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Sun’s light had long since set on Meidi, but many in the ministry were still diligently at work. Dots of lantern light from the surrounding buildings speckled the black landscape outside Miguel’s cloudy dorm window. It had only been a few months since he was freed from Ataran custody back to Meidi’s respected scholar Judith.
Most of his time back in Meidi was doing basic review of the texts, sticking to a routine, and innumerable check-ins to verify his redemption efforts. Once Miguel had accepted that there was indeed a way forward, he jumped at the opportunity to try again. Returning to the basics could only be a benefit, after all.
But there was one thing he had to do before fully committing himself, and this was the last time he tumbled with the idea. Just getting it all out on paper, every hang up and regret! Yes, the only way out was through, so Miguel grabbed a sheet and finally started writing the letter he should’ve written a long time ago.
Zerachiel, my old friend,
It is long since past an appropriate time to make contact with you. I have made my peace with what transpired in Sandrock, and am committed to my rehabilitation in Meidi, under the proper supervision and guidance, naturally. Though Judith, Light bless her, has delivered me from a deserved fate, I still find myself wondering about our time together as students. There are many things I would have done differently had I known what I do now, yet there are unresolved feelings and memories I wish to revisit. Of course, these are naught but simple, selfish ramblings to aid in my path back towards the Light. As such, you are under no obligation to read these writings, nor are you required to respond in any manner to this letter.
Do you remember our first conversation? Or perhaps you are just like me, where I have taken your presence as an immutable fact of life? As much as I expect to still have my hands when I wake up, you too had to be right next to me at morning prayers. There is a nagging feeling in my heart that such a precious thing as our first exchanged words should be remembered in perfect clarity, yet when I reach out for those fleeting sparks they simply vanish into ashes.
One of my most closely held memories is our first session with Judith in the library. We were stupid teenagers on the verge of flunking an irrelevant subject, which was apparently so terrible that our teachers brought in the toughest peer tutor they had. In just that one session, though, Judith became our beloved friend too. It pains me to admit it, but yes, I did get quite jealous of the amount of time you two spent together. So jealous I was, in fact, that I tried to muster up the courage to tell you how I felt that same night. But, unfortunately, this is not the direction our story has gone, and I regret my inaction every single day.
Barely a year after this, Doss fell. As I have said to you previously, it was a test of faith, but one too heavy for an 18-year-old me to bear on my own. From the first moment the news got to you to the day your own test of faith broke, you were still my hands.
Zerachiel, there is genuinely no earthly way I can ever thank you enough for your efforts back then. You kept me fed, you made sure I was sleeping, you laundered my clothes, and most importantly to me, you were my only advocate at a time I could barely keep track of time's passage. You have said that it was nothing special, but to me, it meant everything - because I had lost everything.
Why is it then that I could not extend the same grace in kind when your brother Joel passed? What prevented me from ditching everything and running after you? After much deliberation and self-reflection in that cold Ataran cell, I think I have finally found my answer.
I was scared. Scared that I could not be adequate enough of a shoulder, scared of confronting the contradictions of the sacred texts, but the chief fear of all was simply this: I did not want to confirm that while you were my hands, I was never yours. You had never needed me that way before, so as the child I was, I assumed you would weather the storm all on your own. It's only very recently that I have realized how foolish of a delusion that was. You should not have had to go through your grief on your own, and I should have tried anything other than just praying you would come back.
You, once a prodigy composer of sermons and thesis alike, came out the other side a weathered and tired pessimist, losing all faith in the Church. Yet, even with every fiber of your faith wrung out, you still found ways to help the common man. Like it was just another chore, you mastered the art of field medicine and then saw the situation on the Lucien front. Despite it all, you stubbornly held trust, hope, and love for human beings in a way I had long since begun to lose.
Now, I refuse to sit here and cry that my work as a pastor has been for nothing, but I am certain that my involvement with Duvos has set my impact on this world back to as neutral as the day I was born. Many good deeds were canceled out overnight by a poorly picked ally. It is only through this reflection of our schoolhood that I have started to rebuild myself into a pastor worthy of a congregation.
But it is not just rebuilding I must do, rather it is a total and complete renovation. To make sure I do not dare tread the same path again, I must be bold enough to challenge myself. I must admit to every lingering wish and desire before I can be at peace with you.
Through these writings, it is no secret that I admired you as a schoolboy, and to be frank, to this day I still hold you in some regard now as well despite our opposite endings. But there was once a time that I fantasized that everything beyond us was just a dream that we could shape together.
I wish I had obeyed my original urge to confess to you all those years ago. If I had gathered just a little bravery, perhaps all of this would have been averted. Yes it would have been difficult, hiding in plain sight and sneaking intimate moments in the few private corners of Meidi, but it is without a doubt in my mind that it would have been worthwhile. To take you behind the hedges and whisper about what our lives would look like together, or climb into the rafters of the chapel and have our first kiss; would that have been enough of a weedkiller for the seed of evil in me? Perhaps. But regardless of this wanting and wishing, we are adults now.
I cannot fix any of these mistakes; I can only make amends and find peace in the future my decisions have wrought.
Wherever you are now, Zerachiel, I hope fate is kind to you and your daughter. If this is to be the last sentence of mine you ever read, then let it be this: I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Miguel
Miguel sighed, relieved. Carefully, he folded the letter into an envelope, and filed it away in the recesses of his desk drawers. Perhaps he had the nerve to write such a thing now, but he was nowhere near bold enough to actually let it complete its journey. Not now, at least.
He didn’t even have the courage to write the three words he wanted to say most.