Work Text:
Charles Emerson Winchester (the Third) settled carefully into the chair, flicking the switches on the tape recorder with his customary precision. A cautious glance assured his privacy, and he cleared his throat before he began.
"Mother, Father. I have done as you asked. I have lived among these -- " nostrils flaring in distaste, he nevertheless discarded his first choice of word, continuing with only a subtle hint of sarcasm to allow his true feelings to show " -- these people. Lived in filth and squalor, cold and heat, eating food that I would not feed the dogs at home. What I would not give to stroke those white coats, tug those red ears again! But here I stay, in this fetid hellhole, repairing injuries made to mortal flesh in penance for my sins against my people.
"Father, Mother -- have I not suffered enough? I beg you, allow me to return to our home below Beacon Hill, to make merry once more.
"Your loving, and forevermore obedient, son,
"Teàrlach"