EQUANIMITY, reign

xiii. florence

OPENED:
AN EAGER TEAR
THROUGH THE
WAX SEAL OF
ELIZABETH TUDOR'S
COAT-OF-ARMS.

UNKNOWN DATE, 1557

My old friend,
I do not know why it is you to whom I write. After the dusty taste of our silence, I cannot begin to outline the chronologies of my life in one, mere letter. I suppose I shall begin with where my feet are placed now, and this is within the carriage transporting me to Florence. Yesterday I had been in France, and today, I am in Italy. And yet, all of this to be done over a bastard. Well, I suppose soon enough he shall no longer be a bastard. I have read every map of his being and I am certain there is no such King to be found. I had once believed the real treasure to be his soul, as I do with all beings. I am unsure now. But I digress... he is not of any concern to me.

Alas, there are others that believe otherwise. Elizabeth, I cannot give you such information that you so desire, though I know you shall be thinking of asking. I may be departing for but a while, but my heart belongs to my duty. It is, after all, the only love I have ever known. I shall return to France, when I am certain that I know who to trust. There are covert eyes adorning the hallways in France, but I do not fear them. They shall be watching for me.

I worry for Francis and the burden he is encumbered with. I know you are to be thinking of our childhood indiscretions that I, most regrettably, entombed to your memory, but I assure you Francis is merely a friend. As is Sebastian. They are, perhaps, the best friends I have ever known, and now lost. This fear lives within me, though, hiding within the shadows of my heart. His heart bleeds the same as mine. We have a each reaped what we have sewn. Bash will continue to choose her until he can no longer breathe. I know this now. And so, I must always choose me.

Elizabeth, I cannot think of such a reason why I would write to you, as you cannot know of such intricacies of our politics. You cannot know and yet, I want you to know. Writing to you had been the one solace of my plagued mind, even when there had been the risk of you to one day expose the truths of my being. It was, once, the only comfort I had ever known. I digress, I fear in France I do not have many days left. I cannot answer your question of 'why?'  I simply do not know the answer. France feels less and less like home each moment I am there.

I had finally opened your last letter this eve. Many moons have come and gone, and I hadn't known of your guilt for leaving me in such silence... All I am capable of feeling is relief. Yet, I do not wish for the plague of my thoughts to infect you, merely for you to remedy them, as you so wonderfully manage to do. Yet, I fear it. You could betray me and use this to your advantage. I shall never know, perhaps, as I will be in Italy, away from France.

              I am following a prophecy; or destiny... whatever it shall be named... will it be the good I am yearning for? I can only wish upon every star gracefully dancing above in the darkening night. Elizabeth, to assuage our mutual forgiveness, I thought of nothing better than to seal this with your very own coat-of-arms. I hope you forgive me for not opening your letter until this eve. Now, it is the sole comfort my heart shall know.

[Sloppily added to the bottom of the page, written in shorthand: If you shall betray me, and I am to fail here, what am I to do? I cannot go back home. I cannot continue pretending that she does not exist.]