A love letter from the past…
Letter 1: A Love Confession from the 1700s
I write these words with trembling hands, knowing that they may never reach you, or worse—that they may, and yet still, you will choose him.
The ink stains my fingers as surely as longing stains my soul. It has been too long since I last laid eyes upon you, and still, your presence haunts me. I close my eyes, and you are there, the scent of lavender and ink clinging to you as the firelight flickers against your hair. It should be me standing beside you, not him. It should be my name you whisper when the night grows quiet, my arms you seek when the world is too cruel.
Yet here I am, writing words that cannot touch you, bound by duty, distance, and the wretched hand of fate. I had no choice but to leave, though I curse the very path that took me from you. War looms over these lands like a storm cloud, and I have been sent to the frontlines, where steel meets flesh and men fall like autumn leaves. I have seen the glint of swords under the moonlight, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder that clings to the air long after the battle has ended. I have fought beside men whose faces I barely know, all while your face lingers in my mind with cruel clarity.
I have written you before, but I fear my words were lost to fate, or worse, intercepted. If you have received nothing, know that it was not for lack of trying. I have bled into these pages, Natalee, my heart poured out in ink, desperate for some whisper of your voice to reach me across the miles. And still, I wonder, do you think of me? Or has he already claimed the space I left behind?
He is all broad smiles and effortless charm, a man of presence, but not of depth. He may call you 'lass' with his silvered tongue, but does he know the weight of your name when spoken in reverence? Does he understand the fire within you, the longing for something greater than a man who looks good in a kilt?
I do.
And still, I am trapped in this cursed game of restraint. You know what I want. You know where my thoughts wander in the quiet hours. I would give up my name, my land, my claim to any future if it meant I could stand at your side without fear of losing you to him.
The days stretch long here, the nights longer still. Each morning, I rise with the sun and ride alongside men who fight for a cause greater than themselves. We march through valleys and rivers, past ruined villages and empty homes, places where love was once whispered, where laughter once danced upon the air. It is a cruel reminder of what war takes, of what distance does to those left behind. I know you are safe, and yet, I cannot silence the fear that one day I will return only to find you in his arms.
I have not yet told you of the dream that haunts me. I see you standing at the threshold of an unfamiliar home, dressed in silk and pearls, your hands folded over your stomach. There is no longing in your gaze, no hesitation, only the acceptance of a life chosen. And yet, in the flicker of the candlelight, I see it. A shadow of what could have been, a ghost of me lingering in the air between us. I wake with my heart hammering, my hands clenched into fists, and the bitter taste of regret resting on my tongue. I cannot bear the thought of that dream becoming truth.
And yet, here in the cold of battle, I am met with another dream, one that grips me just as fiercely. In it, you are standing beneath a great oak, the sun painting your hair with gold, the wind teasing the hem of your dress. You are waiting, watching the horizon, searching for something… for me. And I am coming to you, pushing through the crowds, past every obstacle that would keep us apart. It is a dream that ends too soon, but it is one I refuse to let slip from my grasp.
But fate is a cruel mistress, and this letter is my only solace. I do not send it in the hopes of swaying you, I know you are too stubborn, too proud to admit the truth aloud. But if you read these words and feel even a fraction of what I feel, if your pulse quickens, if your breath catches, if some forbidden part of you whispers my name instead of his, then I will wait, Natalee. I will wait as long as it takes, until you see that what I offer is not fleeting admiration, but devotion. Until you see that it was always meant to be me.
Yet I am no fool, and I have seen how the world turns. If you choose him, if you walk that path and leave me in shadow, then I will do what honor demands, I will say nothing. I will bear it in silence, a wound that no blade could match. But if ever you find yourself doubting, if ever you wake in the night and feel the weight of my absence like a ghost in the room, then seek me. A single word, a single glance, and I will know. I will come for you. No ocean, no border, no name in a marriage book could keep me from you.
Do not mistake my silence for surrender, Natalee. My love is not the sort that fades with time or distance. It is carved into the marrow of me, as permanent as the earth beneath our feet. If I must love you from afar, then so be it. But should the day come when you call my name, I will answer. Always.
