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.

5th September, 1893

Z.,

I will not tell you how many times I tried to write this letter, for the number seems both foolishly low and laughably high. I do not know how futile my efforts are, or if you even opened this letter having seen the hand that composed it, the bird that delivered it, but I could not continue without knowing that I had at least made the attempt, however ill-fated it might yet prove to be.

Fifteen years. It has been a long time, for me, but I think even longer for you, for while you have lived these years, I have been all but a zombie moving through them, life happening around me, to me, without having any hand to turn the rudder.

In vain, I have tried to find the words to apologize to you for not meeting you, for not sending word—for any slight against you in the years since. I have since come to realize that no language of which I have knowledge possesses the words, in any order, to convey the depth of my regret. The belief which I have previously expressed, that you are deserving of far more than could possibly be bestowed upon you, remains intact. Instead, I must only begin to beg a forgiveness that you do not owe, unworthy as I am to receive it.

Your eternal and most devoted servant,
R.

— Ziya Burroughs —

  

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September 6th, 1893

Rowle,

I have lived a veritable nightmare for those long fifteen years; you do not deserve anything from me.

All I want is to know why?

Z. Burroughs

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   Eloise Scrimgeour

Not fifteen this time, but nine—nine distinct attempts to read more into her brief note—brief but full of something Robin hoped was hate. Hate could be righted, redirected. It was a side of love. Better than apathy. Better than nothing.

(He told himself this repeatedly. Maybe he'd eventually believe it.)

At least now he had a name, knew something of her life now. Burroughs. It did not feel right, but it was something.

Still better than nothing.

(Still didn't believe himself.)

11th September, 1893

Mrs. Burroughs,

I understand that my original letter would have caught you altogether off-guard. I had thought at first to come to you directly, but neither knew where to look nor wished to disrupt your life if you were happy. It cuts to the quick to learn that you are not.

There is nearly no explanation that I can imagine your ever finding satisfying, and that which there is—that is, the truth—is not something I may commit to ink and parchment. If not out of kindness or love or forgiveness, but merely out of curiosity, you would allow me to see you, I will do all within my power to help you understand. Beyond that, I will ask nothing of you.

Just an hour. Half. A quarter.

Ever yours, never once deserving,
R.

— Ziya Burroughs —

  

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September 13th, 1893

Rowle,

I retract my previous sentiment. I do not think it matters. I am where I am, you are where you are, there is nothing in between, not now, not for a long time, not in the future. I have lived an entire life in fifteen years and I am not looking back.

Best of luck Mr. Rowle.

Z. Burroughs

  

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A single draft, burned instead of sent.

15th September, 1893

Mrs. Burroughs,

You have lived an entire life. I have had mine stripped from me. A ghost would have more agency over the world than I have been allowed to exercise. You have lived an entire life, and I have awoken after fifteen years to find mine ended without my knowledge.

Lost,
R.

— Ziya Burroughs —

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   Daffodil Grimstone, Seneca Lestrange

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