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The envelope is soft, and brown– she knows from whence it came before she even lays eyes upon its contents. Ul'dahn paper is bleached white with some alchemical concoction, and most Lominsans would hardly bother with an envelope at all, simply tying their correspondence with a length of fishing line. This paper, though, is thick and fibrous, the closest it could get to its former existence as a growing thing, and despite its journey passed from hand to traveling hand across the continent, it still smells faintly of lavender.
Not that she will ever admit to raising the envelope to her nose for a single, brief moment– just to be certain.
Nay, as far as anyone else is concerned, she checks the integrity of the cheerfully golden wax seal and extracts the missive with no further fanfare. And she most certainly does not allow her heart to rise up in her chest in a surge of hopeful excitement as her eyes fall upon the delicately penned words.
Dearest Merlwyb,
Even the title, a hardly noticed courtesy on most letters, is enough to soften her heart– just a touch, but enough to feel it beat behind its steel defense. For who else would seek to address the Admiral in such a manner– or dare to?
Nay, only one other upon the star would do such a thing. And so, with eager eyes, she reads on.
I bear glad tidings from the heart of the forest. Summer is fading, and though I shall miss the maple leaves and the iris blooms, the thrush's song and the blue-wing butterfly, the elementals have seen fit to bestow their favor on our harvest, and however bitter the winter chill may be, none among us shall struggle.
But though I know that spring shall follow winter as surely as morning follows night, my heart yet aches, for I have not the same certainty of when I shall see your face again.
Her grip tightens, the sheets of paper wrinkling where her fingers press, as if by sheer force of will she could manifest the other woman from the aether. Her will carries no small amount of power in the city and on the high seas, and thousands stand ready at any given moment to leap into action should she ask for even a trifle– but she refuses to use the power she has earned for selfish ends.
Nor could her will alone keep another who could not be kept, no matter how every ilm of her being aches for the touch of slender fingers along her skin, for the soft pink flush of cheeks parting from a kiss, for the slide of flaxen hair as it was undone from its pins for the evening.
Theirs is a love like water flowing through their grasp, a love not taken for granted each day but savored in small tastes in the brief moments between breaths, and yet just as she would die before giving up her claim to the sea, she would have no other love.
Nay, she cannot have her touch in this moment, but she holds her words in her hands, and for a time that will be enough. Knowing this in the depths of her heart, she reads onwards.
In my dreams I recall the nights we have spent, always in some strange inn room rather than our own, though in my mind's eye I see naught but the shine of your eyes in the candle light.
I have seen many a marvel from our artisans in my time, and yet neither the most glorious sculpture nor the most vibrant colored glass can match the loveliness of your form in the firelight.
She is not and has never been a maiden prone to blushing , and yet the words she reads bring a certain heat simmering to the surface of her skin. Aye, she too remembers those nights– even in the midst of a Coerthan blizzard, they never wanted for warmth when they were able to indulge in one another's company.
There had been Alliance talks with Ishgard, to determine what aid would be given as the effects of the lesser moon upon the region's climate settled in, and what had been taken for an especially harsh winter had grown too lengthy for even the stuffy nobility to continue to ignore. One of the most pompous of them all had come to meet the Alliance contingent at Camp Dragonhead, and the negotiations had gone about as poorly as possible– the Holy See "did not wish to risk her citizens' faith weakening as a result of accepting aid from unbelievers", he had explained, with a bored expression on his face as if he were ordering a servant to dust the mantlepiece rather than damning thousands of his own people to starvation.
She could hardly contain herself in such a moment. She had felt her mask slipping with each meaningless word that passed the Ishgardian's lips, her every muscle tight with the strain of keeping herself from shouting during a diplomatic meeting. Her anger would do naught to improve the lives of the Coerthans, but she could not keep herself from imagining what it would be like to wring the so-called holy man's neck. How could any supposed leader refuse to do what it took for the well-being of his people? How could he be so callous about the thousands that would surely perish, not by the hand of an enemy but from the negligence of those they trusted to guide them?
That evening, upon their return to the inn, her love had laid her small hand upon her forearm, and asked if the day's meeting had troubled her. One touch was enough to break the mask; she could no longer contain her frustration. A heated monologue poured from her lips, lacking all of her usual eloquence and really rather embarrassing in its lack of control, but her love did not chide her for it. Instead, she listened, unmoving as a great oak, a placid stillness to her youthful face.
"This is the very reason why I place my trust in you," her love said once she had finished, and instantly, the tumultuous waves in her heart were calmed. The troubles that faced every nation on the continent were great indeed, but unlike those that spurned the assistance of outsiders, she and her love would walk the narrow road into the future, hand in hand.
They lay together that night, the first moment between breaths they had managed to grasp in many a moon, but as their hearts beat in unison it was as if no time had passed at all. Gazing upon her lover, knowing every ilm of her as well as she knew herself, receiving the gift of the most exclusive, true, intimate version of her… it is a blessing like no other, and she will never take it for granted.
Even now, her heart swells with warmth at the thought of it, and as she continues to read her love's exquisite words, she finds that her own thoughts have been mirrored upon the page.
The memory is precious to me, and will surely be a balm against the coming winter. I knew it to be true that night, and I know it now: you are the only woman who will ever occupy such a cherished place in my heart.
She smiles. No matter the number of times she reads those words, they continue to strike her. Her own romantic endearments are much less forthcoming, and her love is also reserved in her spoken words, but on the page she is able to reach directly into the chest and tug at the heart with those delicate fingers.
You are my moon, and though I cannot always see you, I know the day will come again that you turn your face toward me and bless me with your presence once more.
She is her stout oak, and though her godsgiven form is small, her love is anything but weak. Her arms are gentle enough for an embrace, and strong enough to support the both of them wherever they go.
You are my lighthouse, and whenever my troubles toss me into turmoil, I need only a moment of your light to set me on a steady course.
She is her sunrise, golden and beautiful, bringing hope anew each day with her relentless idealism and renewing her war-tarnished spirit with her radiant warmth.
You are my siren, and though I cannot make my way to you, the spell you cast over my heart is no weaker for it. I will sing out the gladness and longing in my heart in the hopes that it shall reach your ears– the oldest song there is, that even the elementals and beastkin know:
I love you.
Every day, no matter the distance, she hears her lover's song, and her heart is strengthened for it. She loves her, as fiercely as she loves her people, and as fervently as she loves Eorzea. In this, and in one another, they will always be united.
May the Matron fill your days with warmth, as I would were it within my own power.
Kan-E-Senna
And, Merlwyb thought, may the Navigator see fit to soon bring their paths together once more.