Meredith Memoirs: Letters to a Dead Man

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Meredith Memoirs: Letters to a Dead Man

Postby Julian on April 9th, 2011, 1:11 am

Prologue


ImageWinter, Day 83, 503AV (Aged 17 yrs.)
The Welcome Home
Syliras


"What do you want?" Outside the orphanage, Julian stares down an aging blond man, dressed in a fine tailored suit and wearing a scabbard. There is pain etched across his face as he avoids making eye contact with the raven-haired youth. "You can't honestly be here to give me your well wishes. You made it clear that you want no part in my life. I've made peace with that, why ruin it now?"

"Julian..." The older man shuffles his feet uncertainly. "It's your birthday. I just thought..."

"You thought wrong, Edward. Now please leave me be. I have an appointment to keep and it's waiting on the far side of the city." Julian attempts to brush past the older man, eager to be on his way.

"Just wait a minute." Edward claps a hand on the boy's shoulder and gives him a stern look. "I'm not here to quarrel with you, Julian. Your life is your own, I get it. But there's something I want to give you. It's rightfully yours." From the inside of his coat, he pulls out something large and rectangular. Julian turns to get a better look at it. It's a book - or a journal - bound in stained cattle leather and fastened shut with a rawhide string. Stamped into the leather, spidery lettering spells out his family name, MEREDITH.

Staring at the book stirs old visions from the edges of buried memories. The image of a long haired man wearing an eyepatch passing hurriedly across the room is, for a moment, so powerful that Julian almost grows weak in the knees. He'd forgotten about that man, the father he never knew. And he'd done it deliberately.

"That was Father's," Julian murmurs.

"Yes."

"Why? Why give that to me now?" Julian glares up at Edward with renewed contempt. "He was nothing but a cold-hearted murderer. I want nothing to do with that monster."

"Julian..." Edward sighs. Julian rolls his eyes, but something hidden, something very old in the tone of the blond man's voice makes him wait, makes him yearn to hear what he has to say. "There is more to your father than what he did to your mother. Rowan was... a long time ago, he was my greatest friend. He was troubled, but talented, creative, and more intelligent than anyone I ever knew. The person he became could only... yes, could only be described as a monster. But Julian, it's important for you to know about the man your father used to be. That person has become lost, forgotten, remembered by no one but an old man who spends too long lost in his own nostalgia. That person... deserves to be understood for who he was. Even if he can't be saved."

Julian stares down at the journal. Edward is just blathering about nonsense, he knows, but something takes a hold of him at that moment. The journal seemes to emanate something - a power, almost an aura, as if it were alive. Julian tentatively touches the cover of the journal - the only thing left of his father.

"I believe you're a lot like him, Julian."

Julian quickly pulls his hand away and glares up at Edward, snarling before he begins to walk off again.

"And I think it would do you good to learn about why your father became so bitter and consumed by madness, lest the same thing happen to you."


Julian pauses, his fists clenched.

"If you run from this now, you'll be running for your entire life. Take your father's journal. Understand who he was, so you can understand who you are. Face your fears, or they'll consume you just as they consumed Rowan Meredith."

Sighing, Julian turns around.


Rowan Meredith's Entry
Summer 67th, 490AV


Locked in my office again while these fools ask their questions through a thick, well built door.

They don't understand. None of these cretins do.

I don't CARE what the accountants do with my god-forsaken money. Fine, yes, invest it in the banks and turn a profit on the resulting interest. Help fund new locally opened shops to receive a portion of their starting proceeds. Gods, they could sit on my front step and throw every last coin at passersby and it wouldn't make the slightest sodding difference to me. I don't CARE about my finances. That's why Evelyn went behind my back to hire people who DID. SPEND the money, SAVE it, BURN it. But don't ask ME what to do with it.

What am I thinking? They work with money, of course they care about it. Or the numbers, I'm not sure. For them it's the lifeblood of every society, the mysterious factor, the IT that assigns the fates of paupers and aristocrats alike. It makes them feel empowered to feel it flow through their aching, hungry fingers: To hold this poison that drives people to heinous measures to attain it; to hold the cure that will bring bread to starving children. Money is the WORLD to these people, and is given this divine, this sacred meaning that I can never understand. And I don't want to.

What I know is that for me, it has been a binding force that has defined every aspect of my life since I was a boy. Since I watched it turn my father, but all rights a BRILLIANT man, become nothing more than a twisted shadow of malice and greed. A perversion of the bright-eyed entrepreneur he once aspired to be. And what is it, this all-powerful driving force? Virtually nothing. Bargaining chips.

What did I do to deserve this kind of wealth? Be born as the son of a merchant? It's absolutely VILE that I could buy out a market when a poor family loses children to starvation and sickness. The strong become fat and the weak become fodder, flattened and stamped on to pave the roads for the rich. Those who live outside the cycle of the coin must take up arms and kill each other to place their stake on a crumbling mountain. The world cannot function this way. PEOPLE cannot function this way and still claim to be human. How do they live like this? How can I?


*Added to the bottom of the page.
Response by Julian Meredith
Spring 18th, 511AV


Father,

Sometimes I wonder if you left me to the wolves because you thought it was a fate better off than yours. Other times I think you deliberately thought out ways to hate your life, no matter how comfortable you were. Was your hatred truly garnered out of the ugliness you saw in the world? Or was it the re-directed loathing you had for yourself, burning so hot that you couldn't bear the touch of its flame?
Last edited by Julian on April 11th, 2011, 8:30 am, edited 1 time in total.
Julian
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Meredith Memoirs: Letters to a Dead Man

Postby Julian on April 11th, 2011, 6:55 am

Rowan Meredith's Entry
Spring 14th, 478AV


I love Evelyn. I do. Yet I feel so sick.

The servants tell me it's jitters and that what I'm experiencing is normal. In a letter, Edward suggested that I'm queer and I might as well face it (helpful lad, Edward). Vondaren has little to say on the matter, which only furthers my hypothesis that he's not so much a man or a mortal, but a finely carved block of wood. It stuns me that my mother ever felt any affection for such an emotionless statue.

For as long as I can remember, I knew I was going to marry Evelyn. We were betrothed as children as part of a seedy deal to keep money in flow. Vondaren of course had lost a great deal of money earlier that summer when our old home burnt down, when my mother was killed. Evelyn's father, who is somehow an even more vile creature than mine, promised to give Vondaren a loan as a sort of dowry if he'd accept Evelyn's hand in marriage on my behalf. It was an insult to the Meredith name - Hyne Pyrine buying off Vondaren's son as if he were a bride. On the other hand, I remember being tickled by the idea - both because that shade of red on my father's face was one the funniest things I'd ever seen, and because marriage for me wouldn't be for another ten or twelve years at least.

Vondaren had no choice, and Evelyn and I began spending time together. We grew up as friends and cohorts - I learned quickly that she was much more sly than she looked. I grew fond of her, of course. At times, she was the only comfort I had. And when her father died... I was the only one who joined her in her private celebration.

I look at her and I see the sister I never had - which believe you me is just as disturbing as it sounds. And that's all I see. Yes, I've had other women, but never her - it would be improper. I've never even been inclined to, is the thing. It's... simply uncomfortable to see her as the woman who will warm my bed and bear me children. It gives me shivers even writing it out.

What choice do I have? I don't see that I can simply run. Even if Vondaren no longer cares about Pyrine's deal, I would still be able to hear my father's foul voice in my head, declaring me a coward. And if I did, I know Evelyn would be crushed. No matter how I feel, I can see that she loves me. The deal is forgotten and she's already grown comfortable with the idea of raising a family with me as its patriarch.

For me it's such a disquieting notion. I must go through with it. If I simply run from my problems, I'll never know how to live with myself. I'm sure, over time, the nature of my affection for Evelyn will change. It has to.


*A folded page is added here.
Response by Julian Meredith
Spring 27th, 511AV


Father,

To know that you never truly loved my mother as a wife is... truly very poignant. Sometimes I wonder if I ever truly loved Liara.

I'm such a bastard. To even question that I never felt for her is profane, vulgar, and it insults her death. It's like spitting on her grave. But a man must question these things! If lies are lies, then they should be faced down and seen for what they are. Damn the consequences, the truth must be made known. If Liara died for nothing... if she loved me for nothing, then I have to know!

I remember when I first knew her. When she was only a thief in the Syliran streets, snatching purses. She wanted nothing to do with me, but every few nights I'd track her down. I'd make her listen to me, bring her gifts. All the things romantics did in stories I'd read. Would I have really done it if I didn't yearn for her? If I didn't ache to feel her body against mine? If I didn't want to spend the rest of my life, pulling my fingers through her soft, dark hair?

Or... was it merely the chase that enthralled me? Was my lust only a boy's desire for a woman's flesh? Did I confuse all this with love? Or is that really what love is, after all?

When she lost her pregnancy... and when we lost our daughter... I wasn't there for her like I should have been. I held her hand, and I let her tears stain my shirt, but I wasn't with her. I was in another place, thinking only of my pain, and the added burden of Liara's. I could think of no one but myself. How, then, could I have loved her?

Her death, it feels like it has destroyed me. Seeing her body I knew, right at that moment, that my life meant nothing. Everything I'd spent all my youth dreaming about amounted to a day-old corpse and a madly scrawled note. Really, it's more like three corpses, if one includes those of my unborn children. I've never felt like a father, and I seldom felt like a husband. I wasn't the man Liara deserved.

I'd give my own life if it meant she could be alive again.

Or... would I? Really? As I write these words, sincere grief in my heart, I... hesitate. Am I being true to myself? Is it really grief... or guilt?

Father, I truly don't know if these are my thoughts or yours.
Julian
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Meredith Memoirs: Letters to a Dead Man

Postby Julian on May 3rd, 2011, 9:59 am

Rowan Meredith's Entry
Winter 91st, 492AV


What have I become?

I hate you, Father, more now than I ever have. I wish I had killed you. I wish I could have seen the look in your wretched gray eyes as you looked down the blade sticking out of your chest to find ME on the other end. Oh I dreamed it. Ever since I was very young I thought of how I could wreak vengeance on you for all these years of torment, control, and downright abuse. The bruises you left on me, and the scars you left inside.

Listen to me. I sound like Evelyn talking about her father. Now that was a truly evil man. I don't even want to write down the things he did. Nothing about him deserves an ounce of posterity.

We both know though, Father, that the victory was mine in the end. Though the urge to drive a letter opener into your eye was sometimes overpowering, I stayed my hand, and I waited. I knew it would happen, the day you became sick with the same ailment that both of your parents died of. It took three grueling years for that disease to take you. You fought, and I watched you struggle against yourself. I like to think that it was your inherent wickedness that consumed you, taken on a new form.

As you lay in your bed, unable to speak, I watched you, smiling. Do you remember? Of course not, you're very dead, but maybe your ghost lingers and reads these words. The moment you died, I watched you, and you watched me. We didn't speak a word, but in that moment we shared everything. You knew everything about me, how much I truly hated you, and how I enjoyed watching you rot in that bed unable to move. All that power you had over me, over the people around you, couldn't help you as you choked on your own bile.

Still your memory haunts me. My childhood haunts me. I wish I could go back in time and kill you again. I did not know what kind of horrible effect you left on me, not until now.

Malediction... there is an art to it, to death. To taking a piece of something, of someone, and harnessing its power, reliving part of its history. Yet I... know that such thoughts are vile and venomous. I know that I shouldn't be thinking this way! What is wrong with me?! Why do I have these dark thoughts?!

I feel as though my world is crumbling like stale bread... As though my life itself has grown stale and rotten.


*Added to the bottom of the page.
Response by Julian Meredith
Spring 42nd, 511AV



Reading your journal, and watching your mind fall apart, Father... it fills me with such fear. I know now that a cold blooded killer is not a monster. It's a husk, after he has lost everything that made him human. Pieces of you fall away, and you can never get them back. Liara is dead, and I have nothing. And last night I... I stabbed man, Rowan. And I feel nothing! I should not be so apathetic, I know this, but all I can worry about is myself! I don't even know if that man is alive or dead. I truly, truly hope he recovered... but it's a selfish desire. If he dies, it makes me a killer. I was only protecting myself from a murderous thug, it was self defense. But he lived a life, much like I have. It fell away from him, like yours did... if I killed him... did I kill another human? Or a husk, like you were?
Julian
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Meredith Memoirs: Letters to a Dead Man

Postby Julian on June 13th, 2011, 9:23 am

Rowan Meredith's Entry
Undated


This is not written within the journal, but on a folded page inserted in the back of the tome. It is conspicuous and easy to spot.

It was my final mercy. I never loved her the way a husband should love his wife, and she knew that. She was willing to bear that awful burden just to stand at my side. Unfortunately, I could not accommodate her. The destiny that waits for me does not allow me the luxury of companionship. I remember that wild, tortured fervency in her reddened eyes as she begged me not to leave again. I could not give her the answer she wanted. All I could offer was the respite of a quiet, painless death. She lays now in eternal peace, no longer haunted by the misery I've caused her through these dark years. I see her now as I put this pen to paper, and she is more beautiful than she ever was. Not tired. Not silently enduring her pain. This is what she wanted.

This shall be my final entry. Julian, one day you'll understand what I've done. My leaving would have destroyed her. Taking care of her would have destroyed you. When you're old enough, you will see that I've given you the greatest gift a father can give his son. You'll have all the things that I never did.


*Added to the bottom of the page.
Response by Julian Meredith
Spring 65th, 511AV


Please be alive, Father.

Be alive so I can kill you.
Julian
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