Work Text:
When Artemy went to the capital to study, he was on his own for the first time. Isidor helped him pack his things and advised Artemy not to bring what he could replace for a fair price when he got there. Artemy arrived at his dorm room with two outfits in addition to the one he wore, an extra pair of shoes, a jar of apple preserves, and a book on ancient philosophy to help him fall asleep on the train.
School was more regimented than home life and also more independent. There were things to do and places to be, parties to attend and people to please, so Artemy was kept busy and interested in what the days had in store. It was weeks into the year when he bit into a cabbage roll that tasted all wrong. It was edible, but something was missing, and homesickness crashed into him at once.
As the year descended into fall, the colour slunk from trees the same as it did on the Gorkhon, but the smell was all wrong. Artemy always complained about how the stench of metal and droppings from the Abattoir stuck to the twyre pollen and seemed to cling to the inside of his nose until his head was spinning. He wondered if he would suffocate in his sleep, but he woke up anew every time, as disoriented as when he slept.
In the capital, the air was fresh and crisp. Artemy knew it should be a relief to be able to breathe and study through September, but it began to sink in that it was something that made the town special. It was an experience no one else could understand.
As his homesickness was becoming a fever, a letter arrived.
Artemy, my son,
Twyre is in bloom again, as it is the season. I trust you are well, as I have not heard from you. I imagine it indicates that you are taken with your studies, as you’ve always had a relentless curiosity about you. You have not been gone so long, but your absence is felt.
The letter went on about local curiosities and arguments that Isidor thought might be of interest. Mentions of Grief or Stakh were conspicuously absent.
Ravel has expressed interest in exchanging letters, so I have passed along your address to her. I pray you can spare the time to correspond with her. I can wait.
With love,
your father.
The letter was a needle and a poultice. It stung as it healed. Artemy was never more grateful to have a dorm room to himself as he was that night, bent over paper with a fountain pen as he wrote his reply, trying not to wrinkle the page with shed tears.
Several years and a Sand Plague later, Artemy finds the letter among Isidor’s things and is embarrassed to find that his past loneliness and grief was plain and undisguised.
Beloved Father,
With each passing day my heart cries out for Mother Boddho, and pains when there is no reply. Your letter found me as if to answer.
The night is dark in the capital, but the dark is noisy with chatter, arguments, and the shrieks of machinery. I study every day, but there is no quiet where I can process what I’ve learned. The capital feels like it will collapse around me like the walls of a cave at any moment. I miss the hum of the land and the voices of the herbs. It feels as though my time in your care in the town was akin to my time in the womb, and now I have been birthed, screaming into the loud, living world.
I know, of course, that I am simply homesick. I will be alright. I know this. Regardless, seeing your penmanship is a comfort, and I thank you for it. I hope that my reply is even half as assuring, but I have never known your heart to waver with doubt as mine does.
I hope that Rubin treats you with respect in my stead.
Your loyal son,
Artemy.
Artemy folds the letter back into shape and tucks it into the envelope he found it in. Each of the letters he sent home are collected in a box of woven grasses, its fragrance faint on the papers. Every single letter is there, and Artemy is sliced open knowing of all the letters he disposed of in the capital. There was little space for things among his possessions when he had to account for three outfits, two pairs of shoes, and a multitude of textbooks. Isidor’s penmanship is everywhere in his study, but the letters he wrote to Artemy with love are gone forever, along with the man himself. How much of the lines could Artemy have learned from the penmanship of a fellow menkhu? How much wisdom did he dispose of, believing it was unnecessary sentimentality?
Artemy sighs and sinks into the chair at Isidor’s writing desk. His father’s desk, but his desk now, as Isidor would never sit there again, and would never pen another letter.