Flickers

To you above, from here below.

Almma,
Every night since the fire, I have had the same nightmare, and every day, I wake up with my lungs still burning.
Burning as if still filled with cinders,
Burning as if still flooded with smoke,
Skin still hot as though still ablaze,
Eyes still stinging from ashes long gone,
Body stiff as if still in chains.
Only now the nightmare haunts me even in my waking hours.
Echoes of screams only my ears hear,
The faintest of haze only my eyes see,
Every inch of me pales at the slightest hint of heat, and the faintest fever leaves me drenched in sweat.
Free from the bondage of iron, I am bound in bandages instead, but I remain a prisoner all the same.
Despite the opinions of Sir Laret, I still feel like a hostage more than a hero.
I doubt the last man to save the city from razing was forcefully paraded around in the daylight, then shut in a tower at night.
But then again,
I doubt the last man survived long enough.
My only consolation is the company of Her majesty, whom I think you would be most fond of, should you meet her.
She is quite fearless, despite her quiet demeanor, she doesn't flinch at the sight of me, as opposed to the other knights.
And unlike her brother, the king, she knows the truth of the fire, and of what I sacrificed for the sake of the city.

I assure you, there is no scandal betwixt us, save the touch of her bare hands in mine.
But this you know.

They are cold as ice, as yours were.
On occasion she requests I warm them in my grasp.
In those moments I feel most present, the haze clears and air quiets.

My hands cannot hold a sword again yet, and until my honor is restored, I cannot return to Beldalare.
I will not stop until the truth is made known.
And the dragons bones are bare.
I only wish I could see you again.

I know this letter will reach you up there, I can only hope to see your reply.

Peace to your spirit, and eternal rest,
Your soldier and son,

Luaçan