a lesson in running away (the art of returning)

Dear Della: to throw yourself into the wind (and trust that it will catch you)

Dear Della,

I want to be effortless like you.

I want to know how you're the perfect blueprint of a Vacker when you weren't born as one, when it's still so hard for me to know what to do and how to act, when I've never fully fit into the Vacker image but you are a puzzle piece slotting into place next to Alden in family portraits.

They've built you up block by block to be a Vacker. Or maybe you were born that way, with that influence. With that power. Even if no one knew about you before you married Alden. Makes me think that your parents were talentless and you had to learn how to be powerful. Maybe you have a secret twin. Or you're the youngest of seven brothers.

Something, anything, that will make me think I can be like you someday.

Don't we all want to marry a Vacker?

When I was younger, I thought it was universal. To love the idea of you guys. To love the real version of you, too. The perfection, the routine, the expectations that no one has any trouble living up to.

Would you fall into the wind and trust it to carry you safely to the ground? I wouldn't, but I suppose for you, even the laws of nature would bend themselves to keep you happy.

See, that's what I want to be.

Not powerful. Not beautiful. Maybe not even a Vacker.

Happy. I want to be happy.

So why am I running away again? Again, again, again. Bring me back before my mother does, Della. Please find me. You're the only one I want to see. I want you to tell me everything's all right. That I can be the kid and you can be the adult again.

(this letter is made up of wants, isn't it? i feel like a child again)

The Neverseen is made up of adults. I don't think it's fair that we're supposed to be as good as they are when the worst thing I did before joining them was ditch class and lie and lie and lie.

I think you're the one person I've lied to only once. But it was the same one, over and over again.

I'm not fine, Della. I want to fix my past lies so now you aren't left with a letter full of them left for someone that's not you.

I want to stop lying. But sometimes I think about what you'd look like if I told you the truth (i'm not okay, i'm not okay, i'm not okay) and now I can't even think about you anymore.

Because every time, I see pinched brows and tightened lips and disappointment drawn into every line on your face and sadness rimming your eyes without tears. You know yourself well enough that you don't need to cry.

I've never hated loving you. I think you're the only one I will always regret leaving.

There will always be moments where I convince myself that I did the right thing because Fitz is set in his ways, because Sophie is free now, because it keeps Biana safer, and I'll miss them but I can live with it but you? You shaped me into who I wanted to be and didn't let the anger settle when I went back to who I had always been. You gave me the blueprint and let me scribble it out to make my own.

Thank you, is what I'm trying to say.

Love,

Keefe

...

Keefe stands from the plush chair the hotel room had come with, part of the amenities package he'd been sold on when asking where to go. Great for somewhere private! the man who cheerfully took his payment to buy the hotel room under his name. They won't ask questions about coming or going.

Keefe also didn't ask questions about how the man knew about this place. He couldn't afford to lose his contact when he was the only one around that pawn shop whose emotions matched his words.

He supposes Sophie has always been right about what liars humans are. She didn't quite understand that elves were worse because they had to pretend they weren't lying. Humans didn't seem to try to hide their deceit.

Either way, it suits him well enough. The room is larger than his room in Candleshade, more of a suite than a bedroom, complete with a bathroom, sitting area, kitchen table, and chandelier casting a soft glow over the room. Currently, it's littered with scraps of paper and discarded human clothing that he'd bought during an impulse trip to a mall.

Like he's trying to fit into a world that doesn't know he exists.

Like part of him is still invisible.

Still, despite the constant bombardment of human emotions, the loneliness, the fear that the Neverseen will find him, and the constant danger of losing control of his voice... there's a pressure lifted from his lungs.

He only realized as he left the Lost Cities that he hadn't taken a full breath since waking up from that coma in the Healing Center, perhaps since he'd found out his mother had betrayed everything he thought he stood for. Like basic human decency.

Here, Keefe can inhale and hold the smoggy London air in his lungs for as long as he wants. There isn't a time limit anymore.

This might have been the best decision he's ever made.

Not because it keeps them safe. Not for Sophie.

For him. Someone he has never thought deserved some kind of freedom like this.

Keefe returns to his desk and runs a hand over the note waiting there, a wry smile crossing his face.

...

When they were 12 years, Keefe told Fitz he was going to marry him.

Perhaps he didn't plan it. Perhaps it just slipped out.

That's what he tells himself, four years later at sixteen and seventeen when they both know better than to indulge in fantasies. A lapse in judgment. Another impulse, just words that don't mean anything.

I'm going to marry you someday. All matter-of-fact and naive. Uninformed, is what Keefe would call it today. Shouldn't he know that it doesn't work like that? Shouldn't he know not to lie?

They never spoke about it beyond that day, but Keefe still wonders if Fitz thinks that's all it was. Words, words, words, packed with a punch but no strength to back it up, filled with bitter sugar and glazed with poison sweetness. Words words words and they all spin in his head, in this quiet silent room that he can't break open and reform so he keeps thinking of things he wishes he could forget.

Things like:

"Don't say that," Fitz whispered urgently, clapping a rough hand over Keefe's mouth and glancing around furtively, as if anyone could possibly hear them through the expanse of Everglen.

Keefe dragged his hand away, warm fingers wrapped around his for a moment before Fitz snatched his back. "Why not?"

Fitz stared at him, puzzled and perhaps a tad guilty. At twelve years old, he already knows who he's supposed to be. "Because it's not true."