More than a week had passed, and only now did Robin have a letter he could send to her. Her. He had thought her the love of his life, once. Did he still?

It was not that he hadn't remembered her, when he had been released from the vice grip of his father's curse. At first, she had been lost within his memories, beaten down by the crashing waves of emotion, remembrance, guilt, and anger Robert had felt when he himself had begun first to surface. But then, it had been a matter of not having the words.

This was his fifteenth letter, each written in his locked office, when his wife could reasonably expected to be either out of the house, or asleep. Each a futile attempt to reach out, to connect, to beg forgiveness for an appalling failure that had not been his design, his fault. Its fourteen predecessors were ash upon the hearth, but this one, Robin thought, was almost good enough. Almost.

It was the best he was going to get, he knew. Nothing would ever be good enough—not for her. She had deserved the sun at dawn and the stars in the night sky, but had been willing to settle, settle for him. He was married now, with children, and no knowledge of her own position. The outside of the envelope bore only her first name: Ziya.

He travelled to the Castle to send it, retrieving Helios from his enclosure. The hawk had known her, after all, was of a sharp mind. If anyone could find Ziya, carry Robin's words to her, it would be Helios.