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When Tiergan finds the envelope, he can't bring himself to open it.
It's been three months since the break, and the gaping wound in his chest is still too raw. He fears that, if he opens it, whatever is written inside will slice open the stitches that he has so carefully, painstakingly sewn into an ugly, red scar over his heart. That everything he's been trying to keep under control might come pouring out.
The envelope is made of thick, navy blue paper with nothing written on it except for his name, written in Prentice's neat, flowing hand in golden ink. It's sealed with golden wax pressed with the Endal family crest, a bright sunburst feels far too joyful for the occasion. Tiergan's breath catches in his throat when he sees it; it's the first letter Prentice has ever addressed to him with the Endal crest instead of the sign of the swan.
So, he doesn't tell Forkle he's found anything. Instead, he blinks back his tears and slips the envelope into the pocket in his cape, gently closing the drawer and staring blankly at Prentice's cleaned office. Tiergan knows that Prentice isn't dead, but it's hard not to feel like he's gone forever. He knows Prentice had- has- faith in the Moonlark. But the Moonlark is currently an embryo in a human woman's uterus, months away from even taking their first breath, years from discovering their power.
So he'd finally decided to clean in Prentice's office. And it feels... horrible. It feels like a goodbye that he never got, but it's not good enough, not even close. It should feel easier to breathe, shouldn't it? The dust that had been piling on every surface in the room is gone now, so shouldn't he be able to take a deep breath?
He tries. God, he tries over and over to breathe through the pain, to let himself exist, but the walls of grief enclosing in on him make him feel claustrophobic. He's never been claustrophobic. Why can't he move, why does he need to so badly? He's the only person in the office, the wide room with open windows and dust-free air, so why does he feel so stuck?
He feels the letter in his pocket, pressing against his chest, and somehow, he manages to take a breath.
Tiergan wants to open it. But these are the last words Prentice has for him, the last words for years. He doesn't know if he can wait for the Moonlark to grow up without the thought of having words from Prentice that he hasn't heard yet, hasn't read yet, words meant for him.
Once he opens the envelope, it's real. There's nothing else Prentice can say to him until he's healed.
So he doesn't let himself open it.
Not until years later, when Sophie Foster heals Alden, when she proves that she can heal broken minds, when Tiergan knows that these won't be the last words he ever gets from Prentice. Then, he breaks the seal.
...
Tiergan,
As I write this, you're asleep. So are Cyrah and Wylie.
I've called swan song, but there's still more I want to tell you. Things I've not let myself say.
I want to explain everything, but if I do, it will put everyone I love in danger. It will put you in danger. And if anything happened to you because of me, I couldn't live with myself, now or ever.
I suspect they will perform a mind break. I've shielded everything to the best of my ability, but I don't know if I can hide everything I need to. I can only hope it's enough. I beg you, don't intervene. Don't put yourself at risk to save me. I will be healed, I promise. I swear it. I will come back to you, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many fractals my mind splits into. That's why I'm writing you a letter instead of speaking my mind out loud. Because this way, it isn't a goodbye. Just a "see you later." I would never leave you without saying a true goodbye if I had any doubts that my absence would be impermanent.
You will be angry. Please, don't let it take control of you. Be there for Cyrah, for Wylie. Be there for yourself. Channel it into your purpose, your life as you want to live it. Explore, fight, strive for our vision of what our world should be. And please, promise you'll come back for me when it's time.
I wish I could say I'm not scared. I wish I could say I'm not absolutely petrified, but it would be a lie. My hands are shaking as I write this, and I'm sure my heart will beat itself into oblivion if I don't make myself take deep breaths. I'm breathing the way you showed me, by the way. In for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. I'll admit, when you first insisted I try it, I thought you were full of shit. But I was too deep in a panic attack to care, and I was seventeen, dealing with emotions I couldn't process. But it helps. I'm going to be okay, and so are you. But I am scared. I desperately wish I weren't, that I could put on a brave face in the mirror and say, "I am not afraid," but it would be a lie. And I will not lie to you.
I suppose I should keep that promise of honesty and tell you that I love you.
There have been times where I've wondered if you felt the same, but I never let myself believe it. I'm sure Cyrah knows. She's always been more perceptive than you when it comes to emotion, and it's part of the reason I love her. But I also love her because she loves so openly and encourages people to do the same, myself included. And so, I'm letting myself love. And I love you.
I love you, and I'm sorry I never told you before.
When I'm healed, I hope you'll tell me that you've read this, though I may not even remember writing it. It won't be unfamiliar, though; memories can be erased, shattered, but the emotions tied to them can't be touched. I will remember that I love you, even if I forget having told you.
Maybe if I repeat it, I'll remember it- you taught me that, too, back in Foxfire, when I was hopelessly studying for my Universe final. And repetition helped me remember.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Tiergan, I love you. I love you like the clouds love the sky, like the air loves the lung, like lightning loves the tallest tree. I love you like a dandelion loves concrete, like confidence loves a mirror, like a ship loves an achor for keeping it steady. I love you like a house loves the people that make it a home, like a sword loves a shield, like a head loves a shoulder to rest on.
I love you like something that can't be described in anything but comparisons, because the words to explain it don't exist yet.
I love you like all the words that are still left unwritten.
I hope you'll be the one to write them, and to teach them to me when I return.
Forever yours,
Prentice