My dearest Varvare,
I am sorry I left you. Sometimes I wonder what may have happened, should our fates have been changed. Had I not been Vahe’s Queen and you not his princess.
Should I be able to walk by your side and call you my child, oh what joy this would bring to me! To be as those who may keep their beloved daughter by their side without fear that her destruction may be close at hand. If only fate could be changed by hands such as mine! Then I could know the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand, the warmth of your embrace and the softness of your hair. But as it is, I do not even know what you look like.
I only know your name. And perhaps you are not even called by it anymore.
Fate is a cruel, cruel thing, Varvare. I have found that it cannot be anything but. I am so fearful, fearful for you. For your father.
I am sorry Varvare, so very sorry. I wish for a fate impossible and hope for things forever out of my reach. I harbor so very many regrets.
If fate would obey me, the world would not be as it is.
I love you.
The letter was never sent, for to where would she send it? Her daughter’s whereabouts were not known to her.
And so she burned it before Vahe could find it. The Queen or Arpiar watched its rose-scented smoke rise and drift away as she sat upon her throne with an expression of stone. But her mind was wrought with pain.
“My wish for you,” she whispered to the wind, “is that you may know a life better than mine.”
Perhaps a sylph would hear her words and catch them up in its billowing arms. Perhaps the sylph would know who she wished to hear them.
Her sweet daughter.
Her dearest Varvare.
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