Chapter Text
Dear Aymeric,
I am sitting in my loaned quarters — another home away from home, though I could not rightly tell anyone where the home I am away from is. I am alone, as I am often.
Your letters are laid out around me, rings I have read my way through more times that I’d like to admit (or could answer accurately, in truth). They spiral across the floor and I notice, again, the parchment you chose for each one. The wax you’ve sealed them with, and the scent of dried herbs. I remember each one as distinct, but they have been together in my satchel for moons now and the scents blend together like the echo of your garden in the paper.
As ever, you have sent me so much gentle evidence of your care and I failed to notice for far too long. I’d like to say I was too enamored with finding your voice in the careful sweep of your pen. That would be true, too. But it’s not fair, really. Because you think about all these little things that mean bigger things and had purpose and me in them.
And I just think about how I like to reread the things you decided to write for me and the sound of your voice so close, even when you’re so far away. Maybe I’m a simple creature.
I haven’t sent you letters on parchment that reminded me of blushing sunrises or with dried flowers that made me think of your eyes.
But I have still been reminded of you, everywhere I’ve been. I’ve still sent you letters with as much of my heart as I’ve known how to share. It’s yours, to the extent you want it.
With your letters, I’m surrounded by you. You’ve given me a layer of memories that sits delicately over all the places I’ve been without you. I’m grateful. And I feel bold enough to suggest that maybe I’ve come to know you better too. I hope that, perhaps I’ve given you enough of myself that you would say the same.
You always think about more. You always think further. You told me I could write to you and now I’m not sure what it’s like not to. I didn’t know I needed this. I didn’t know how much I wanted it.
I will pick up every letter from the floor and press each one near my face, to be near to you for a moment and to breathe deeply of the sweet, careful sentiments you tucked into each one. I will stack them all carefully back into my bag and wait for another moment of your time.
Too much of me exists between pen strokes or the sound of your breath as you drift off to sleep so many malms away from me. Or maybe just enough.
I would like to see you, and to be seen by you. I think, Ser Aymeric, I’ve come to want you to hear me.
Yours Always,
Rinh
And when she sighs, it is his name on her lips and it lingers. Long after their call, his bare skin slick under the heavy brocade on his bed. His hands remember the shape of her — the one he drew at meticulous distance. And he wants her to see how much he wants to hear her.