Arren Illiathan: I'm Sorry

My Dearest Alia,

Dornheim is colder than I had remembered, enough to chill my marrow were it not for the furs given to me by her people. As I walk the tundra and her vast ice fields, my feet tingle. You were not long from these cold shores before I took to them, by boots treading the soil of the same land which you graced not long before.

I am sorry. I'm sorry to have left you again, and I'm sorry that I couldn't be the brother you needed at the time you needed him. I wonder if he is dead. Who have I become? I have left on a quest to find a lost city, but for me, the quest is to find myself. I thought that I was righteous, and believed I was truly a hero, but what is a hero? I may have helped save the Ivors and Alk'Harans but in doing so, I feel I have lost those whom I love. Can you forgive me? I do not ask forgiveness for killing the man with whom you shared your heart. I cannot, to do so I should have lost myself, and forsaken your honor and the honor of our family. Can you forgive me for leaving when I should have stayed? Back when I fled the first time and now, for a second time. Can you forgive me for leaving the family in your hands, the work of our legacy while I seek myself? While I grasp for that intangible honor? What is honor if it has no legacy after I am dead, after our family line ends? I feel tied to it, and dearly wish to free myself from it. I only wish that there was some way to know that what I do is right.

I don't ask you to write back. I understand that silence is what I deserve, besides, I'm not sure whether post reaches where I shall go. However, please, please, convey my love to our family, at least what remains. You are all that I have. You are my honor and yours is the face I see when I lose my way. I love you with all of my heart,

Arren Illiathan, Brother

Arren blew into his hands, numb with cold. He could barely tell that he grasped the quill as he began replacing the contents of his letter box. He placed the quill back in the dark wood box with it's inks and sands, and then clumsily folded the paper with his blue tipped fingers. You can't write with gloves on. Not legibly at least, Arren lit the sealing wax from the box with one of his tinder twigs, they were precious and necessary to perform the ritual of transpondence, the one thing that kept him sane at times. Arren watched the flame spring to life on the small stick and let the fire burn the wax, dripping blue on the folded parchment. He let the fire burn until it scorched his fingertips, grateful for any warmth, in spite of the blisters it might cause. Quickly, before the wax hardened in the unearthly cold, he pressed his signet ring, the seal of the Illiathan family into the wax. A blue winged serpent wrapped about a bastard sword hissed at him, sealing the letter against all those who would wrongfully open it.

"Come on Arren, we've rested long enough." Korrick said, waking him from his reverie. It was usually Arren who reminded the others to be on their way. He was the one who pressed foreword. Now he lingered. He wondered if the others noticed how deeply he questioned himself.

"One moment," Arren tucked the box into his backpack and grasped the letter. There was no post out here in this godless steppe, looking about, all he could see was snow and rock for miles, with no sign of civilization. Dornheim felt like the end of the world. He tucked the parchment into his shirt, beneath his armor, which still didn't fit the way it should, and kept it warm with the beating of his heart.

Some day all this searching would end. Some day, the name Illiathan would taste sweet on his tongue. But for now, all was ash. Ash as white as snow as the world kept burning down.