IC: A Letter, But Not An Apology
Faye,
In a way, this letter is like all my time with you. It is a moment of respite, an indulgence in tender and forgotten feelings in a Requiem dominated by a choice I made decades ago. You are often gentle to me when there is nothing but harsh reality, kind to me when I am alone, and soothing when the world is turbulent. I do not turn to you until I have to, and for that I apologize: the Captain of a ship thinks nothing but of the port he shall find when his terrible voyage is done, and when he finds such a sanctum, it isn’t long until he returns to the sea again. It is the paradox and perhaps insanity of some men to both pine for and distance themselves from those who they desire most; and I am certainly such a man.
And as I write this, I realize you may be done with me. I cannot blame you: I am often neglectful. I am rarely present. You hear little from me, and so much of me. I can imagine what you might think. You are beautiful, powerful, possessed of both station and potential; a man would be crazed not to adore you. Most importantly, you are good to me, and I do not usually enjoy the sort of affection that lasts beyond the initial infatuation: Charlie Beckett is well-known for being a good man to meet but a hard man to be with. You know this already. I did want to say that I can’t express the degree to which I appreciate you. And now you’re angry with me, distant, and frustrated. And I’m still on that same course of action that caused your reaction. I’m sorry, I truly am.
But I cannot make you forgive me, I can merely ask it. And I go into danger, perhaps an extreme amount, or perhaps, due to your intervention, it is survivable. And without forgiveness, all I can do is try to bring myself to some point where I know I have made my feelings clear. Where I have said all I need to say, where I can proceed with no distractions or regrets. And to do this, I realize I must at least try to have your understanding, and for that, I must tell you a story I have never told.
And the story is this. Once, I was a mortal. I was in Palestine; I was a political officer… you might call it a diplomat, but in truth I was a spy. And it was a time of great unrest, and Britain was in the Holy Land, and there were also Arabs… Palestinians as we now call them… and there were Jews who had emigrated. Some might call them Zionists. And I was Jewish, in a time when that ought to mean something. And there was a woman… an Austrian Jew, her name was Regina. And she was young, and perhaps rash, and somewhat beautiful although not excessively so. And I will admit I loved her.
I was supervising a small cadre of policemen, mostly natives, mostly Arabs, during one of the great riots of 1929. In those days, there was as much unrest as there is now. I was 35 years old and had been a soldier or servant of the Crown my entire life, and I knew where my loyalties were. And as such, when presented with a choice as to whether to use police, and bring the riots against the government, or to open fire and save my People, I chose the former. And I did not kill Regina. She died dozens of miles away, where another man such as myself made the same choice. Still, at the time, emotionally, it was much the same to me.
And I couldn’t live with the choice. And when my sire found me, hanging there in my guilt and self-loathing, she cut me down and forced a second chance on me.
Everything that is Charles Beckett, my life, my death, my Requiem, is now known to you. I have never told that story. Not to Isa, not to Christina. I was not ready. I am now, to you. I cannot explain the importance, or what it changed, but let it suffice to say my choice to fully commit to duty was made that night in 1929. And there are dire implications, but I do not expect you to understand. Not because you are a woman, or an American, or a Dragon. But because you are not me, and no matter what I do, I can’t explain it. I can only show you who I am to today.
I hope to see you again, soon.
Charlie
It was several days since Faye received this letter, nearing a week. Word had gotten back to her that Charles had lost face in many ways during the gathering in Tampa, but, fortunately, Prince LaPorta was spared. All in all, the weekend was a success, save for a few points. Although this letter came before the phone call, all signs pointed to the implication that the lesson was not learned.
Not that it was surprising. In Faye's--limited--experience with the 'Unconquered', she found that they were very resistant, near-obstinate, to any form of teaching, once they had reached a particular point. They limited their thinking severely, save for some, and they were stagnant, stubborn, and, in summary, dense. But that didn't stop her from feeling disappointed. She had put her faith in Charles, and to an extent, her trust--was he throwing it all away?
Sitting down at her desk, Faye reads this letter, her face still and void of any emotion. So, She thinks to herself, he attempted suicide so that he would never have to face the guilt of choosing duty over love. So either a) he is ignorantly repeating his mistake, or b) La Porta is his love and I am not. Which is it?
Faye opened her e-mail, and sent a message quickly to Beckett. She didn't expect a response - she had given up waiting ages ago - but at least at this point, she had extended her 'peace offering,' even if he didn't see it as such.
In a way, this letter is like all my time with you. It is a moment of respite, an indulgence in tender and forgotten feelings in a Requiem dominated by a choice I made decades ago. You are often gentle to me when there is nothing but harsh reality, kind to me when I am alone, and soothing when the world is turbulent. I do not turn to you until I have to, and for that I apologize: the Captain of a ship thinks nothing but of the port he shall find when his terrible voyage is done, and when he finds such a sanctum, it isn’t long until he returns to the sea again. It is the paradox and perhaps insanity of some men to both pine for and distance themselves from those who they desire most; and I am certainly such a man.
And as I write this, I realize you may be done with me. I cannot blame you: I am often neglectful. I am rarely present. You hear little from me, and so much of me. I can imagine what you might think. You are beautiful, powerful, possessed of both station and potential; a man would be crazed not to adore you. Most importantly, you are good to me, and I do not usually enjoy the sort of affection that lasts beyond the initial infatuation: Charlie Beckett is well-known for being a good man to meet but a hard man to be with. You know this already. I did want to say that I can’t express the degree to which I appreciate you. And now you’re angry with me, distant, and frustrated. And I’m still on that same course of action that caused your reaction. I’m sorry, I truly am.
But I cannot make you forgive me, I can merely ask it. And I go into danger, perhaps an extreme amount, or perhaps, due to your intervention, it is survivable. And without forgiveness, all I can do is try to bring myself to some point where I know I have made my feelings clear. Where I have said all I need to say, where I can proceed with no distractions or regrets. And to do this, I realize I must at least try to have your understanding, and for that, I must tell you a story I have never told.
And the story is this. Once, I was a mortal. I was in Palestine; I was a political officer… you might call it a diplomat, but in truth I was a spy. And it was a time of great unrest, and Britain was in the Holy Land, and there were also Arabs… Palestinians as we now call them… and there were Jews who had emigrated. Some might call them Zionists. And I was Jewish, in a time when that ought to mean something. And there was a woman… an Austrian Jew, her name was Regina. And she was young, and perhaps rash, and somewhat beautiful although not excessively so. And I will admit I loved her.
I was supervising a small cadre of policemen, mostly natives, mostly Arabs, during one of the great riots of 1929. In those days, there was as much unrest as there is now. I was 35 years old and had been a soldier or servant of the Crown my entire life, and I knew where my loyalties were. And as such, when presented with a choice as to whether to use police, and bring the riots against the government, or to open fire and save my People, I chose the former. And I did not kill Regina. She died dozens of miles away, where another man such as myself made the same choice. Still, at the time, emotionally, it was much the same to me.
And I couldn’t live with the choice. And when my sire found me, hanging there in my guilt and self-loathing, she cut me down and forced a second chance on me.
Everything that is Charles Beckett, my life, my death, my Requiem, is now known to you. I have never told that story. Not to Isa, not to Christina. I was not ready. I am now, to you. I cannot explain the importance, or what it changed, but let it suffice to say my choice to fully commit to duty was made that night in 1929. And there are dire implications, but I do not expect you to understand. Not because you are a woman, or an American, or a Dragon. But because you are not me, and no matter what I do, I can’t explain it. I can only show you who I am to today.
I hope to see you again, soon.
Charlie
It was several days since Faye received this letter, nearing a week. Word had gotten back to her that Charles had lost face in many ways during the gathering in Tampa, but, fortunately, Prince LaPorta was spared. All in all, the weekend was a success, save for a few points. Although this letter came before the phone call, all signs pointed to the implication that the lesson was not learned.
Not that it was surprising. In Faye's--limited--experience with the 'Unconquered', she found that they were very resistant, near-obstinate, to any form of teaching, once they had reached a particular point. They limited their thinking severely, save for some, and they were stagnant, stubborn, and, in summary, dense. But that didn't stop her from feeling disappointed. She had put her faith in Charles, and to an extent, her trust--was he throwing it all away?
Sitting down at her desk, Faye reads this letter, her face still and void of any emotion. So, She thinks to herself, he attempted suicide so that he would never have to face the guilt of choosing duty over love. So either a) he is ignorantly repeating his mistake, or b) La Porta is his love and I am not. Which is it?
Faye opened her e-mail, and sent a message quickly to Beckett. She didn't expect a response - she had given up waiting ages ago - but at least at this point, she had extended her 'peace offering,' even if he didn't see it as such.