WRITTEN FOR ME ( thomas shelby )

014 ━ Love Makes Believers Of Us All ..

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" Love Makes Believers Of Us All "

          IRISH WHISKEY WAS POURED INTO two glasses dropped onto the kitchen table at which, under the light of a single flickering candle, two men sat in a respectful attempt at silence. Balthasar's right knee was bouncing underneath the table, despite his best attempts at stopping that nervous tick; he pressed his right palm's bridge down hard enough to leave a bruise on his thigh, but his leg refused to answer to his better reason. Apart from the tapping of his shoe's heel on the wooden floors, there wasn't a single creak in the Shelby home when Thomas downed the whole of his glass and reached for the knife to open the letter.

Balthasar grasped the bottle of whiskey in a motion to pour some more for his boss, however, Tommy rushed to cover his glass with his hand. He needed the bravery of one glass of fire, but not the lack of sobriety that came with anything beyond that.

Alas, his knife pierced underneath the fold of the envelope and sliced across. With a gentle tremble in his hands that he stiffened by lowering his palms back to the table to abandon the knife and retrieve the letter. A sigh was the bridge of transition whilst unfolding the letter and beginning to read ...

MY DARLING,

           For the past months, I have been writing letters to you without sending them. I don't know why — well, that's a lie; I know exactly why I had stopped sending my letters and it has nothing to do with the Russian assassin that almost got me in Turkey, though oftentimes my paranoia wonders whether or not my letters do get opened before they arrive, if at all, to you. My brothers would sure like to believe I had stopped sending letters because I saw reason that they were pointless, but this fact hardly has anything to do with that, or the money spent on stamps and posting; since we've left Japan, as previously approximated, the business' profits have once again entered their steady, steep climb.

It is shamefully that I must admit I have lost my hope.

Not in your capabilities or your survival against Kimber, neither in the veracity of what we felt for each toher throughout my stay in Birmingham, feelings that otherwise have followed me all across the world by now, but instead in the fact that what little we have shared together in an arguably short time was enough for you to wait for me this long.

Knowing my own agony of missing you not only in my cold beds and nights of storming, but also on my days of victory and joy, I had at first found it peaceful to believe that you had moved on. It was, I admit, only a short-lived feeling, soon to be replaced with unspeakable dread that I have been sending letters of my love to a man who perhaps loves another by now. You see, I realized I can do nothing about my love for you then; there is no extinguishing this fire you set within me anymore, for better or for worse. But I knew that should that be true, should the reason behind your silence be that you had moved on, I should not allow myself to be selfish enough to ruin your life for the sake of my illusions.

There were a thousand more reasons that my mind has fabricated, but all that matters is that they have compelled me to start writing for you, instead of to you. Well, that has obviously changed, since here you are, reading this. I'm sorry I have lost my faith to thoughts without proof, to their claims and gossip I conjured up myself to ease mine own suffering. I suppose there was only so much silence I could take before my breath carried itself bitter to my lungs and my whole soul darkened with the sickness of loneliness.