T. Grey: The Fallen King

The tall black cursive letters on the front read: To Abbigail Krenshaw then listed her address below in the same unique scrawl that looked like something from an older era. No return address, and Just a stamp. She flipped the envelope over and her brow drew down in confusion. A black seal made of wax covered the V-closing of the envelope.

Apparently, this was no envelope you licked closed. Certainly not something you’d see from a credit card company trying to get you to apply for a high-interest, low-limit card. She fingered the material and touched the seal feeling the waxy material under her fingertip. Some symbols marked the seal, but it was hard to make out. It just looked like something official. There were two poles curving left and right on the outside with a regal bird’s head in the middle. Peering closer, she corrected herself. Swords, not poles. She could just make out the handles and the edge of the blades if she looked hard enough but not any details of the bird’s head.

“What the...” she said under her breath.

Just to make sure she flipped the strange envelope back over and ensured that it was indeed her name on the letter. Yup, sure was. A strange feeling filled her, starting in her gut and working its way up to the back of her neck until the little hairs stood on end.

She had to sit down for this. Heading back to the house she plopped down on her sofa. Dropping the rest of the mail on her chipped coffee table, she propped her feet up on it and leaned back to inspect the letter.

She hadn’t noticed something before. She had been taking in too many other things on the letter: the handwriting, the seal, but now she noticed it. The worn look to it. As if it’d been crumbled again and again or passed between many hands. Where the envelope should be smooth and firm, the paper was wrinkled and weak, and one corner was bent.

“I’m stalling,” she muttered.

Taking a deep breath, she flipped the envelope over and peeled back the seal; it popped off with a soft snapping sound. A heavy ball formed in her gut. It was almost as if she knew what it was before she even pulled the letter out, which had to be impossible. Maybe a part of her did know, could feel it.

She pulled the yellowed letter out of the envelope, folded thrice. It too was wrinkled and crumpled. This paper was much thinner than the envelope and softer but not as wrinkled like the envelope. The front and back were covered in handwriting of the same elegant, heavily inked hand.

It took effort to keep her hands steady, but she managed it as she parted the folds and opened the letter.

She read it slowly, her feelings so confused she didn’t try to control or understand it. As she read the last word on the page, her chest twisted so tightly that her heart felt like it was being wrung like a wet rag in someone’s hands. She took deep breaths and read it again.

Dearest Abbigail,

I’ve started this letter so many times only to throw it away.

What does a man say to his child? His child whom he’s never met, but watched from afar. I’m afraid, dear Abbigail, that there is no way for me to tell you any of this gently. I only hope that you read this and that you can understand.

I met the love of my life many, many years ago and I lost her. She was taken, stolen from me. She’s been lost for a long time. I was nearly lost to despair, even with my own three girls to raise. I think that made it even harder. I couldn’t break down like my heart wanted to. I couldn’t hide or leave them to search for her. I had to be here because they’d lost someone special too. That woman was my wife, my Protector, Mary Bellum.

One day a new light entered my world. It was so unexpected. I don’t know if I could even describe it. My children made me happy. They filled me with love, but there was and always will be a gaping hole in my heart. Nothing could fill it, or so I thought. The day I met your mother all of that changed. It was as if I could breathe a full breath of air for the first time in so long. I wanted to fall to my knees before her and cry in joy. Naturally, that wouldn’t have been very brave of me, so instead I asked your mother out and she said yes.

She said yes. She changed my life.

Then, something else that I’d never thought possible happened. She had a child. Our child.

I can still remember the feeling. It was like so much happiness and joy had been shoved into my chest it might burst. I didn’t know if I could contain it. However, things can never be perfect. I missed my mate dearly. Even though I loved your mother dearly, she could never fill the whole in my chest fully. No matter how much I wanted her to.

This is where I falter. What to say next? Nothing could ever replace my not being there for you, though from afar I was. I saw your pictures as you grew up, could hear your small voice in the background when I called your mother on the phone. I heard and watched you grow up into a lovely, smart, and charming young woman. A man and a father, dare I say, could never be prouder than I am of you, dear Abbigail. Please believe that.

The day your mother told me you punched a girl in the face after she started a fight with your shapeshifter friend, I grinned in pride. The day your science project won the highest reward in both high school and college brought me to tears. Your mind, darling girl, nothing, and I mean nothing, is more beautiful than that.

Now, for the hard news. I wish I didn’t have to tell you like this. Just once in my life I wanted to pull you into my arms and feel you there, to sit across from you and hear your voice in person. It breaks my heart to think of it. Maybe I should have done more. God, it’s something I’ve struggled with every single day since the day you were born.

However, I have one fatal flaw. I’ve loved one woman in my life and she is gone. Nothing and no one can replace that. I hope one day you understand that feeling.

You need to know that if you’re reading this letter then I am no longer on this earth. I have met my Great Death and moved on to the next life. Perhaps it’s my own cowardice waiting until now to send this letter, but I didn’t know what else to do.

The point of this letter, the point of my writing you is to tell you that I love you. I love you so much that just writing the words on a piece of paper can’t possibly show you just how much I feel or explain how I can love someone so utterly and dearly without ever meeting them. But I do. How I do, Abbigail. Please, if nothing else in this letter, believe that. Believe me. I love you.

I want you to know you have three sisters. Chloe, Willow, and the youngest Lily. You have sisters. If you’re as courageous as I think you are then I know you’ll seek them out, and I sincerely hope you do. It’s my hope now that you can be a family together in a way I could never provide. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.

With all my love,

May 15, 2011

Francis Jeremiah Bellum

Tears formed at her eyes. She blinked and two dropped onto the letter splattering wetly across the words. She rubbed gently at them as she sucked in a ragged breath. She made sure to be careful, not wanting the wetness to smudge the ink.

She sat the letter on the cushion next to her and stared off at the wall, her mind turning slowly trying to put the pieces together. After some time, her mind returned to normal speed. Her body slowly relaxed and the weight on her chest gradually released. The tight knot in her gut faded. Her body relaxed as best it could considering what just happened.

She knew what she had to do. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to do it. But she had to.