Dear Sir or Madame

I wrote the words carefully, each stroke of the pen throbbing through my arm. It had been nearly two weeks since he had cut it, and thanks to the lack of medicine or medical personnel in this place it was hurting more than usual.

It was also a bit more red than what I was sure was healthy.

Attempting to ignore it, I kept my motions slow, drawing each letter slowly as I began the same phrase, the same plea.

It was the twelfth letter I had written like this, and the words came freely now.

My name is Ilyan Krul. I am writing to you as someone in need of assistance. I was a victim of the massacre in Prague some fifteen years prior. Since then I have been a captive of the SSU and now am under the control of what they are telling me is called the Republic.

I do not know what it is, but I know I am in danger. I am trying to find my wife. Her name is Joclyn Krul, formerly Despain. She is an American, but I have hopes that she is near you, and you could help me find her.

I hesitated, while the letters all began the same, each one was different from this point on. She is in our home by the seaside near the French town of Giens. She is somewhere in Prague please hang a sign with the word Silnỳ printed on it. She is in the monastery of Rioseco. She is in… she could be… she might be…

A million possibilities. A million safe houses. A massive tunnel where no mortal could find her.

Truth told, the more of these I wrote the more hopeless I had begun to feel.

They were nothing more than letters that I slipped into a book, letters that were hopefully sent all over the world, desperate to find their locations.

To find her.

With each agonizing word I wrote, I sat. The restraints tight against both ankles now as they kept me tethered to the bed, locked away in this hospital. Behind guards, trapped within hallways I didn’t know. I had planned an escape a million times, thought through a million different ways to fight back.

It all came down to one massive problem: I didn’t know how to fight like a mortal.

So I remained here. A prisoner. Every scrap of hope riding on the backs of these letters.

Once a day the Russian would come in with pictures and promises, just like the SSU had done for so long. After the disastrous slice to my arm, he no longer tired to prove of the existence of my magic. His focus was only on Joclyn, only on finding her.

It was the only thing that made the letters so terrifying.

I was putting her name onto paper, and including suggestions on how to find her. In the wrong hands, the results could be disastrous.

Although I was certain she could handle whatever came her way, it was a risk that weighed heavily on my soul. It had been years since I had seen her, years without her. I did not know what dangers the world presented. I was still her protector, and I would do just that.

With that in mind, I had even attempted to write to Kaye a few times, to give her the information I now had and hope that she could put two and two together. She was as much of a mystery as my mate had been so long ago. With no last name, no knowledge that I was still alive, or if she was, I might as well be writing a letter to Joclyn directly.

I froze, my pen hovering over the paper as my heart began to beat faster, every word I wanted to say to her slamming into my chest.

If all of these letters were going out into the void anyway, then this one would join them. Perhaps this one could find her.

I carefully turned the page of the book, glancing over the words written on the alternating pages, the few details about the Republic and the world outside just as precious as the blank pages they concealed.

Holding onto the fragile page, I carefully popped the blank page from the binding, turning it just enough that I could easily place pen to paper.

My dearest Joclyn, my darling mate,

While each word still filled me with the same agony as before, bones and muscles aching with the movement, it all felt lighter now. Somehow, writing just those words made everything feel a little less oppressive.

I miss you.

I ignored the twist in my stomach and moved on.

I miss you, my darling. There is no simpler way to describe this loss, but that word could very well be enough.

Each moment I spend longing for you is an ache that I cannot seem to fill, a pressure that I cannot ease. Although the pain of this separation is one that is familiar, it still bleeds deep. I have spent centuries looking for you, longing for you. To be separated after precious moments spent together, after making you my mate, this is a different kind of pain.

Although, this pain I will willingly take, knowing you are alive. That last moment of my life in Imdalind I did not know otherwise. I had watched you slip into the water, into the abyss of the cave that no one could reach, where only the dead could go.

I still do not know how you survived, I still do not know if you have. The picture they have shown me, however, promises me of your continued existence, so it is that that I cling to. It is that hope, the promise, that I treat as reality.

A promise that you are alive. That you are waiting for me, just as I did you.

It has been a difficult fifteen years. While I will not go into details here, I will tell you this: I am alive.

They found me in Kiev and I have been trapped in the hospital here ever since. It is a prison of a place, and I use the term hospital generously, for that is what it once was, although it no longer resembles one. I am under guard, and currently have no power to make my escape.

I am a prisoner of these walls, trapped behind guns and republics.

I know little of my situation, other than my heart is not my own. And you.

I know you.

I am writing this letter with the solemn hope that it will reach you, that it will find you, and that I will be able to tell you of my love for you one last time.

I love you, darling. Můj navždy.

You are my everything, my life, my breath. That love will follow me always, just as I hope it stays with you.

If you are able to come to me, I ask that you do so without delay. I long for your touch, and hope not to be without it for much longer.

I hesitated, pen hovering above paper as I tapped a few times, leaving tiny specks of blue ink behind. I know, too many, the words would feel stiff, the language lost from another time. To me, however, they were perfect.

Full of all the love and passion I held for her, I knew, if this note ever found it into her hands she would feel it. She would know.

You have my heart, you are my strength.

Love always,

Your Ilyan

I could only hope that was enough.

I did not know if it would reach her if I sent it. But part of me did not care. I needed to send the words out. I needed them to be heard so that someone knows of my passion for her. So, that hopefully one day they will find her and she will know how treasured she is.

I hope she still knows. I hope she carried that with her.

I ran my fingers over the still drying ink, smearing a few words before I blew over the paper, tucking it back into the book.

The woman would be here in about an hour, delivering a tray heavy laden with food and taking these notes back out with her.

Just like Kaye and I had done for so many years.

Although, this woman remained a mystery to me. Just as everything else did.

Laying back in my bed, I wrapped my arms around the book, closing my eyes as I let sleep take me, willing it to come even if only for a moment.

Willing it to take me right to her.

In the only place I could reach her.