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James--
I must admit, I don’t know what I’m doing, writing this letter to you. I’m not sure it will ever arrive. I’m not sure you’ll read it if it does. If you throw my words into the fire, I’m sure I deserve it. Perhaps I will not actually send this anyway, lest it fall into the wrong hands. I’m not even sure I want it in your hands-- there are so many things we never said to each other, a thousand fucking things, and I’m not sure you want to read those things in a letter.
Yet, I feel I must write these things anyway. I never should have kept them quiet, but I… I had all these notions about you and I. Notions that I see now, in hindsight, may have been misinformed. Here I am, still talking in fucking circles around it all, like I’m terrified of putting these words on paper. I have always felt uncertain around you, to some degree, do you know that? You’re difficult to read, difficult to understand, even when I felt like I knew you better than anyone else in the world ever could. I always hoped that we would get to the point where I could read you like an open book, but your pages always remained stubbornly closed to me.
There is a part of me that is in love with you. Maybe you already knew this and my words don’t come as a surprise at all. Or maybe this is a shock to you. I’m not sure which reaction I would prefer and I suppose I’ll never know which is accurate. This is the beginning and end of it all, James. I am in love with you. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but always there, always a part of me, always burning and aching. God, I ache. I miss you like a fucking limb, and I know exactly how that feels.
You were right. You know this already; I don’t have to tell you. I regret many things, and… I can live with some of those regrets. I have come to terms with them, I have gotten my demons in line and taught them how to keep their mouths quiet. Yet, one of those demons looks just like you, and I can never quiet that regret; you were never easy to keep in line, whether that be in reality or in my head. I’m not sure I’ve slept a whole night through since I sent you away.
I suppose there’s very little point to this letter. I am not seeking absolution for my sins. No, I am burning for what I’ve done, and I suspect I will continue to burn for ages to come. I am sorry. And I love you. And I miss you. And I am sorry. In trying to save the ones I love, I lost you both, and I know I am a fool. I have been living with that knowledge for quite a long time.
Sometimes I imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t thrown our war away. Would we have won, somehow? What prices would we have paid? Would either of us have lived to see the end? Perhaps death would be kinder than the life I am currently living without you.
Other times, I imagine what would have happened if I had left with you. If we’d left together. If there was no Thomas Hamilton, no Madi, no war with England-- if you weren’t Captain Flint and I wasn’t Long John Silver. You remember when the Walrus ran aground, in search of the Urca? Perhaps you and I should have left to find St. Augustine, after all. Perhaps we could have found a life in Florida, somewhere we could be together and be happy. Somewhere we could be in love.
I truly don’t know if you already knew the depth of my feelings for you. But I… I believe that our feelings towards each other have been mutual for some time now. I believe that there is a part of you, no matter how small, that is in love with me too. Or, at least, I believe that you loved me before I did this to you. I should have kissed you on at least a dozen occasions, but I always stopped myself. Sometimes I feared that you would not kiss me back. Sometimes I feared that you would.
I wonder what you will respond if I actually decide to send this mess of a letter. You’ll probably just tell me to fuck off.
What would you do if I came to you? What would you do if I showed up in the New World and begged you to forgive me? Would you turn me away? Would you kiss me?
I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I am so far from the man that I was when all of this began. I’ve been molded into a weapon of war and now there is no war and I have no place and no peace. My own fault, yes, but consequences that I did not foresee. I can’t imagine living an ordinary life now… Shall I become an innkeep, marry Madi, have several children with her? Jesus. She hasn’t spoken to me in months and I do not foresee that changing any time soon. We are not cut out for an ordinary life.
I am running out of words to write and sunlight to write by. I should head back soon, before it gets too dark to walk safely with my crutch. Yet, I cannot find the energy to force myself upright, and I cannot find the desire to end this letter. There are so many things I still wish to say, James. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever called you James before. It feels odd to think of you as someone other than my Captain.
I’m sitting on the cliffs. Our cliffs. Our footprints are long gone from the sand, but I remember those long afternoons perfectly. I’ll never forget them. You and I, we’d never been so happy together before, and that meant something to me. It still does. I never wanted to fight you for real. That memory taints the more pleasant ones sometimes. Remember when I first disarmed you? And you smiled at me, and you were proud of me? And I smiled at you, and I was proud of myself? I should have kissed you in that moment, with just the sea and the sand and the sun as witnesses.
I will regret the things you and I did not do for the rest of my life. I will regret the things that I did do for the rest of my life.
I love you, Captain. James. My love. I am sorry.
If there is any part of you that loves me, and any part of you that wants to come back, I beg you… please, come back. I will leave my dignity at the door and grovel for your forgiveness if that’s what you want. You can bring Thomas; I would not ask you to pick me over him. Just… come back. I never should have sent you away.
I believe I’ll send this letter after all. I have no pride left to lose.
I hope I see you again someday.
Love,
John