Serendipity (or Calamity)

To the ember of a distant hearth,

To the ember of a distant hearth,

The head of your last letter inflamed a spark of ire ere I recalled you know neither my face nor reputation. I have been named many foul things by many foul fools, but ne'er did they call me rude. In retrospect, your disrespect tickles me. Irreverence and amiability, intertwined, provide a fresh scent amidst the smoke.

Speaking of which, do forgive the soot stains on this parchment. I hosted dinner guests with an altogether unhealthy interest in expensive jewellery—golden bells worn by tabaxi dancers. Seeing as my guests were neither tabaxi nor especially fleet of foot, I invited them to the fireside for a therapeutic chat. So moved were they that I extracted a generous donation of funds and horderves. Unfavourable first impressions aside, they proved surprisingly sweet in the end.

In address of my 'preposterously superior attitude,' consider that it stems from superior constitution. Hierarchy is woven inextricably into the divine fabric of nature. A beetle makes way for a boot. A commoner makes way for a commander. I still before the frightful gaze of my ancient and terrible mother—master of all she surveys or would desire to. The mighty are afforded respect, and the meek offer it for fear of retribution or want of reward. That is the law above and behind all laws—mayhaps the only one I must acknowledge. Do you not also subscribe, however unwilling or unwittingly?

Compared to many, I excel in strength and intellect. Furthermore, I am fabulously wealthy, though not by virtue of noble titles. My blood has power, not by the arbitrary construct of hereditary leadership, but by sheer magical and bodily might. The remainder of my success may be attributed to diligence, cunning, and an ample dollop of luck.

We are all subject to the whims of entropy, for fortune is not a gambler or even a fickle mistress, as many claim. Nay, she is a blind, deaf leviathan of ceaseless, senseless thrashing. My sister believes in destiny. I believe we may have as easily been born rot grubs or perished at the unripe age of fifty. As it stands, I am grateful neither came to pass.

Admittedly, I did terrorize cattle during those tender years. They seemed larger then, as most things do. Adulthood makes the sphere of youth appear unbearably small. Perhaps with age even the brutal sprawl of frost-nipt peaks will lay quaint as the plush, rolling hills below. Brief as you are, surely you have marvelled at the myriad ephemeralities of existence—seething wave of burgeoning and decay, souls slipping from their amniotic brine into life, then swiftly to their deathbed. Even the stars are, ultimately, mortal and inconstant. Once, I lived with haste. Now, I dedicate miniature eternities to meandering streams of improvisation and discomfited slumber.

Amusingly enough, my keyboard studies did begin in association with the clergy. Such ritual is oft an awful bore, but it seems to have educated us both, albeit indirectly. Inspiration struck as my sister and I laid waste to a city that had insulted our dignity. As I approached a Triadian cathedral, the most sublime sound rippled upon the air and, at once, extinguished my rage—all of creation in tandem vibration. How could I silence this voice of voices?

It so happened that the organist had not evacuated the premises but was content to die in the sacred service of music. I was still til the final cadence. Then, unleashed from his sonorous chain, I fled in turmoil. My sister was furious, demanding reason for my abrupt retreat which, to her dismay, I could not express. The essence of music is inexpressible.

This memory haunted me. Dawn had broken o'er bleak primordial night and gifted radiant clarity to a misty mind. My dear heart had writ its truth, at last; this music was its messenger. Rampant want was no stranger, yet here was longing more poignant than any I had known. To capture this ethereal grace for myself—that would be the pinnacle of rapture.