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Jul. 31st, 2009

Authors: pancakerabbit06 and chaucerettescs 
Ratings/Warnings: PG for the moment, probably eventually PG 13
Open characters: None, sorry.
Notes: None of those, either

Dear Valia,

How is life at court? How is the duke? How is the duchess? I trust the summer fashions are most amusing, et cetera. I have been well enough, considering the circumstances. The roof has begun to leak, two of my goats are pregnant, and it would appear that I am still exiled indefinitely from the kingdom, on pain of death should I enter again, but anyway--

You may be wondering why I choose to write you now. However, I suspect you already know.

Last night, a young man arrived at my door. He was glassy-eyed, rather disheveled and clearly delirious, and seemed to be suffering from all signs of the early stages of lycanthropy.

He also seemed to be wearing a ring with the royal seal on it. There was a piece of parchment clenched in his hands, and, hoping for a note that might explain his presence, I tried to pry it away, but could salvage only a few scraps. It was not enough to discern any words--just enough to identify your handwriting. Most of the page had been eaten; his mind is almost entirely lupine, although three days remain before the full moon. This strongly indicates that he was turned recently--and badly.

Am I correct in thinking this man is your brother? I met Lucas only a handful of times, the last being four years ago, but there is something familiar about the poor wretch's face. There has been talk, even out here in the Thregian Mountains, that your brother was consorting with the Wolf Prince. I have always dismissed it as nothing more than talk, but now I wonder. If true, surely you understand the seriousness of the situation. Even if it is not, you are surely aware that the King has vowed, not only to destroy all such beasts, but those who attempt to aid of conceal them as well.

I would very much like to know why you have sent a fledgling werewolf to my door. I would also like to know how in the world you believe I can help this creature, and more to the point, why in the world I would care to. After all, you and your kin did little to aid me when I stood accused of poisoning the Archduke. Is there some debt I owe you that I have forgotten? Certainly nothing comes to mind.

Three days til the full moon, Valia. You should write back quickly. If he injures any of my goats, I am cursing you and all your descendants til the Flood-day.




Aug. 1st, 2009 03:40 am (UTC)
another letter, sent separately
Dear Jerome,

I hope you don't mind if I leave off using your full title; you don't know me well, but I was present at your birth and do not feel the need to stand on ceremony right now.

This is concerning the young man Lucas Amherst. I don't know how much of the story you have heard from his sister, but he is staying with me for a few months as he recovers from a sudden illness. It is--there is no getting around this--a grave affliction, and though likely not fatal, he will have to come to terms with serious changes in his life. The next few months are going to be daunting for him, and he would surely benefit from correspondence with someone near his own age, someone he can trust. I assume from the frequency with which he mumbled your name while delirious that you two are close. The circumstances surrounding is condition are complicated, and if you wish not to get involved, it is understandable, but at any rate, my address is enclosed.

I realize this may be rather a lot to think about, but I am a firm believer in giving people as much of the truth as they can handle.

I hope you are in good health, and that your Latin is going well.

a friend
Aug. 1st, 2009 03:43 am (UTC)
Re: another letter, sent separately
Dear friend,

If you are who I believe you are, and I doubt very much I am mistaken, I believe that you are someone I can trust, someone who has perhaps been most grieviously abused. At the least, you are someone who has cared for someone quite dear to me and for that, you have my gratitude.

I agree that Mr. Amherst could greatly benefit from my correspondence, though I must ask for discreteness. I know more than those around me believe I do and, for the time being, I find it preferable to appear ignorant, particularly to an acquaintance I believe you and I share.

I've enclosed a note for Lucas and when he is well enough, I trust you to help it find it's way into his hands and no one else's. He'll understand it's contents.

I thank you again,


P.S. My Latin is going quite well. You're very kind.

Aug. 1st, 2009 03:45 am (UTC)
Re: another letter, sent separately
Dear Jerome,

You are very wise. There are many things I would like to say right now, but it would be imprudent to do so.

For now, I am passing along a volume which may prove useful in your studies: book V of Ovid's Metamorphses. Even if you already own the full set, I would say it is worth a look; the illustrations are quite good.

I tried to study Latin for a while, but ultimately gave up. The whole business was too difficult for me. I commend you for soldiering onward.

Ipsa sciencia potestas est, or is it scientia?

P.S. If you like the book, you may keep it. Consider it a rather late birthday gift.
Aug. 1st, 2009 03:44 am (UTC)
Included in the previous letter's envelope, a small note sealed with wax.

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Your mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

--Yeats (of course)

-- J
Aug. 1st, 2009 03:46 am (UTC)
On a ragged slip of paper, wedged between the story of Phineas and the story of Proserpina.

Never in my life have I been so bloody glad to read Yeats.

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil’d face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o’er my head.

--Keats (as though there was any doubt)



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