The HaRT Knight Decaverse

Correspondence from the Afterlife

Letter 10

Monk's Wood Haven. One week since Ezra.

Dear A.

With the passage of time, my narrative persists, weaving threads of experience into the very fabric of my existence. The days transform into weeks, and each moment bears the weight of eternity, an eternity that unfolds within the parameters of the afterlife. Your presence--or its echo--has remained a beacon of continuity within my thoughts, a constant against the backdrop of perpetual change.
An unexpected and yet profoundly welcomed event has occurred, Ezra has return to the Monk's Wood. As the tendrils of morning's light unfurled, I discovered him sitting at my threshold, a silent testament to the enigmatic nature of fate's weaving. Our reunion, though brief in the grand tapestry of eternity, breathed life into my haven once more--a haven that had been touched by his presence, his questions, and the transformative essence of compassion. Again, here, I shall transcribe our exchange.
“You're back,” I remarked.
He affirmed my observation with a nod. A silence stretched, and then he ventured, “I'm sorry.”
“For what transgression?” I reassured. “Expectations of your return were absent, my young friend. Though your act of absconding with my apples--laboriously intended for a pie--was not kind.”
A flicker of remorse danced across his countenance, and once more he uttered, “Sorry.”
“You are forgiven. Survival often compels us to traverse unorthodox paths,” I reasoned, and gave him a reassuring smile.
“That's just it,” he hastened to express, “What you said last time. About having a reason to survive and not just doing it for survival's sake. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.”
“I see. Have these contemplations yielded deeper insights?” I inquired, seeking the essence of his musings.
His gaze, ascendant once again, met mine. A newfound luminosity therein ensnared my attention as I gazed upon him. “I want a reason. Please, give me a reason to survive,” he beseeched, his plea permeating the air.
I will admit to a moment's pause as I may have been taken aback by his earnest and blunt plea for something, I am sure you will concur, is not so easily created. After a second, however, I extended a helping hand unto the lad, aiding him in rising from the ground. With measured strides, I ushered him within the sanctuary and set about the preparation of tea, an elixir to tether our deliberations. As I pursued these tasks, he occupied a chair in the common room, his visage a tableau of despondency. A theft of ignorance, I reckoned, for I had stripped away the veil that cloaked his former naiveté.
A cup of tea tendered to him; uncertainty appeared to war within him as to the manner of its consumption. A trifle unsurprising, considering his upbringing in the blightlands--a domain far removed from the refinement of such civilized pursuits as tea drinking.
Seating myself across from him, I partook in a sip of tea, his gaze affixed upon my actions. Following suit, he raised his cup, the perplexity adorning his visage an uncharted terrain. His countenance, unexplored by my experience, bore semblance not to humankind but an ethereal enigma.
“I can not help you,” I avowed, addressing his supplication. “No one can give you a purpose, my boy. It's something you alone can discover. Only you can be the judge of what will lead to an honorable life.”
“Honorable?” he ventured, placing his cup upon the table.
“Yes, honor--the impetus that navigates the course of purpose. An embodiment of character that hails from within. And I, nor any, can endow it,” I elucidated.
“But you said compassion--”
“Compassion resides among the virtues, but honor stands as its equal. Compassion--a premise simple--beckons aid when it can be lent. Yet honor,” I mused, “is a more intimate pursuit. 'Tis a path trod singularly, where you are the arbiter of nobility and disgrace.”
“Like whether I think it's honorable,” he mused, eyes lowered, “to leave the home of the man who saved my life, without a word of thanks.”
“Ah, and let us not overlook the purloining of apples,” I added with a smile, the shame mirrored within his gaze diminishing at my jest. “You have a grasp on honor, I think. After all, your honor compelled you to return here today. Follow its call, Ezra.”
He clasped his teacup, contemplation etching itself upon his countenance. As I concluded my tea and rose to recommence my endeavors, an undertaking forgotten in the wake of his unexpected return, Ezra found himself engaged in the act of sweeping the floor. This vignette, captured in the parchment of my mind, invokes an involuntary smile even as I inscribe these very words.
The ephemeral nature of our interaction--the fleeting bond we shared--echoed through my thoughts as I returned to my daily tasks, and it is with a sense of profound fulfillment that I continue to pen these chronicles. Your absence, or the specter thereof, prompts me to reflect on the temporal nature of our existence and the impermanence of even the most enduring connections.
As the days blend into weeks and the weeks into eternity, the Monk's Wood remains a haven both physical and metaphysical--a sanctuary where the echoes of Ezra's presence and our shared dialogue resonate like the notes of a forgotten melody, carried across the expanse of time itself.

Yours, For as Long as Echoes Persist,
Amobiel