Feb. 28th, 2007

alainn_aislinn: (apple?)
December 12, 1805

Dearest Aurelia,

I cannot do this anymore. It is stifling, here, can't you see that? Everything is so rigid, even play has no spontenaity left. Our King is a shell, and Mother's ambition pollutes the walls themselves. Everything, all of it, it is nothing but false gaity and ambition. No one remembers what it means to feel, not truly. It is bitingly cold, even in the heat of summer, and I cannot think how to endure it, now that I know it can be different.

I met a poet. A mortal poet, and he is everything that we are not. He feels so much that it floods me through and through and lifts me up until I think, perhaps, I can see the heaven he says he doesn't believe in, but he does. He has fire, and passion, and he is brilliant and true, and he makes me...real. I'm going to stay with him, be by his side, in England. I'll be all right, I promise. I know how to take care of myself, and we've kin there who would welcome a visitor from Midir's court. Or perhaps...perhaps I will walk in his world for a while. There are so many of them, and the faint beat of Life we can feel on this side of the Veil is nothing like walking among it. I understand my Father a bit more now.

Perhaps I will meet him in our travels.

Be well, and please, don't tell Mother where I have gone.

All my love,

April 20, 1824

Dear Aurelia,

Byron is dead. I am sorry I haven't written in so long, though I suppose it is less time for you than me. I should have at least visited, but we've traveled to so many places, done so many things. Have you ever been to Italy? It is amazing. So much art, so many artist. The entire country seems to seep creativity out of its pores. They hailed me where'er I went, and there were the most glorious balls...

But it is over now. He fell ill from the fever that has plagued him for so long. We were at war, or going to war, or...he cared so for his Greek friends. There was to be a war. Is to be a war, but he fell ill and he won't be going...

Mother told me, I know. She warned me this could happen, but I didn't truly believe her. He was so alive, so vibrant, right until the end. He never seemed weakened after we were together, but just as energized as I. But then he gave out. Gave up. I held him close and he...I killed him. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I loved him, A, so very, very much.

I can't come home now. I can't face her. I can't face you. I think...I shall walk this world a while longer, until the grief has eased.

Your loving sister,

July 16, 1848


There was a musician. He was a pretty boy, with eyes so green I suspect he might have had Sidhe blood in him somewhere. A great-grandparent, perhaps, who got herself seduced by a lesser noble on a hunt. He had talent, more than a little, and played beautifully.

He wanted to marry me, can you imagine? To take me home to his mother, with her iron horseshoe over the door. It surprised me, to be asked. No one else has even considered it, but I daresay it was his religious upbringing chastising him for the sin of our joining and so he sought to make an honest woman out of a pagan "spirit." There is irony for you. Nevermind that he was running about consorting with what his priest and saintly mother would tell him was demonic, nevermind the willing bargain he struck, he fretted about the physical nature of our relationship.

I do not understand mortals. I thought I would grow to. I believed, at the last, that I understood Byron. But they baffle and tire me now. They care so much about the most foolish of things, things that cease to matter when viewed through the scope of even a marginally longer life.

There is to be a child.

I am coming home.



alainn_aislinn: (Default)

December 2007

2345 678

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 21st, 2017 07:21 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios