[ At some point during the day, Carbuncle will track Noct down. In its Topaz form it is able to carry the large, leatherbound sketchbook with ease. The dark charcoal cover is embossed with patterns of gold in an art deco style that (coincidentally) looks like a blend of Insomnia's flag and designs found in Amaurotine magic. Along with the sketchbook is a detailed carved figurine that fits in the palm of one's hand and, finally, a letter.
His full name is written on the envelope in crisp, artistic cursive and violet ink so dark it looks black. The back is sealed with golden wax, pressed into shape with one of Era's scales.
Inside, the letter is penned with just as much care. Every line is perfectly straight, and every word accented with just the right amount of a flourish. ]
Noctis,
I had almost forgotten what it felt like to write with quill and paper. There is something soothing about the way it sounds, that gentle scratching against parchment. It is more meditative than typing out a message. There is also more time and care needed with a letter—even more so to deliver one.
So, with a great deal of time and my mind somewhat calm for the first time in what feels an age, I am writing you a letter.
I do not have any true answers to give you as I am still searching for them myself, but I have found a place to start. I believed I had my traumas under control. I didn't. I still don't. They were always there, lurking beneath the surface. I had assumed it would be obvious if they were. How could it not be? But they are insidious. Infectious. Poisoning your thoughts in such a way it is undetectable for far too long.
It is hard to think a happy thought these days without that poisonous negativity seeping in. I have trouble remembering what joy feels like. It is like a word stuck upon the tip of your tongue. You know it, but it refuses to be spoken.
I miss it. I know it is in here somewhere, in Hythlo's dancing, Hades' soft voice, and Ardbert's gentle smile. I'll find it again one day. Until then my emotions continue to feel beyond my control and it is frightening.
I remember how you felt that day, when you were a child. I don't want you to feel like that again. I am scared that I will hurt you somehow, but I think I may have already done so. I thought if I made you angry enough you would go away. I thought it would be better for you. I tried to cut you out. I think, wrapped up in my own selfishness, I cut too deep.
I am sorry for not communicating clearly. I am sorry for being so selfish, manipulative, and hurtful.
I am not asking for forgiveness, as you offer it so freely and I am not ready for it.
I do ask that you accept these gifts I've sent to you, if you would be so willing: a proper sketchbook for your artwork, with pages thick enough for any medium you so choose, and the figurine I've made. It is of my friend Noraxia. She was the bravest Sylph I've ever known. I think you would have found her exasperating, but endearing.
She is one of the many I have lost, and I will try think once more of those I can yet save.
March 10th!
His full name is written on the envelope in crisp, artistic cursive and violet ink so dark it looks black. The back is sealed with golden wax, pressed into shape with one of Era's scales.
Inside, the letter is penned with just as much care. Every line is perfectly straight, and every word accented with just the right amount of a flourish. ]