My dear friend, Lord von Bremen,
I have never been so relieved as when Yvain informed me, once I was coherent enough to understand, that you yet live.
I have also been told that one of your first acts upon waking was to enquire after my own wellbeing. Your concern touches me greatly, a comfort which rivals Anthea’s most soothing (and potent) balms. I wish both to express my gratitude and to assure you by my own hand: I am well. In fact, my outlook appears most promising. The impact of my injuries will be quite negligible once I have made my recovery, and I do not believe the healers were anything other than forthright with me.
I am much more worried for yourself. Despite consistent assurance that your physical prognosis is also good, I wonder what other tolls this ordeal has taken on you. If it pleases you, then I should very much like for whichever one of us first regains his mobility to call upon the other. I do not think I will truly be able to rest easy until I have seen you for myself — and furthermore, I simply find myself quite despondent in your absence. It seems that I had grown more accustomed to your good company than even I myself had realised before now.
That is all for the time being. Please excuse the brevity of this letter; I think Anthea’s wonderful hypnotic from last night is still impacting me some, so my focus is a touch meandering. Also my gruel is beginning to set, and Yvain is now giving me some rather pointed looks. I should try eating breakfast of my own accord before he does an unceremonious job of feeding it to me.
With warmest regards,
Cellachán
P.S. Please consider my above comment about Yvain’s heavy-handedness to be mere lighthearted jest — in fact he has been wonderfully attendant to my needs and I am being most well-looked after. I write this in full sincerity, and not at all because he is, say, currently threatening me with the concrete-gruel. Promise.
I have never been so relieved as when Yvain informed me, once I was coherent enough to understand, that you yet live.
I have also been told that one of your first acts upon waking was to enquire after my own wellbeing. Your concern touches me greatly, a comfort which rivals Anthea’s most soothing (and potent) balms. I wish both to express my gratitude and to assure you by my own hand: I am well. In fact, my outlook appears most promising. The impact of my injuries will be quite negligible once I have made my recovery, and I do not believe the healers were anything other than forthright with me.
I am much more worried for yourself. Despite consistent assurance that your physical prognosis is also good, I wonder what other tolls this ordeal has taken on you. If it pleases you, then I should very much like for whichever one of us first regains his mobility to call upon the other. I do not think I will truly be able to rest easy until I have seen you for myself — and furthermore, I simply find myself quite despondent in your absence. It seems that I had grown more accustomed to your good company than even I myself had realised before now.
That is all for the time being. Please excuse the brevity of this letter; I think Anthea’s wonderful hypnotic from last night is still impacting me some, so my focus is a touch meandering. Also my gruel is beginning to set, and Yvain is now giving me some rather pointed looks. I should try eating breakfast of my own accord before he does an unceremonious job of feeding it to me.
With warmest regards,
Cellachán
P.S. Please consider my above comment about Yvain’s heavy-handedness to be mere lighthearted jest — in fact he has been wonderfully attendant to my needs and I am being most well-looked after. I write this in full sincerity, and not at all because he is, say, currently threatening me with the concrete-gruel. Promise.
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