The handwriting is scratched and crude, as if the hands have to remember how to form the letters. The parchment is crumpled, worn at the edges, as if its writer has kept hold of it for a long while. The letter reads as follows: I ask that you forgive my cowardice in writing to you, rather than speaking. It makes my skin crawl that I cannot say what I wish, and that I must resort to parchment in matters of the heart. I do not bother with those I find weak. Word spread that the Medarda daughter was weak, resulting in exile. In the age of the Trifarix, General Swain often drones about the philosophies of strength, and I find myself tuning out mere seconds into the monologue. Yet upon meeting you – I myself found myself wondering what strength is. If you are weak, after besting your own mother in combat and controlling the very Arcane at your fingertips, then I do not know what the word means. And how dare I claim strength, when I cannot so much as tell you as such to your face? I claim no answers to these hypocrises. Instead, I wish to crush them underneath my heel. Mel Medarda – I have come to admire you. But I cannot claim it innocent – not in the way I still remember the slightest brush of your hand against my arm, or the scent of citrus as you passed me by. It confounds me, how such feelings can make me feel so ravenous, yet so juvenile? I almost slapped myself silly after I felt my heart ‘skip a beat’ – but I did not. Because it is a warm feeling, even when ravenous, even when juvenile. There is a small tavern just outside Drekan. Should you meet me there tomorrow night, I shall take responsibility for my desires, and express them to you as honorably as I am capable. Should you not – this will never be spoken of. Selfishly, I pray for an answer from your lips, whatever it may be. Darius
The handwriting is scratched and crude, as if the hands have to remember how to form the letters. The parchment is crumpled, worn at the edges, as if its writer has kept hold of it for a long while. The letter reads as follows: I ask that you forgive my cowardice in writing to you, rather than speaking. It makes my skin crawl that I cannot say what I wish, and that I must resort to parchment in matters of the heart. I do not bother with those I find weak. Word spread that the Medarda daughter was weak, resulting in exile. In the age of the Trifarix, General Swain often drones about the philosophies of strength, and I find myself tuning out mere seconds into the monologue. Yet upon meeting you – I myself found myself wondering what strength is. If you are weak, after besting your own mother in combat and controlling the very Arcane at your fingertips, then I do not know what the word means. And how dare I claim strength, when I cannot so much as tell you as such to your face? I claim no answers to these hypocrises. Instead, I wish to crush them underneath my heel. Mel Medarda – I have come to admire you. But I cannot claim it innocent – not in the way I still remember the slightest brush of your hand against my arm, or the scent of citrus as you passed me by. It confounds me, how such feelings can make me feel so ravenous, yet so juvenile? I almost slapped myself silly after I felt my heart ‘skip a beat’ – but I did not. Because it is a warm feeling, even when ravenous, even when juvenile. There is a small tavern just outside Drekan. Should you meet me there tomorrow night, I shall take responsibility for my desires, and express them to you as honorably as I am capable. Should you not – this will never be spoken of. Selfishly, I pray for an answer from your lips, whatever it may be. Darius
💌 LOVE LETTER #7 💌
What's this? Another admirer? My, our princess seems to be quite popular! Who's vying for her attention this time?
Well well, it looks like Noxus will be happy to have dear Mel back…
- xoxo ❤️✨ #submelweek ෆ #melrius
