As I commented off the cuff last night, Sonnet's decided since she can't talk to _anybody_ about some of the things she wants to talk about, she's going to start keeping a journal.Since it's Sonnet, it won't be an ordinary journal. She'll write letters to her father and then burn them. She gets to vent and destroy things all at once. It'll make her feel much better.
Really.
That is, unless someone finds them, pieces them together, and decides to send them off to Karm.
It is late into evening; still the fire burns bright in a place that has become familiar. Welcome, as well, which is unsettling. I lived at Aikekodu for six years and five days, one of them -- will it be soon a year ago now? Even the most recent memory is pale. The older ones? Fragments. Slivers. Was I that little girl? Or was that a little girl from one of your stories?
You would be pleased, perhaps, to know that your little girl walked through Faerieland to the very mouth of Hell and returned with no injury more serious than some bramble scratches. True, one of the scratches was a deliberate puncture, because I found myself remembering some Faerie tale young woman who had to do so to escape or get to something or other that was very dangerous or very important or both. Both, likely. There was a wall of thorny things between her and it, whatever it was.
As you would recall, those fabled brambles turned into red rose vines when she pricked her finger. These did not, but this was reality. Reality, even in Faerieland, is nothing like a fairy tale.
No, Prince Finndo did not direct me to prick my finger. No, I did not seek his permission to do so either. Yes, I likely should have, but ... I did not. People were bleeding all over the thorns as it was, so based on this observation and the information I had obtained from Sybil, I assumed that it would be somewhat safe to attempt. No, I did not take into account that my companions are of the blood of Faerie and of the blood of Oberon, and not merely the noblest blood of Andros.
Those of the blood of Faerie can die and come back. Those of the blood of Oberon can be so near to death as to be indistinguishable from a corpse and yet still come back. Can thee and me walk that close to Hannah's husband?
I suspect no. Close enough to see his face, but not close enough to take his hand. You would not worry and arrange things so, were it otherwise. Or would you? You have no other child, save when Sybil is pleased to call herself Melody. You have no son to hold Karm. You have me.
Just me.
I do not know for whom to feel regret.
I will never tell you that I sat at the edge of Hell and contemplated falling into it after Sybil, because it seemed the ... yes, it seemed the practical thing to do when I was frustrated with the situation at hand and feeling altogether useless. I am clever. I can fight. She was alone and I suspected outnumbered. There are many demons in Hell, from all of my storybook understanding of it. What changing the equation to one Sybil and one Sonnet versus many demons in Hell would have done to make things better is arguably nothing, but yes, it seemed the practical thing to do. Moreover, it seemed the right thing to do.
What is wrong with me? Why do I care? Sybil is nothing to me. What do I care about the 'right thing to do', particularly when my Princes and Betters sit and wait for the play to end?
Perhaps you would be relieved to know that I did ask Prince Finndo about this. After all, you have made him my father by proxy, so matters involving my death seemed important enough to bring to his attention. True, not blood on thorns or being told what I already knew by a Faerie lord, but that is and was different.
He said 'bide'. I abided. Sybil survived and is with us again, as is mete for a child of Faerie and perhaps also for a child of Oberon's blood.
Lucan skulks without. Without admittance, without access, without me, certainly. I should end this soon and burn these words quickly, else he will be inspired to think of something terrible to do to me.
I will speak with the Prince soon about his deposition. Even though he is your man and in truth, your charge, since the Prince is responsible for me now, I will assume that those of yours assigned to me are mine, and thusly also in his care. At least I will argue this if I am ever questioned, with the widest eyes I can summon to my will.
I know how you would dispose of him. I would see him better treated. Let me give him my ship. Let me give him my hard-won gold and gewgaws. Let him have the life of a pirate.
I am certain the Prince could find this useful.
And why do I care? He should be nothing to me, yes? Still, it is the right thing to do, and though... And though. And though. And though.
When did I develop a conscience?
No, this is not conscience. This is just being practical.
You understand this, yes?
With much affection,
Sonnet