[epilogue]

Marcus.

The strangest thing happened yesterday.

It was such a normal day, really. I was at the CIC as always, working through a stack of post-combat papers I'd been putting off. At some point, I guess I turned to grab my coffee or something, and as I swung my chair back around, I caught a glimpse of a calender on the wall. And I just stared at it. For actual minutes, Marcus, I just looked at this thing. The date wasn't notable, but it screamed at me. I went through every anniversary, birthday, and deathday I knew I should remember, but nothing matched up. It wasn't until I was going to bed, hours later, that I saw it: your bandana—the one I begged you to let me keep, remember?—knotted around my bedpost. Please try not to cringe at that; that's just where I keep it. But seeing it last night made it all click into place.

Yesterday marked two years, to the day, since they took you away from us. From me.

I know what the statistics say. Everyone tries to avoid it, to step around it for my sake, but I've heard them all. They put the average lifespan of a Slab detainee at just over a year. Chances are, Marcus, that even as I write this, you're...already dead. And last night, I forced myself to think about just that. As I stared at that old, worn-out scrap of cloth, my mind raced through those stats, and I prepared for...I don't know, a tidal wave of grief. Heartbreak, even. I can't tell you what I was waiting for. Something that would hurt.

It never came. No tears, no flipping stomach, not even a damned heart flutter. I didn't feel a thing, Marcus. For a few moments, I thought the war might have finally turned me into some kind of kryllshit sociopath, but then I started to understand. Somehow, everything just felt okay. And the more I thought about you, the more sure I was.

Marcus...I can't explain it, but I know you're still alive. Maybe that makes me crazy after all. I don't know. But you're strong; if anyone can survive that place, it's you. Usually, writing these letters to you make me nervous as hell—I hope they offer you some small comfort, at least—but I'm more calm now than I've ever been. This sounds so insane, even to me, but if you were gone, I'd...I don't know...feel it. Somehow, something would change, and I'd just know. It's the same wierd feeling I always had in old times, with you out in some insanely dangerous battle, and me in my dark little CIC room. I never panicked for you. Even in the beginning, at fucking Aspho...even then, I knew without a doubt that you were coming back.

The point is, it's been over two years, and...I'm still okay. And that gives me more hope than anything Dom or the others could say.

So fuck the statistics, Marcus. I haven't cried for you yet; I didn't start yesterday, and I won't start now. You're alive, and I swear, that's all I need. I'm not going to grieve, I'm not going to let go. I can be strong too, Marcus. For you.

With all my heart,
Anya