Dearest Sandro,
I am presently attending a wedding in England. An old comrade has landed herself a princely fish. We saved him from a pit of human devilry in eastern Gaul known locally as The Temple (even for Norse, a grating word to the tongue) and returned him to a throne. The ceremony was brief, notable only in the sheer outrage the locals displayed when their mighty royal allowed a half-orc pirate to act as the bride's second. The rest of the bridal party attempted to play this up as light-hearted jestery; the guests, however, interpreted this ploy as either a statement on the bride's warrior past and the beast the prince had purchased in due course, or as a cautionary meditation on the groom's, shall we say, exploratory ambitions in gender relations. Neither statement was framed in positive light.
But most of what I have written is moot in framing this letter's purpose. For when I remember what we went through to reach this happy occasion, I cannot help but connect marriage with my own mortality, nor exhibit elvish patience in the choosing of life's companion. I wish, Sandro, for you to be her. Though I may not cross the barrier in elder's gowns, I can offer you as much life as creation permits in this short pause. Bear my children, inherit my fortunes, share home and hearth and sword and shield. You are a flower I plucked from thorns and now wish to nurture in a greener, happier garden. I can only pray this deed was noble enough to earn your hand. I am not a handsome elf. I will say no more, but wait for your imminent reply!
I must return to the festivities. My comrade saved herself from the eternal disdain of her subjects with the loveliest of hymns, a most feminine and demure haunting of soft pipes. And she has promised to return for an encore as the sun sets. I shall not want to miss it, especially if she draws from her bawdy war ballads. Perhaps I shall recall the song in a future letter?
Yours in fond trust,
Fjord
p.s. Enclosed is my book of poetry for you to peruse at leisure, and learn the framework of my mind, if that is your wish.
(From Page 24)
Requiem for the Gill-less
When the water encloses the eyelids and seeps,
Into pores barely hidden beneath the clenched peeps,
And follows the orifice inside and around:
Well, one must accept he is finally drowned.
