Topic 32: Unsent Letter
Dearest Sydney,
when your sister died, I assumed, in as much as I did anything at that moment, that we would not meet again, safe once. Of course, you then proved me wrong, as I should have known you would, so I hesitate to make the same prediction now. And yet, how can I not? At the very least, we shall not see each other for a very long time. I shan't make my continued existence known to you, hard as this will be, for you are, and always have been, one of the brightest stars of my life, and my life has never been darker. Still, the certainty of my death is one of the few presents you will accept from me, and it should not be used up too soon. I write this letter quite convinced I shall never send it, but I do miss talking to you. I miss your anger, your fury, and those rare moments you were at peace in my presence. A man rarely has the opportunity to look back and find the exact moment in time when he should have, if not perished, then at least withdrawn from everyone around him. In my case, the moment in question stands out to me quite clearly; it was when you brought your daughter to see your sister. The three of you were happy, three beautiful graces in the spring sun, and I remember watching you and being quite aware that whatever I had done to contribute to this situation, it was over now; there was nothing more either Nadia or yourself needed of me, and given that you had greeted me without the slightest bit of resentment in your eyes, there was no more forgiveness to be obtained.
Of course, I did not die then. Life is rarely so convenient, isn't it? Instead, I returned to what ultimately caused the path of destruction that followed.
My dear, you judge yourself without any of the mercy you show to others, and so I have no doubt you feel guilty about not having killed me sooner, or at the least left me in prison. Allow me to point out that I would have left the custody of the US goverment in any case, given Prophet Five's interest in me and my conviction I was not of use to anyone, least of all Nadia, behind bars. As for the other... I always knew you would be the one to kill me, Sydney, you or your father, but I was rather possessive about the timing, and not just for the reason you would assume if you knew what happened in that cave later. You once told me, when you pretended to be Anna Espinosa, that you did not believe in destiny, so it would probably be futile to use the word. But you do believe in people, and for the situation in question to arise, all other hope had to fade first for me.
In the last decade, we told each other many lies and truths, and it seems fitting that the last lie you told me was the one of your own death, and the last one I told you was to enable you to believe in mine by your very capable hands. And yet I can think of more things to say. Let us not talk of regrets; I have so many that it would fill a library, let alone a letter, and I do not wish to bore you by becoming maudlin. But I do not believe I ever thanked you. For the years when you were an eager young agent, brave and inventive, and the daughter Emily and I did not have; for the years you were a challenge, one of my most able opponents and yet still an instrument against my enemies; for the years you were my favourite version of justice, condemming and accepting in equal measure. I shall never be able to listen to Strauss without thinking of you, my darling, and that is another thing I am grateful for: the certainty that due to the enduring popularity of the Blue Danube, you will think of me quite often as well. Perhaps your eyes will darken, perhaps you will just press your lips together for a moment in residual anger, but you will. It is a thought that will never cease to make me happy; call it the vanity of old age.
One of the things I told you during that last decade was that I loved you. Being your father's daughter, you could never quite decide whether this was a truth or a lie, and thus it bears repeating. But this, too, is something I am grateful for: that you never loved me. It probably saved your life. And a world without you in it, Sydney, would be so infinitely poorer that I cannot bear to think of it.
Yours in perhaps too many ways,
Arvin Sloane
when your sister died, I assumed, in as much as I did anything at that moment, that we would not meet again, safe once. Of course, you then proved me wrong, as I should have known you would, so I hesitate to make the same prediction now. And yet, how can I not? At the very least, we shall not see each other for a very long time. I shan't make my continued existence known to you, hard as this will be, for you are, and always have been, one of the brightest stars of my life, and my life has never been darker. Still, the certainty of my death is one of the few presents you will accept from me, and it should not be used up too soon. I write this letter quite convinced I shall never send it, but I do miss talking to you. I miss your anger, your fury, and those rare moments you were at peace in my presence. A man rarely has the opportunity to look back and find the exact moment in time when he should have, if not perished, then at least withdrawn from everyone around him. In my case, the moment in question stands out to me quite clearly; it was when you brought your daughter to see your sister. The three of you were happy, three beautiful graces in the spring sun, and I remember watching you and being quite aware that whatever I had done to contribute to this situation, it was over now; there was nothing more either Nadia or yourself needed of me, and given that you had greeted me without the slightest bit of resentment in your eyes, there was no more forgiveness to be obtained.
Of course, I did not die then. Life is rarely so convenient, isn't it? Instead, I returned to what ultimately caused the path of destruction that followed.
My dear, you judge yourself without any of the mercy you show to others, and so I have no doubt you feel guilty about not having killed me sooner, or at the least left me in prison. Allow me to point out that I would have left the custody of the US goverment in any case, given Prophet Five's interest in me and my conviction I was not of use to anyone, least of all Nadia, behind bars. As for the other... I always knew you would be the one to kill me, Sydney, you or your father, but I was rather possessive about the timing, and not just for the reason you would assume if you knew what happened in that cave later. You once told me, when you pretended to be Anna Espinosa, that you did not believe in destiny, so it would probably be futile to use the word. But you do believe in people, and for the situation in question to arise, all other hope had to fade first for me.
In the last decade, we told each other many lies and truths, and it seems fitting that the last lie you told me was the one of your own death, and the last one I told you was to enable you to believe in mine by your very capable hands. And yet I can think of more things to say. Let us not talk of regrets; I have so many that it would fill a library, let alone a letter, and I do not wish to bore you by becoming maudlin. But I do not believe I ever thanked you. For the years when you were an eager young agent, brave and inventive, and the daughter Emily and I did not have; for the years you were a challenge, one of my most able opponents and yet still an instrument against my enemies; for the years you were my favourite version of justice, condemming and accepting in equal measure. I shall never be able to listen to Strauss without thinking of you, my darling, and that is another thing I am grateful for: the certainty that due to the enduring popularity of the Blue Danube, you will think of me quite often as well. Perhaps your eyes will darken, perhaps you will just press your lips together for a moment in residual anger, but you will. It is a thought that will never cease to make me happy; call it the vanity of old age.
One of the things I told you during that last decade was that I loved you. Being your father's daughter, you could never quite decide whether this was a truth or a lie, and thus it bears repeating. But this, too, is something I am grateful for: that you never loved me. It probably saved your life. And a world without you in it, Sydney, would be so infinitely poorer that I cannot bear to think of it.
Yours in perhaps too many ways,
Arvin Sloane