond to his notes, how overworked you were (his fault), and how well-guarded the archives were in general.

Then, a self-indulgent idea came to him. He began to write hurriedly.

He dispatched the document and lingered in quiet anticipation, awaiting your reply as he invariably did.

...

The archives were typically silent, except for the rare skitter of a palace mouse or the settling of old timbers. But tonight, the hefty bronze doors creaked on their hinges. Zuko stepped into the dim light of the lantern-lit aisles, clutching the final scroll in a tense grip. His golden eyes surveyed the shadows of the Pre-Sozin Poetry section, his heart hammering for a reason entirely unrelated to state affairs.

"I found three misspellings in your last note," a voice called out playfully from the darkness of the stacks.

Zuko pivoted, the gleam of his crown catching the light as his gaze fell upon you, poised against the shelves. A familiar scarlet pen was tucked behind your ear and a look of pure, defiant mischief on your face.

"You're late," you whispered, pushing off the shelf and stepping into his personal space.

Zuko dropped the scroll. He didn't care where it landed. "Forget the scroll," he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm here for the Archivist."

He took one last step forward, effectively pinning you against the mahogany shelves. The smell of smoke and luxurious jasmine rolled off him in waves, and up close, you could see a faint, frenetic pulse at the base of his throat. He looked precisely as he did in his letters; intense, exhausted, and thoroughly undone by your teasing.

His gaze flickered down to your lips and then back to your eyes, his hand hovering just inches above your waist. He wasn't the Fire Lord right now; he was merely a man driven to his breaking point by a red pen and a few well-placed sentences.

Yeah, you were positively fucked.

“The descendants of Nelyafinwë “Maedhros” Fëanorion are a matter of great confusion and consternation to the histories of the First age. This confusion and consternation is only made worse by the fact that Maedhros claimed to have no children at all. Throughout his long life, we have no record of a wedding or dalliance whatsoever, as the Annals of Numenor, preserved by the blessed King Tar-Minyatur, list him as childless and wife-less. However, there have been many individuals who either claimed to be his children, or were rumored to be such. In this study, I intend to parse out the truth of these claims. Thirty two letters addressed to “Atya Nelyo” commonly translated as “Father Maedhros” have been uncovered in the archives of Rivendell, and I have gone through the great effort of having my assistants travel there to transcribe them.” pp. 14

“The earliest of these letters are somewhat of a curiosity, as they are attributed to elves whom by dominant account already had a father. The twin sons of Fëanor, Amrod and Amras who’s valinorian names are lost, only the shared epessë Ambarussa survive to us, were the earliest figures to claim Maedhros a their father. The common knowledge places the Ambarussa as the sixth and seventh sons of Feanor, but interestingly enough, these letters are not the only time that the Ambarussa have rejected this parentage. In an argument between Amras and Curufin, recorded by a scribe in the planning of the second kinslaying, Amrod is reported to have interjected, say “I recognize no father but the one who raised me. The madman who named me forteit his claim on the banks of Beleriand.” Other letters, in dealings with the elves of Ossiriand, have Amras signing as Amras Nelyion, likely in reference to Maedhros’s Quenyan name.” pp. 68

“I feel confident in saying that even if all speculation about the Ambarussa’s actual parentage is erroneous, they, and Caranthir to a lesser extent, conferred onto Maedhros the respect and deference owed to a father, rather than onto Feanor. This role as the patriarch of the house of Feanor, and a father-figure both to his siblings and a number of fostered thrall-children previous to the blessed king Elros and his brother Elrond, raises questions upon the exact conditions, and emotional situation surrounding this period of the king’s life." pp. 205

"Lord Elrond has declined to comment. Repeatedly.” pp. 209

Translation notes

“It’s quite cute, really, the way that they address each other. Lots of little nicknames, though I find it strange how few of these letters have been signed. One can only assume that it went without saying for the recipient.”