Sharing Trouble
Three postal services between Pandaria and Silvermoon, nearly two weeks travel in the Eastern Kingdoms alone, all for one letter tattooed over nearly the entirety of its crinkled skin in innumerable stamps and markings; the crawling chaos of ink had grown with each stop on the long way home, but under it all a message in a familiar hand could still be made out in the upper corner, just beneath the address.
To the lovely Kharris Dawndancer,
from Ruecien,
with all fondness.
And inside?
Dearest Kharris,
There have been too many false starts for this letter, over the past month. Iāve finally decided to just begin at the beginning and end at the end.
First of all - you are dear to me, and to Sinobel, perhaps more than we will ever be able to express! Not a day goes by that I donāt think of you in some way. Thereās a hidden humor in how the chime of precious metals summons your graceful sway to mind, or the slow coiling steam of fragrant tea winds its way into memories of nights and conversations spent with you. Too few of those, maybe, and too few letters from here, an error which I recognize with regret. Will you forgive me for not writing sooner? Or at all? I am ashamed. That feeling is all the stronger because of the circumstances under which I write, as I selfishly -
Apologies. I escape myself like an unraveling scarf. Iāll reveal the smallness of my character soon enough.
Regardless of my anxieties, itās my hope that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits; maybe it will glide beneath your fingers as you saunter through the Exchange one evening, looking for another curiosity, or perhaps it may catch your eye at morning tea, one among many siblings vying for the warmth of your undivided attention. Part of me wishes that it reaches you quickly but is read slowly, patiently, saved for when the sun has traded stations with the moon and youāre safely enfolded in the darkness of your favorite, affectionate Shadow. That youāre happy in the deeply-rooted, painted-toes-to-tip-of-ears sense is what matters most and above all else.
Itās a concern about happiness that prompts this letter in the first place, as it happens. Sinobel and I are happy here, in the sun and the surf and the low drum of monsoon rains on our crooked roof. I never would have imagined how much one could love fishing before I met her, and now I take for granted being vicariously versed in all the little details of tackle and line and tides and so much more, now that sheās become an Angler proper. The community of Pagelites that live below our cabin recently inducted her as a senior member of their ranks, even. It keeps her energetic and up early - sheās kicked coffee almost entirely, did you know that? Wonders never cease - and helps me rise to the challenge of my own pursuits with the local apothecary. She runs, fishes, and lazes about in the sunlight like a hunting cat when I can entreat her to relax with me. Her hair has refined itself into a river of gold after hours under the sky here, a perfect marriage to the tan she now wears so well. It suits her, but sheās almost too beautiful to gaze on (Youāll agree when you see her). As for myself, you would scarcely recognize me now, if I had to guess; Sin says Iām finally a healthy weight, and sheās been quite the benevolent taskmistress in forcing me to cultivate a tan of my own - all over, and evenly shaded. āIf you get burned, then what fun will you be? Ounce of prevention, pound of cure!ā. Doesnāt that sound just like her? I was thoroughly scandalized at first, but like so much else here, thereās an ease and a wonderful comfort to simply lying in the sun and letting ones thoughts dry awhile under its rays.
Of course, it hasnāt all been sunlight. Rumors reach us of the world beyond, all dark murmurs and whispers of war. The worst of them cannot be true. I refuse to believe it or commit it to the page. My fits are no worse but also no better. Traditional Pandaren medicine, acupuncture,Ā āalignment of internal energiesā, all have proven as futile as any other treatment. Sinobel suffers new ailments. She has nightmares, now, that trouble me deeply; her face twists like a knife on the worst nights, while she wars against a past I cannot see to stave off a fearful future I cannot guess at. But we manage. She is always around me when I fall away, and I am ever at her side when the night is far longer than it ought to be. I am indescribably fortunate to have such a love as hers. Sinobel never once turns away from my brokenness, always putting her face to the wind and her shoulder to the wheel...
And, so, I will not turn aside from her growing sickness, no matter how painful the cure will be. I wrote to tell you this, and to seek assistance that only you can provide, Kharris: Sinobel is dying.
Donāt be immediately alarmed, but please, do not misunderstand me either. Thereās no physical ailment, no lazily thumping heart or oozing vein, but sheās endangered nonetheless. Fatally so. I never did have a flair for the dramatic, least of all for its own sake. Iām saying the truth as plainly as I can, however, as honestly as Iām able. Sinobel, the woman whoās glove I return to like a trained hawk, your Crew, my Muse, is dying here. The sparking parts of her that make her who she is - āTroubleā - are falling away, and I fear that there will be lasting harm if I cannot steel myself to action. Or if you refuse to help me.
Kharris, I think Sinobel wasnāt built for this sort of pleasant idleness, in spite (ābecause?ā is written and underlined, off to the side) of it being so idyllic. The same slow passage of time that deepens my roots withers her on the vine; salt water that invigorates me, strengthens me, seems to be rusting her passions; evenings spent leisurely make her anxious and bored; little routines of market visits bind her down and choke the life out of her without the contrast of another goal, another adventure, another moment of skills exercised towards a worthy end. She grew and grows listless. There has to be something more.
I discovered what that was, only a few weeks ago. I had the lock changed on the cabin, and her smile at picking us a way back in was the most complete Iāve seen in months. Later, I plied her with lockboxes - the fisherfolk beneath all contributed, and Master Ling provided me with two himself from the Interior - and basked in the glow of her focused glare, while she lost herself in the mystery of tumblers and pressure pads and locks and prybars. My answer came to me, then. I would write you and I would ask for a terrible favor, one that ends my sunny days and disrupts the heart of this peacefulness Iāve wrapped up tightly inside my chest.
I love her more than lif with all my he just as a drowning man loves
Forgive me. Words fail. I love her, and that is all. I trust you above all others to understand what it means to adore someone so completely, so inescapably, that their happiness is worth walking through fire, or burning for. To truly love another means recognizing certain expanses that may never be crossed or explained, and providing all the space for them to flourish in those places away from us even if we never truly understand their calling. This, too, you know intimately. And so I beg you, against the wishes of my jealous heart, to do what I would allow no other soul:
Take her from me.
You must steal my Trouble away, and soon. She needs to feel useful - you can find tasks to be completed. She needs a purpose outside of building a life here in Narsong Spires - you can inspire her. There is a yearning beyond all that I can affect - and I trust utterly, Kharris, that you can ensure that my weakness doesnāt shackle my Muse at my side until she wastes away, bit by bit, like sand sculptures at high tide. You love her in your own fierce way, as a member of your Atlas family. I vaguely recall that the salvaging company is defunct, but perhaps you could leverage old connections, or wrangle deals on the good reputation of the past as a reference? Anything at all. Please.
I know of no one else I could turn to. Itās an agonizing request, even if it werenāt so shameful to beg for your assistance after so many years apart from you, but it must be done before my will weakens. Selfishly, allow me to lean on your forthrightness and gentle, unyielding compassion once more, as I always did under the spires of Silvermoon. Youāve always been the very spirit of tenderness to me; honouring that spirit, I will find a way to repay you in whatever manner you desire for this undertaking. For her sake, there is no price I would not pay and no endeavour I would not attempt.
Well. There it is. I would fill more pages if I could, but sheāll return soon from the marketplace, and this must be kept a secret from her sticky fingers and catās eyes. Know youāre loved also, Kharris, for everything that you are to me. Writing to you seems to have unstopped something deep inside my head - or in the cage of my ribs - and I can feel as much as see the memories desperate to flow to the page. The nights spent drinking tea in your little home, Ylaise and Castien fluttering all about; Embraelleās sudden visitations, unearthly air alloyed with authentic care; Cakes, even, Braedynās ever-adjusted hairpins, a stoop full of faces old and new, moderated by the Most High Xiuhteenaās gruff affection. You know, I even miss when she would tease me about my ācloud of womenā, or hearing about Junarraās latest energetic scheme? Acelynn, for as harsh a break as we had. There are other names, and faces, all spiraling out an-
Enough. My reverie has nearly cost me the stealth I require.
I have faith in you, and will await your response as Autumnās seeds await Spring, and its unforeseeable changes.
Yours, Ruecien
(( @sinobel, @kharrisdawndancer, @embraelle, @saltsparkle, @xiuhteena, and @ylaisegreymist for mentions, with more tags missed because I donāt recall their blogs! ))
