Letters Unsent

Yo, Gil!

Do you remember that day that I gave Violet over to your care? We were in Leidenschaftlich, and you had just been promoted to Major. I told you then that she was a gift to you: a tool to use only for military purposes. You looked at me with horror, then. I know you think I was the one who taught her to kill, made her a tool, and threw her into the arms of the army, who abused her.

I found her on an island in the Northwestern war zone, all alone. She didn't talk, or seem to understand anything except the command to kill. My men were planning something terrible, and she slaughtered them right before my eyes, then followed me around like a puppy. I admit… my mind was not whole after witnessing so much bloodshed, so fast, when my guard was down.

I tested her willingness to kill. I reported her existence, her orphan status, and her accomplishments to my superiors. How else could I have explained the loss of my entire squadron?

It never occurred to me to lie.

They met her. And I began to realize the horrors they had planned for her. Although I had put the train on these tracks, I could control some of where it was headed. Yet, every time I saw her face, I was thrown back into that moment of helplessness, where my men fell rapidly in a wash of blood. The rage, the horror, and pain of my peoples' demise…. She incited within me the same swirling tornado of emotion as that moment each and every time I looked into the blue ocean of her eyes.

I didn't have the strength to take her out of the hole forming underneath her feet.

So, I turned to you. You always took the negativity, the harsh undertones, and the distaste of Father's 'discipline' and used it as fuel for your ambitions, whereas it embittered and damaged me. You were the best hands for me to place her into. I convinced them that you would be the best handler for their new tool: that you were more than competent, and that you would win us this war with her aid.

It haunts me now, that I involved you at all. I feels like I brought death to your feet….

Do you remember? We spoke briefly of Father that day. You looked so much like him: depressed, short hair, and the start of sleepless bags under your eyes. You joked that Father would cut off my hair with a saber if he'd seen it at such a length. I told you I was glad he had died. You looked at me with that soft astonishment you and mother could always pull off so well.

You never asked me why I was glad he was gone. Did you assume I was just an ungrateful child? Or jesting with poor taste? Maybe you hoped that was a statement from a bitterly grieving son, and that I didn't mean it. Do you have any memories of me without my shirt on during our childhood? Do you know what my bare back looks like? Likely not: I was careful for you to not see it. There are scars on my back from the Father you never met: a Father I promised to kill if he ever dared to hurt you the way he'd attacked me.

I was a protective brother, even when you were first born. You and mother were the only family I truly treasured… the only family I truly felt comfortable around. I am so glad that I had the opportunity to watch over you. I am glad you were born my brother.

I despise that I was the brother who returned. You once told me that you saw me as the popular one, but I'm the brother everyone's disappointed to see: they all turn their heads in hopeful expectation of you when they hear the surviving Bougainvillea brother approaches. I'd give -anything- for their wishes to be granted.

Dietfried