"Nope, start again," he spoke to himself, tossing the sheet of paper into the campfire in front of him. Eloi watched as it bounced from the charred logs into the heart of the fire. Within seconds, his second attempt at writing a letter was gone. One with the fire.
The campsite was eerily still, beside the crackling of the campfire, there was nothing else. It was unlike the bustle of the streets of Daenlock, the Playero Home, not like the rowdiness of the Scorpion, or the Emporium of New Crookback. For once, this man was left with his own thoughts and one, very simple job to do.
He put pencil to paper, but unlike his political statements, grandiose manifestos or cries of oppression, it did not come naturally to him. Because, far from the past, there was a living being on this world that Eloi owed a great deal to. 'To Maevia,' he transcribed onto the parchment. He cast his glance to the campfire again.
It invoked the torment of what was the last ten months in Regalia - perhaps the first acts of criminality that landed him in the situation where he was now. There was the option to tell his daughter to avoid this altogether. And he was prepared to. After all, antagonism had only earned him twenty-seven feeble years on Aloria.
Crime. That was something that came naturally. Stealing a faux gold chain of a man who had offered him charity, spitting in the faces of Nobles - then legalizing criminality under the guidance of a certain Mercenary-turned-Duke. A log on the fire collapsed, sending embers into the clean forest air.
Yet, he couldn't blame himself for his condition. He held up in his own mind that, different from the crime bosses of Hallonq, his crime served a greater purpose. "I did," he assured himself. Eloi pressed the pencil to the paper, going to wax poetry about the honour of living a life of principle and resistance.
However, he was unable. Not all crimes could be glistened over with the romantic ideals of revolution. Though he never admitted it, Playero had many regrets. Behind the bullishness of his personality, those who he had harmed haunted him. Two Ithanians came to mind, one who he murdered. The other, who miraculously survived, yet forgave him in the end.
Being forgiving was something many numerous people had bestowed on Playero, but something he was unwilling to return. There was a smelly Anglian that lied to save him. There was a Daendroque wine addict that forgave him and took him under her wing. There were another two men, a Songaskian man-child and a thirty-something Mercenary that had given him too many chances.
Eloi wrote on the letter about the need to live a happy, peaceful and long life. Stay clear of violence, avoid controversy and dedicate your life to service. But he paused. Playero reached for the sigg, sitting by his side. He exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes turning from the paper to the fire. Immediately, he scrunched the paper up. Threw it into the flame again.
He ran a hand through his hair, smoking, thinking. No. There was no way that he would write that, to give that to his daughter. What is a life, as a Daendroque, without resistance? To him, that was a life not worth living. His mind moved to the night after he returned from Daenshore - it was also his birthday. His friends and family were drunk off elation and tequila, some opium too. The speech he made. Eloi couldn't deny these opportunities from his daughter by warding her away from adventure.
It was becoming too difficult for him to write a simple letter. His mind instead was clouded in thoughts of revenge. The fire in front of him only let his mind run wild. "You cannot give authority any legitimacy if they do not deserve it," he spoke to himself. Only the campfire could hear him. "I have been too subservient to th' people who want t'see me gone. History will absolve me."
For him, the letter would have to wait. Playero began to pack his bag. No change of a last name could put out the fire that was alive in his soul. It called him toward action, it called him to resistance. Eloi dragged on his sigg, as he began to place three former ale-bottles into his backpack. Filled with flammable liquid, a rag plunged through the neck of the bottle. He finally treated himself with a clockwork lighter now, too. Though, this luxury was short-lived.
Perhaps the best inspiration for writing the letter was, in fact, the forest outside of the Sorenvik Estate. Much like everything else at the end of his life, there was not enough time. The letter to Maevia was never completed, but what lay on the paper were the ramblings of a man on the brink of his execution. At the end of the paper was scribbling, and blood.
There was not enough time to tell people that he loved them. And in truth, he broke the promises he made to those closest to him, by not returning safely and alive from his expedition. Certain in his own prowess, he neglected to say goodbye properly to his family. Not to Mariona, not to Xabi. There were no proper goodbyes, but that was simply the life of an ungovernable man.
Eloi Playero clambered over the wall of the Estate and became one with the fire.
