Letter to Terry
Apr. 26th, 2006 05:40 pmDear Terry,
I suppose that if you have returned to the mansion by now, you may have seen my announcement on the journals. If you have not . . . the uncomplicated version of the story is that my parents are alive, and I am staying with them in Edinburgh so that we can get to know one another.
The past two weeks have been . . . revelatory. All my life I have wondered about my earliest years, and now I have seen my baby pictures, heard all the stories. I have seen my old room, though my mother converted it into her office years ago. And most of all I have learned about the two of them, and their lives both before and after my disappearance. I know where I come from, now, before the monastery, and I find I like it very much. They are good people, my parents. I am proud of the life I have lived, and I would not change it . . . but if Colin McKay had grown to manhood rather than Kylun, I could have been proud of him as well, and that is a welcome knowledge.
In truth, we have not yet spoken much about the monastery--there has been so much for me to absorb that I have not yet found much of an opportunity to tell stories of my own. And it is . . . difficult to know how much to say. The full truth of the monastery's secret war might be difficult for them to accept.
I have spoken of my work with the school, however, and my students; they enjoy hearing these tales. I hope you do not mind, but I have spoken of you in particular, and shared some of your music with them; they agree with me that you have a most remarkable voice, and send their best wishes for your college search, which I too hope is going well.
I must bring this letter to a close now; my mother is cooking something special for dinner, and it smells excellent. I hope you will write back, and tell me how it has been for you these past few weeks.
Kylun
I suppose that if you have returned to the mansion by now, you may have seen my announcement on the journals. If you have not . . . the uncomplicated version of the story is that my parents are alive, and I am staying with them in Edinburgh so that we can get to know one another.
The past two weeks have been . . . revelatory. All my life I have wondered about my earliest years, and now I have seen my baby pictures, heard all the stories. I have seen my old room, though my mother converted it into her office years ago. And most of all I have learned about the two of them, and their lives both before and after my disappearance. I know where I come from, now, before the monastery, and I find I like it very much. They are good people, my parents. I am proud of the life I have lived, and I would not change it . . . but if Colin McKay had grown to manhood rather than Kylun, I could have been proud of him as well, and that is a welcome knowledge.
In truth, we have not yet spoken much about the monastery--there has been so much for me to absorb that I have not yet found much of an opportunity to tell stories of my own. And it is . . . difficult to know how much to say. The full truth of the monastery's secret war might be difficult for them to accept.
I have spoken of my work with the school, however, and my students; they enjoy hearing these tales. I hope you do not mind, but I have spoken of you in particular, and shared some of your music with them; they agree with me that you have a most remarkable voice, and send their best wishes for your college search, which I too hope is going well.
I must bring this letter to a close now; my mother is cooking something special for dinner, and it smells excellent. I hope you will write back, and tell me how it has been for you these past few weeks.
Kylun