Glenn Burnie did not yet touch the letter. It sat before him, foreboding. There was no sign of the ring either. He was not touching that, not like before. He was not wearing it either. Time had passed. With it had apparently come restraint. How new had that ring been to Burnie the first time Benedict had seen it?
The weather. They spoke of the weather? No, Benedict did. Glenn did not. If he was particularly hungry to open the letter, to devour it whole and be devoured by it, that was another piece of restraint. Still, he looked not at the bird but past him as he spoke. "Two things. I'll travel soon. When I'm ready. Which will be soon." That was one. His voice softened (but only slightly) for two. His gaze was still more for his wall than his friend. "Don't let me respond immediately after reading this." Finally his head turned, nodding over to where his instruments of writing were gathered. If it came to blood, then it'd all be too late anyway. Otherwise, the bird could defend them from him easily enough. He'd made sure of it. Then, finally, with a sheepishness rarely seen in exiled mapmakers that were also fallen governors. "Thank you."
So, then, he read.
------
Hours later, he would respond.
Fionnuala,
When I emerged from the darkness years ago, Governor Calomel, my good friend, had withdrawn. Humanity had been too multifarious a challenge. He, who had the luxury to live as he chose, decided it best to focus only on certain elements of it. Now then, I see you pointing and laughing here, but the situations were different. Do not dwell for here is the point. There was no Governor. I was, at the time, a Judiciary Investigator. Lacking the capacity of regret (more on this later), I soon became Inquisitor instead. The last thing I wanted was to be Governor then. I knew I could do far more with far less attention. It was a practical thing more so than a comforting one. I fear that those memories are very close to me, even now, and I may not be able to force myself enough distance from them to truly judge what you say. I wonder now, after many letters and inquiries and feeling rather alone in my grand endeavors, if you're mistaken. Were I to have hundreds of like-minded fellows, I think might enjoy both more success and happy fraternity. Even one might be nice at this point. For all his faults, Giuseppe wanted the same things in the end, or so he told himself. Calomel too. At this point, isn't it more likely that I am a fool than a visionary? Why can no one else see it? To answer then, I would rather not be essential in this.
I just don't want to feel helpless in the face of it. Not again.
What did they do to me? It'll make your brows furrow. They did not beat me. They were pleased at first. They bandied about the word 'specialized.' I cannot easily express what it was like there, how narrow our lives were, how few viewpoints we were exposed to. The first thing we were taught, and we were taught it again and again, was that everything outside our doors was not real, that it was all delusion, conditioning, vapours and humours, breeding and animal instinct, that none of it was genuine. Beating me would have been better. At first they embraced it instead.
I have so many words and some of them are wank, but I do not have the words to describe what you wish for me to describe. Love, in all of its aspects, is inherently wrong for everyone else. That I know for certain. It's thinking that the grass is all there is to the ground, that there is nothing else underneath, that the skin is all there is to an apple, that the sea is but only the surface, and then only for what you can see. I do not have the words. I pity every living creature for not knowing it.
My dreams, currently, are screams and caresses, temptation and pain. Before, they were a locked white room with a nice painted oak table that I quite liked and a chair that was very plain but very comfortable. Outside the room was the distinct memories of death and decay (the former unspeakable and the latter the sweetest rotting fruit). Ainrid destroyed the room. If you care to worry about something, worry about that, not the ring. I won't put on the ring. I can't stop the screaming.
Regret. Thank you. I'm sure I had it before, but I was never quite able to explain it so simply. I always said that I didn't have doubt or that I was not properly connected to my emotions, but it was regret that I lacked. I had purpose, even an altruistic purpose, but not the capacity for regret. Without regret, consequences do not matter. Without regret, we cannot fully value things because we do not understand the true notion of cost. I was a monster, all-consuming, insatiable. I would do literally anything to achieve my goal. Regret, for humans at least, is a device used to help shape decisions with the future in mind, to learn from the past so that we might better avoid mistakes we have previously made. Remember, we do not necessarily believe stories are true. Our gods do not come to us when we seek them. We do not have infinity to make errors and amends and errors again. I would suggest that you see it like any other tool. There is value to it and cost in using it. Do not throw it away lightly. Do not embrace it lightly.
So much of what is between us comes down to time and scale. It's fascinating. I am fascinated by this. Pondering it brings me joy. It makes my heart beat faster and my breath catch. It applies to almost everything. It applies to this game, as you put it, as well. You may think that the longer I struggle, the sweeter it shall all be. That may be correct, but it would not be the only correct thing. The longer I struggle, the more you are changed by our exchanges as well. The longer I struggle, the more natural it is. The longer I struggle, the more genuine it is. The longer I struggle, the less of a glamour it is. The longer I struggle, the truer it is for both of us. The longer I struggle, the more real I am for you and you for me. I have read your stories, so many of them, so many variations. None of them are like this. If you are to be a means of change for me, then you will be an honest one, and that change will be earned. I promise you that. I would hope you find my better self and your own all the more worthwhile for the effort.
For we have reached this point and you still offer me blue leaves and a midday moon (we have those, you know, sometimes?). Understand this, I seek none of those easy answers. None would satisfy me. I seek no credit, known or unknown, for fabricated miracles. I've already admitted, time and again, that the changes I wish for my world and my people, will take work, work that I do not see myself surviving (through their length more so than any great personal sacrifice; is that not why I do not include myself as much as anything else? Is that so hard to fathom, even for one of your kind?)
Our resolution is in learning the truth of each other and the truth of ourselves, of facing it together. Regret is a part of that as is joy.
Glenn
Now then. Stop. I am of as sound mind as possible given the circumstance. I do not give way to either my nightmares nor my daymares. You face your own afflictions and you have my forgiveness, once and only once, because I choose to see good intention in what you do, even in bad faith, because it mimics my own panic, and the relative greedy caring through which I acted, my breaking of faith. What you are doing is not helping. Send me true letters without blandishments. Trust in Benedict to note signs, signs he'd be blind to now thanks to what you are doing. Writing this was harder than it should have been, just as writing the last letter was easier than it should have been. Trust me. Meet me and the words I have given you above in good faith. Please.