Unsent Letter to Jasmine, Written Approximately 08/03, Recreated Here

Spica

Metadata

Reference Number: BICI/SSP/CRJ0703/009

Title: Unsent Letter to Jasmine, Written Approximately 08/03, Recreated Here

Author: Spica

Date: Written approximately 08/03, Year 5607 A. o. W.

Extent: One letter entry, seven pages long

To Jasmine,

The Hall of Kindling and Charcoal is not, and could never be, my home. It is my birthplace, yes, the few memories I have of these hallways are nothing but diluted drops in the sea of my heart.

Everything here is imposing wood and frigid marble. I expected to smell old paper, worn leather, and fresh ink in every room. Instead I smell vinegar and stale air. Although I suspect the actual books are sequestered away in smaller rooms, I have yet to find them. Isn’t it strange that the home of all the world’s knowledge hides their tomes away?

Every scholar I pass by feels so cold. Not because of their overlong flowing robes, or in the color coordination that separates the researchers from the archivists, but in their sheer lack of community. In the formality staining every conversation I overhear. 

No one here speaks to me. Hardly anyone here speaks to each other. I see researchers buried in books, or archivists scurrying away with precious old tomes in their hands. They eye each other warily, as if they don’t all serve the same god-king. 

I have not seen anyone here who wasn’t an adult, though I feel a surprising amount of relief at that observation. Where would there be to play, to explore? Where did I first learn to walk? Did I ever speak to anyone who wasn’t my parent? How could anyone complete their work and still keep a child safe? Had my mother survived, would they have raised me here? How?

I shared my thoughts with Fir, and strangely, she was just as confused. “Scritta and I had broken up before you were born. I vaguely heard about a child here… I dismissed it as a silly rumor at the time.”

“What would you have done, had I been born while you were still at the Hall?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “Ignored you, probably. I would blink and you’d be an adult. Why care at all if that’s the case? Now, had I known you were meant to be my protege, that would have changed things…”

I imagined the loneliness I knew her to feel, stretched across centuries. I adored her upon her initial meeting, but that adoration morphed to fear once I realized who she was. Now, I look at her with pity more than anything else. To live my life in years the way most do in weeks… the thought still terrifies me.

Her callousness used to scare me, but I understand it well now. How could she ever form a bond with someone, if she meets them at their peak of their strength, then the next she sees them they’re old and frail?

She sees immortality as a gift; I see it as a punishment. 

Seeing Fir and Scritta interact makes that belief only all the stronger. Fir speaks of Scritta often, even if it’s always dismissively. Fir always mentions how many things she’s forgotten over the years, and yet every memory of Scritta she seems to recall with perfect clarity.

Scritta invited Fir to her personal quarters shortly after we first arrived. The Undying Ember that delivered the missive received little but a raised eyebrow and eye roll in response. “What does she expect to happen tonight?”

“I did not ask, Flame-Feeder. I was merely told to invite you,” the Undying Ember replied. “Please forgive me. I should have asked for more detail.”

Fir raised a dismissive hand. “No need. Scritta is a stubborn old woman. She wouldn’t have explained even if you had asked. Although… she didn’t say anything about forbidding guests, did she?”

“U-uhm, no.”

“Perfect!” She turned to me with a smirk. “Spica, you’ll come with me.”

She abandoned the confused Ember and set off towards a staircase. Knowing my place, I followed after her. “Scritta lives on the third floor with basically everyone else. Her bedroom has been passed from head to head for centuries, and she’s not one to break tradition,” she explained to me. “Hmm… I wonder if the decorations are still as ugly as I remember.”

We traversed up to the third floor. There was a door further down the hall with a large sign on it, warning others to stay away. I wondered if that room belonged to the person who was on trial.

Fir led me towards a large door in the back. My heart stuttered in my chest as Fir pushed the door open without a care. I could never imagine doing the same, Jasmine. But then again, what normal mortal, even one who held the world’s knowledge in the palm of her hand, could compare to the Flame-Feeder herself? She had dominion over the world, and she used to roam this place as though it was her own. How could one door ever stop her?

The door was, of course, unlocked. It opened up to what looked like a small cottage within. We went inside a narrow lounge, where a fire roared in a nearby fireplace. There was Scritta, sitting in a large chair. At least, I believed her to be Scritta. She was an older woman. If her life wasn’t extended — and I didn’t believe it to be — she was likely in her seventies, judging from the timeline Fir had given me prior. 

She glared down at the stack of papers in her thin hands. I wondered what could inspire such ire. She was still comely, but she was likely beautiful when Fir first met her. She looked up at us with a sallow face, marred by dark eyebags and cheeks sunken by what must have been a stressful loss. Her hair, mostly gray but with some forgotten wisps of blonde, fell down around her shoulders in crumpled waves. Unlike the other scholars we had seen here, she wore a black robe embroidered with countless red gems, sparked to life by the light of her hearth. 

Her green eyes fell on me. I fought back a shiver at the intensity. She looked at me as though I was nothing but dirt on her shoe. “So is this your newest lover?” she asked, colder than the ice that would form on the pools of rainwater back in Seabreeze Shoal.

Fir smiled at her. She wrapped a possessive arm around my shoulders. Her warmth, which had once been nearly scalding to the touch, was a gentle heat barely more than my own. 

My own shock stiffened me to paralysis. “Isn’t she lovely? Her name is Spica.”

My face burned at the implication. Fir didn’t even bother to deny it. Was it to torture Scritta more, or was it because she found the idea too amusing? I was her companion, yes, and her protege, but that was a far cry from a lover.

Scritta’s eyes somehow grew colder. Fir laughed at the sight.

“And how old will you let her get before you toss her away for someone younger?”

Fir let me go. She folded her delicate arms over her chest. I watched Scritta’s eyes follow the movement, and then linger in place. “Please. You were far from youthful when I left.”

“And yet you’re as young and lively as ever,” Scritta responded, directing her ire towards the lit hearth. 

“It’s truly a blessing. There must be some part of you that agrees, judging by the way you can’t take your eyes off of me.”

I nearly squeaked. Of course Fir would have noticed. If I was Scritta, I would be mortified. I stole a glance at her, and while I didn’t see mortification settling into the wrinkles of her face, I did catch a redness to her cheeks that seemed separate from the fire’s heat.

“And if you must know, Spica isn’t my lover.” Fir took a step closer. Her hand found Scritta’s armrest, just a hair’s breadth away from touching her wrist. Fir leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I strained my ears to listen, and it must have been by His Eternal Warmth’s grace that I was able to hear anything at all.

“She’s my protege. And so far, she’s surpassed my every expectation.”

Something terrible flashed within Scritta’s eyes. Her gaze found mine, and I had to take a step back from the sheer animosity that she directed at me. I thought of fleeing. I did not know where I was supposed to stay, but for a moment, even a cliffside covered in aberrations would be less terrifying to face than the wrath of this woman.

Then I remembered why I was here, and I rooted myself in place. I could not run away. 

Her hands went white from the intensity of her grip. The papers in her hands crumpled and nearly tore apart. She took a deep breath, and then, finally, she left me be. 

“Are you sure of that, Fir? The more you love someone, the more their inevitable betrayal hurts.”

“Inevitable. That’s funny.” Fir’s gaze was fiery when she looked back at me. “If you had simply chosen a better protege, then you wouldn’t have had to make such a fool of yourself.”

“As if you didn’t sing his praises when I first took him on?”

“Sometimes love is supporting your partner’s stupidest choices.”

“You are a liar,” Scritta hissed. “We could never have predicted his betrayal. I have no choice but to exile him now. His line of thinking cannot be tolerated.”

Fir clicked her tongue. “Reminds you too much of when you were young, hmm? How tragic. If you were really serious, you’d extinguish him. Let his reforging bring him clarity.”

“We aren’t murderers.” 

“Please. It’s hardly murder.”

My hands grew clammy. My heart stopped beating within my chest. For a frantic second, I begged His Eternal Warmth to strike me down where I stood. 

Fir doesn’t believe taking a life is murder. Death is a reforging, not a permanent end. His Eternal Warmth will never allow His subjects to truly die. Our bodies may break and burn, but our souls remain as eternal as He. We are made in His image, as we always have been. 

But the horror of blood spilled on the ground… even when it’s sanctioned, how can such a violent end be anything but murder?

“If you find time in your clearly busy schedule to attend tomorrow’s portion of the trial, maybe you’ll finally understand the values that the Hall upholds, such as restraint and careful deliberation, and how we venerate His Eternal Warmth by not indulging in impulsive fancies. Now, please. Leave my space. I have an early morning.” Scritta said. She stood up and disappeared into a second room beyond the entrance. The door slammed loudly behind her.

“Touchy as always,” Fir said. 

Afterwards, we returned to our quarters. Fir was offered a small suite, similar to Scritta’s quarters. I heard her mention something about it feeling familiar. I suppose she must have stayed here before.

I don’t understand how my parents could have ever loved this place. How my father could ever miss it.

Perhaps I am wrong, and my judgment is diluted by the darkness of night. Perhaps the warmth of the daylight gives one more to love here. The wonder I felt in my earliest memories has all but died today.

As it stands, I cannot wait to leave this place. Wolfjaw and Zeolite both were odd places, but they were far friendlier than this calculating mess of hallways and politics. 

Jasmine, if you were to ever come here… I believe you would hate it too. 

Yours, 
Spica