(no subject)
For Spess, merry Christmas, darling!
A letter to Augustus Rookwood, never sent, never written, even, but composed shortly after Gideon's death and before Augustus was betrayed as a spy.
Augustus,
I've looked at it all now, insane, self-hating and abusing curiosity on my part, certainly, but an insatiable need to know that had to be obeyed all the same. And you refuse to dream of me, steadfastly, when what I need most right now is the opportunity to shout at you with being heard, call you stupid, rage at you. All so very immature, but, by Merlin, I swear it's necessary. Not vital - it's too late for that, but still necessary. And yes, I know that neither of us would feel better afterwards, instead we'd end up with an impasse. However, I'm left with another one right now, and it makes me livid.
How often did you lie to me? How often did you know exactly who'd caused the injuries with which I sometimes couldn't help coming to you? How often did you kiss me, fuck me, love me right after meeting the people who were out to kill me and everyone who thought like me?
I know your feelings were real, I saw the look in your eyes when you asked me quietly to stop, and I sometimes caught sight of you when you watched me recovering from an injury and thought yourself unobserved. I know that you protected me where you could, and that, often enough, that meant covering Fabian, too. And I know that this isn't personal, that you didn't betray me in any way, that you wouldn't ever have done so.
I've never felt so torn between extremes, never thought that in my death I'd be more swamped in thoughts and emotions than I was during my life. For fuck's sake, Gus, talk to me, I need to hear your reasoning behind this. We talked politics often enough, you know how I think, and I thought I knew how you thought. The latter is no longer valid, and my own intellect seems insufficient to come up with a suitable explanation that reaches past the obvious.
Incredibly mad at you and in dire need to talk,
Gideon