I return to what has always been relied on as a source of comfort: love letters.
Word Count: ~7000 Words
My Dearest Annabelle,
I write you from far-flung worlds, as I have once again found myself cast into the role of traveler once more. Three moons have passed since I last looked upon your radiance, and yet, each fortnight, I find myself taunted by the same muse. The image of your face lingers in my mind— does my face linger in yours as well?
Travelling like I do is lonely, I fear, as I ponder my current circumstances of being whisked away to far afield. My mastery of language is like my culinary pursuits; less is better said. Thus, I return to what has always been relied on as a source of comfort: love letters.
To write a letter espousing love is to fix an ephemeral thought into permanence; those words give life to a legacy, one that will last far longer than the author, beyond even the death of the relationship. I use ink to create epistolary souls, emotional anguish and turmoil spring to life on the page; it is no substitute for the hours spent together, hushed poetic readings, burning candles and covert embraces. Annabelle, I have a fondness for you that I cannot deny; one that is overtly painted on the page, not hidden in the margins. I wish you could experience this alongside me, but for now, I can only describe these sights.
In a way, that is also a love letter, albeit, one to an eternal lover of mine: humanity. There is so much that we have done, beauteous works, loquacious odes, testaments to the ingenuity of our own creativity — there is a massive world out there, one far bigger than England, bigger than the world you know. I have spoken before in hushed tones regarding the reality of our nature, so I am sure that you understand my intonations — I cannot know what powers that be may read this before it reaches you, and thus, I must censor myself in advance.
Annabelle, no matter what you believe, I vow that the next letter that finds you will describe things impossible, so incredible, how could it be anything but fiction? And I beg of you, remember that what I say cannot be possible; no matter how real it may feel, that is merely our longing to believe. Our existence may be mundane, in a way, but I find that my life is a fiction, as is all existence. Everything is a tale, in want of an author to breathe life into the fable — I say this, not to convince you, but to ensure you understand.
The truth that is relative, ever changing, and eternally mysterious; the truth that lies not only at the heart of all love letters, but the truth upon which society is built. The truth that cannot be true:
The truth that magic is real.
But, that is not true. Perhaps my future missives will assist in revealing further aspects of that truth, and I eagerly await your response. Worry not how to address it, inscribe my name, and I shall receive it.
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando
My sweet Orlando,
Has it truly been so long since our lives were intertwined? I fear that I have lost sight of the passage of time. In your absence, my father has ensured I am occupied during my days, with an unending chain of suitors; each wear a tailcoat and hat. They are not quite my style, if you understand my meaning — I fear it would take a tailor to repair these costumes. I know not one in London that can rework a bolt of cloth to become anew. At least, not in the way your fabric was rewoven, so to speak.
But I digress, what joy does a letter fixated on my menial suitors bring to you? No, it may have an element of joy, but why would one include that within a letter of love? And yes, do not worry, sweet Orlando, you are still the saccharine sweetness for whom I long. Much as a memory of a beloved treat from youth, you have remained as a whisper I do not speak; a secret I keep to me. Something for my own, and only myself to enjoy; but, at the same time, something that is out of my reach.
In your previous letter, you spoke of wonderous things, and my mind has tired itself in anticipation. Oh, how I wish I could have travelled the worlds (known and unknown) by your side. Much like a second volume of poetry, while it appears interesting at first, I feel I have lost its meaning without its companion.
I cannot wait until our correspondence has grown to a volume of poetic notes, all lovingly preserved betwixt pressed vellum, affixed via lovingly dripped wax. You write of so much that I know not of, and yet, no matter the length of our conversations, there was always more to tell; there is, however, one promise you made to me.
Do you remember it, Orlando? The promise given freely, on the maudlin shores that speckle the embankments that corral the River Thames, spoken by one, and remembered by the other — an assurance, that there is more to the poet who hides behind breathtaking glamor and her acerbic charm, that you still hold a deeper truth, that there is still more to tell.
Please, my faithful courtier, inscribe your words upon parchment again, such that our story will continue. I fear that if one were to fail in upholding a vow, there could be dire consequences for all involved parties. Thus, once again, I beseech you:
Do you remember your promise?
With great hopes,
Annabelle Deacon
My Dearest Annabelle,
Your words have found me, and true to their mark, you wound me with such enticing suffering that I find myself drawn, once again, to nostalgia as I gaze upon my blank page. In your last letter, you asked me if I remembered the promise I had made; if I forget a promise that I have made, then you will know that I am not myself, and you may sever our communiques with haste.
You are describing a Tuesday, in early fall, before I departed. You were adorned in verdant hues, while I myself was clothed by bolts of royal Tyrian, a gift from a former patron of mine — the wind was brisk, and I wore no hat, such that the breeze delicately tickled the nape of my neck. I recall, in that moment, wishing that you were the wind; wishing that you could be all-encompassing, ephemeral, dancing across the globe and teasing me with ease. I remember what I said to you, and by the end of this letter, I will have began to unravel my own taciturn tapestry, revealing an inner truth; may those words dance through the wind and find themselves nestled in your bosom, just as yours crashed into mine.
Alas, the winds are but an adversary, and I am no windbag: I'm a romantic, clinging hopelessly to a battered and beaten mast, the former remains of a boat peeking above the waves. The gusts of fate have caught my sails, and propelled me eastward, the vessel that is 'Orlando' charting through unexplored tides; alas, I am not a cartographer, and few can navigate using only the words of a poet as a star chart.
Therefore, Annabelle, I beseech you — keep these letters safe, for they may be the only record of what is to come next. I will continue to chronicle the wonders, so long as I know that you eagerly await the next chapter; for what is a poet, without an ear to whisper within?
I fear that I have taunted and teased for long enough, and that failing to fulfill my promise, at least in part, would be a mistake that I could not correct; more so, my dearest Anna, to fail to disclose this aspect of my self to one such as you would be unforgivable. A poet bears her soul to an audience of strangers — yet, amongst those closest to us, we struggle to find the words.
I know that were I to continue in my usual fashion, I would wax poetic around secrecy for the rest of the words I can inscribe before my candlelight blinks out and I rejoin the evening sky in our abyssal exploits — alas, I must continue without my comfortable garb of guile.
You may remember me, Orlando, as a woman. That is true. However, before that, others remember me as a man.
That is also true.
You see, due to an involuntary metamorphosis eons ago, I awoke in my present form; how I lost my former one is not important, nor can I truly recall what it was like. Truly, although the world changed how they saw me, I could not shift how I saw myself. At least, not for a few score years more, but that is jumping ahead. From that moment forward, however, while my sex remade itself in an instant, my mind was left behind to assess the cataclysmic shift. I have thought on my sex for many decades, and through all of my conversations, readings and insights, I have found one aspect that holds true.
I remember the promise I made to you. You had asked me why I would adorn myself in fashions for both ladies and gentlefolk alike, often in seemingly insensible ways. I refused to answer, but the truth I tell you now is something you would not have known: I was too fearful, and couldn't explain my predicament. Ironic, isn't it? A poet, at a loss for the right thing to say; like an executioner with no victims, I was pointless. So, in my haste, I made a promise to reveal all; I said 'I promise that I will explain whom I am one day, and you will understand". I had hoped that our time together would have lasted far longer, and that I might have unveiled this to you directly; alas, here I am, whilst you are elsewhere.
Annabelle, allow me to introduce myself, anon. I am Orlando, a poet. I was once a man, and then I was a woman. I have lived for longer than you know, and yet I still cling to my childish optimism. I am a man, I am he; yet I am equally a woman, I am she. I am what I define for myself, and the reason why I could not give you an answer was that I myself am unsure of who I really am. I do not know what suits me best, however, I do know this: nothing has fit exactly, quite yet, and I will not rest until I can find my true self.
Remember my first letter, Annabelle, and know that if these words ring hollow or crooked, that is because truth itself dances with me. Magic is real, and I am not; if you can find it in your heart to read these words, and you still wish to correspond with me, I beg of you, send a reply posthaste. From the time I seal this, until the day I receive your reply, I will be waiting with baited breath.
I hope you can accept an abomination, such as myself.
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando
Orlando,
I have written and burned this letter far more times than I can count; do you too have a similar issue, Madame wordsmith, whereupon completion of a writing, while the nib is still wet, you look upon what you have created and feel nothing but remorse? I have experienced far more remorse in the previous days than I could possibly imagine; that is how long I have agonised over my reply.
You are right, Orlando, I would have not believed you on the shady banks, that fall day. I, admittedly, am still unsure what truth is, nor if I can ascribe to said truth, however — each night, I awake in the long hours, dreaming of you and waiting on your every syllable, just to gain an insight into the enigma that you have become. If only I had known such a puzzle lay within you, I would have prevented your travels; therefore, instead, I beg you, reveal the solution to me. Continue to send me letters, continue to talk of your travels, who you are and the world beyond my small life.
For not only do I believe you, but I wish that your words hold true; not only for me, but for those who wit not to know that a thing such as sex is mutable. Tell me of far away continents, where there are much more than just men and women. Recant epics of those who fit neither form, and those which meander between them. Share with me the great nuggets of self you find in your travels.
I am still in love with you, and what I call you cannot change that love. I know this means naught, as I am but a single voice, far afield, and you cannot love me in the way that we did that summer. Nor can I, you.
But perhaps, I can love you in words, in the same way that I adore those that you so often write. I await to read of your next venture.
Belatedly, but humbly yours,
Annabelle Deacon
Dearest Annabelle,
Time has passed faster than I could have predicted, although, I was never much for divination — my fate is a bagatelle, played by others, and I a simple marionette, dancing to the role. What role that is, I cannot say for a lack of my own knowledge. Annabelle, have you felt the way a body feels hollow when one does not know what to do with oneself? It is a strange sense of dread, inevitability, and, above all else, it is reminiscent of a waistcoat made for another — loose in all the wrong places, cinched in others.
Those such as myself (and perhaps your own self, but I daren't presume or impose upon you) are left to find our own way in the world. We are forced by fate to confront our nature, and in doing so, we embrace the divine act of creation. We remake the idea of ourselves to fit what must be; we are changed, not in form (although I was), but in essence. We are remembered as an idea, not as a physical being, therefore, that is what we must change.
We change how we are seen, such that we may better see ourselves.
I apologise once again for the dearth of communication; we had spent the past month in rural Asia, living amongst nomadic tribes. They spoke not our language, and yet — we understood one another, unlike the other assembled members of my expedition, who only comprehend the most boorish of English and speak only of courtesans and public houses they so sordidly miss. Once again, I find myself ingratiated with the tribesmen and women, while I continue my imposed exile from 'proper society', so much as that can exist in the Orient.
There was one, much like me — I know not of his name, nor can I say I have a certain understanding of what happened to him, as communication occurred through non-verbal exchanges, and my poor attempts to interpret their inscribed, illustrated records. Although I fear a misunderstanding, there were unknown aspects of self hidden within this fable: therefore, I will do my best to recant his story, but please know that I may miss a key detail.
The man had lived with the tribe for three generations, and though he appeared youthful, others deferred to him as the tribal elder; we had a kinship the moment we exchanged glances. There is an aspect of an individual, especially one for whom the passage of time has little relevance, that is revealed to those who suffer the same fate: a recognition of what truly matters. I did not see a moment of hesitation, nor a tense in body language — when we first met, he pulled me into an embrace, pressing myself upon his barren chest.
I cannot tell a falsehood — a quiver ran through me, and I wished to be swept away on horseback, to live amongst his people, to learn of their culture, speak their language, know him truly. An eternity later, whence I was released from the embrace, the feeling faded; and upon further thinking, I realised that it was not an infatuation I had for this strange man: it was admiration.
I saw the way he dressed in my time there, saw the roles he served in the community, and noted that, unlike the other males of the tribe, he did not hesitate to join the women in song, dance, weaving or in caring for the children. There was no shame in him for what he chose to do, nor was any given by those he called kin. He simply existed, outside of expectations, and flourished.
I spent a fortnight alongside them, learning some trades, entertaining children with stories and illustrations (although they could not comprehend me, much laughter was shared) — by campfire, I would sit with the man, again, and we would speak of ourselves. He spoke in his tongue, and I spoke in mine; neither could comprehend the other, and yet, we still understood what was said. We had lived a mirror, and for once, I felt as though there was another like myself.
From what I gathered, he too was once a young girl who, as a result of either a curse or a spiritual ritual gone awry, awoke one day as a man. I could not estimate when this had occurred, however, I could sense an age to him — one that was perhaps greater than my own. I learned much of who I am whilst there, but alas, I am still uncertain.
Upon leaving, the man called me a word he had not spoken before. I cannot possibly transcribe it, as the sound was foreign to the ears, and impossible to my tongue; but I understood the meaning. He had called me 'one who was neither, and drifts between the shores', rather, that is what I believed it to mean. In that moment, we were in complete understanding — and although this title does not fit my role with perfection, it is far more accurate than 'man' or 'woman' had ever been.
We depart for civilization soon, and I am certain to have more to share.
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando
To the One known as 'Orlando',
I write you in place of my Lady, Madame Deacon, for whom I serve as handmaiden. Due to events outside of her control, she has found herself unable to dedicate the time to penning a reply; in her stead, she requested that I send this missive.
My Lady requests that you continue to send letters, and that she will continue to peruse and maintain them — although she is without spare time currently, she hopes to respond further, at a later date. Rest assured that each letter will be hand delivered to her, as she has impressed the import of this to me.
While I know not of the relationship betwixt you two, I recognise what this means to my Lady — therefore, I will ensure that any missives you compose shall be brought before her, post-haste.
Your Humble Servant,
Virginia Lupine
My Dearest Annabelle,
I hope this letter finds you — I must be brash, and state that your servant's response caught me unawares. Although I recognise your station, and recall your lamentations regarding your patriarch's familial intentions, I had hoped my letters would be deserving of your time. I trust, however, that you read them thoroughly, as your handmaid had stated; and regardless if I lacked trust, I made a promise to you.
I will not break my promise.
It has been three months since our last exchange, during which I began to travel along what is now known as "the silk road", as relayed to me by a German fellow I encountered. He was a cartographer, you see, and our meeting was fated, in a ways — I was lost until I found him.
You see, after leaving the tribe, and passing through civilization, I tired of the companionship of Englishmen, and wished to travel farther afield — you see, whilst I was aware of the places that are hidden from the world, they were as clueless as any common rabble. It is a secret few know, and one which I have shared in the past, and I daren't further discuss — suffice to say, I needed to depart on my own, to discover that sense of self for which I search.
Ten nights on, and I was firmly adrift in the continent, unaware of where was north, nor when I would procure my next meal. I scavenged along my travels — I recall you once said you could not understand why one would eat that which grows on the ground, and that which may be poisonous. To that, I am glad that I can finally answer why one would eat such things, at such risk: because they hunger.
My meeting with the cartographer was a reprieve from my own poor preparations, and a reminder to myself: while I may feel as though I am an expert in understanding how others purport themselves, I am ill-prepared for the life of an explorer. Certainly, I realized, that to continue to travel on my own was a fool's errand — however, to my dismay, the map maker was destined for whence I came, and we shortly parted ways.
It is thankful, then, that I happened upon a travelling companion who accompanied my on my pilgrimage westward. Not but a day post the cartographer's departure, and my reluctant continuation along the path a freshly inked map in hand, I met a toy maker who puts shame to the tinker toys and automatons that fill the window displays on High Street. He was headed in the same direction, a traveler in search of something — what that was, I dared not to ask. Thankfully, the reason was freely proffered by the fine gentleman.
The man confessed to me, in hushed tones as we walked, the nature of his travels. You see, whilst other toy makers were just beginning to understand mechanisms and moving parts, he had mastered that long ago; his toys had far more wonder than any that I had seen before. His journey was in search of new ways to entertain — an endless endeavor, I had noted, to which he concurred. It appeared that we were both on the hunt for something impossible, and, before the fall of the second night, we had exposed all secrets to one another.
He is a man by the name of Archibald Wondertainment, and he claims to have lived for centuries, having travelled the world, from London to Timbuktu, in search of the finest playthings known to mankind, and beyond. Much to his surprise, I recalled one of his automatons from Elizabeth's Court — a strange thing, bearing the resemblance of a wild beast of the ocean, that danced through the air, as if a wyrm or dragon of yore, returned to existence. When I shared this, there was a communal confirmation — we were both aware of the truth that shall not be spoken.
From that night on, we continued our journey in high spirits, a bond forged through commonalities. He told me of the wondrous things he had seen and made, the gifts made for princes, and the gifts he received from kings, in turn. In exchange, I recounted my times with the both princesses and commoners alike, reading aloud from my personal poem journal, which was shortly running out of pages. Thankfully, he was skilled not only in construction and assembly, but he had something that, while I was aware of its existence, I had never seen.
He took my leather-bound tome — you remember the one? It was a gift, from long ago, and one which never leaves my side, the item I treasure the most in my life. I inked my first poem upon its pages, and one day, I will ink my last — so long as I have room to write. He took this treasure and, before my eyes, a strange light began to gather around his hands. He concentrated, and appeared as if he was willing the very book to change before his and my eyes; as the light faded, and he returned my treasured collection, he looked at me with an indiscernible face, neutral, as if he did not approve, or was disappointed.
When I opened the book, nothing occurred.
And then, as I continued to leaf through the pages, I thought back to what this collection of writings was. As the pages continued to turn, poems passing by, all as I rushed to the end of the book, hoping that, in some way, I might continue to use the same diary. Finally, I had reached the last poem I had written, not a few hours before. I was dismayed, noticing the ink had smudged the opposite page — but then, as if I knew a greater truth, I continued to traverse pages unto the end of the book.
The end never came.
When I finally looked at the man, my mouth agape in amazeme— no, there was a word that he used, one that feels more apt. I was frozen in 'wondertainment', a novel portmanteau that captures not only the glee, but the disbelief as well. He explained that he had simply told the book not to end — yes, he spoke as if the inanimate object in my grasp was a wild animal, one which could be tamed. He coaxed the wonder from within my writings, he said, that the magic held within my words was greater than any feat he could possibly perform.
I believe he was being humble — truly, I am a minstrel compared to a master such as him.
Not much longer, we parted ways. I continued north, towards an enclave he had clued me into. He said that, much like myself, they were a collective of like-minded individuals, for whom the common trappings of society mattered not; I hope that, upon my arrival there, I will have more magical tales to tell. I only hope that you are consuming these, as you once did.
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando
Dearest Annabelle,
You must think that I have failed you, intentionally chose such a betrayal, wished to move beyond our times together. None of that is true. I can only hope that you forgive me for my prolonged absence, I understand it may have felt like my promise was severed, but please, read on, as I attempt to explain everything.
It has been three years since my last letter left my hands, destined for your heart, and in that time, much has happened, and very little has changed. I am still Orlando, this will always remain true. I am still a poet, although, I feel as though I am an archivist instead, recording the stories and worlds of those I meet. My form is still that of a woman, and yet — yes, Annabelle, this is the letter you have long awaited.
I have finally found an idea, an identity, a way of conceiving of myself that feels right, much in the same way a stocking feels, after being adorned inside-out, and then fixed; there is a relief throughout my entire being, and I finally can fulfil my promise. I can answer the question you asked me, those years ago — the question I had been asking myself far before you could speak to ask. I can finally fulfill my promise:
'I promise that I will explain whom I am one day, and you will understand" — do you remember these words? Do you remember the feelings that birthed within ourselves, the lust and wanderlust indistinguishable in the frenzy of our passions? Do you remember the burning need to be together, that you so often spoke of in shaded alcoves and under the trees that filled the estate?
Do you still remember me, your 'dearest Orlando'? I fear, as with all things, I remain the same whilst you have moved onwards — I blame you not, you must understand. To be forgotten is a fate that I have endured for as long as I have been remembered, and is a burden I will carry until my last words. That is, supposing I am given such a choice as death, something which I have never anticipated, but hold in my mind, an unmoving threat, taunting me from afar.
And although, as much as the hands of time do shift the sands of fate, it cannot change the color of my fabric — I am a poet, and loquaciousness is my burden. For, why would one choose to simply explain a happening, when one could instead create a story? No, there is no direct path that can be followed when prosaic poetic passages appear upon the page; one must meander, or one is not properly appreciating their own thoughts.
I have spent a century's worth of time alone, and expect that to be a constant in my existence. That is simply a fact.
I apologise once more — you must think me a fool, a narcissistic charlatan, a carnival barker paid a hay-penny per word. I assure you, I am still your humble servant, a scholar of the peoples of the world, an adventurer on the frontiers of what it means to be oneself — I have done this for so long, and met so many, it came as a great surprise to me when I learned a playwright is penning a work based on Nordic myths of a traveler who travels the world, in search of self! Truly, I could never have predicted such a happening.
In that same way, I did not predict to remain where I currently am, having arrived here three years prior, planning to stay for a handful of months — those years felt like weeks to me (and they may have been, as time appeared to progress there at its own pace), and before I knew it, the distance between my letters had grown from a season apart to having a delay twelvefold in duration.
In my haste to learn myself, I had forgotten whom I once was — and only when I finally understood things, did I remember our vow. Thus, here I am, once again putting quill and ink to paper, in the desperate hope that with each stroke my nib creates, I am painting a world that you may see. If you still care to view it, that is.
When I last wrote, I was set for an enclave to the north, and knew not what to expect. Having grown accustomed to the lifestyle of a vagabond, I was well-equipped for a long, epic journey, travelling to a great and mighty magical kingdom; to my surprise, not a week later, I had arrived at my destination. It was a farming community, Annabelle, but with the most fascinating agriculture — you see, there was far more to this commune than I first believed, so much so that I stayed beyond my initial departure date, searching for meaning in their ways.
The farming community called themselves "The Cultivators of Ieva", and though I never learned whom Ieva was — I know that she would be proud of this wonderful place. You see, in this community, each member shared a faith — but, Annabeth, I cannot capture just how their traditions feel, compared to the Church of England. If the Cultivators are a proud matron, the C of E is naught but a wee babe — for the history of the Cultivators spans millennia, and their traditions even further back, and from strange, unearthly worlds.
You see, this community is part of a culture known as the Nälkän people, and all share one commonality — you see, much as a sculptor treats clay, in the same ways with which I sculpt words and my own idea of self, they manipulate the very things that present ourselves to the world. Yes, Annabelle, they can all do incredible feats of flesh manipulation, changing forms themselves, and of others. You see, there is a power to them, one from a holy place that was not disclosed to an outsider.
When I first arrived, I was met with a cold reception, and a warm meal. They had provided accommodation, whilst the powers that may be discussed what was to be my fate — I, for once, decided that I would not longer be a victim of destiny, and wished, for once, to forge my own. Thus, I prostrated myself before their leaders, espoused my awe at their way of life, begged for a chance to remain, to watch, and to learn. I told them of my travels, teased with the promise of odes, epics and fables from near and far, pleaded for the chance to remain.
I know not of what happened next, as I was ushered out of their gathering hut, and returned to my ramshackle abode near the edge of the settlement. It was just a few hours past that a woman appeared at my door; she said, her name was Näeva, and that she was sent on behalf of the community, given she recently returned from finishing school and had, if you believe this, a Lancashire accent! Hearing good news in the accent I had long missed was a welcome treat, as was what she said; they had decided that I may remain, and learn from them. If I wanted to observe their religious practices, I must do so with Näeva, and never alone. If I wanted to remain, I would need to assist in the labour, learn their ways, and come to understand what they valued truly — this, she told me, before disappearing into the abyssal night.
I drifted away to nod, visions of barbaric traditions and violence beyond imagine at every turn — this was not the first time I had heard about this culture, you see. Most call them 'sarkics', although, I have been informed to never repeat that phrase amongst them — a taboo, perhaps, much like the fair folk. There are whispers told throughout the continent, in the places of the secret truth, of wars waged, of enemies slaughtered and blood shed. In my slumber, I dreamed of a figure — a woman, with a blazing spirit, blood covered and yet, perfectly at peace. The juxtaposition awoke me, due to the shock, and I failed to dream of the woman ever again.
And despite that, I know that she wanted me to see just how much there was to the Cultivators of Ieva, see the depths of the culture. I saw, in her eyes, that which many see in mine: I saw my future, and understood her past.
The next morning, once I had dressed myself in casual garb, a knock came at my door once more — a hulking figure of a man this time, harsh features and a fierce look that terrified me. Everything about him screamed that I should be afraid; all except for one thing. His eyes.
His eyes were Näeva's eyes — or rather, Näeva's eyes were his. What was this strange tradition, these people had, with which they could exchange eyes betwixt themselves? In the moment, I did nothing to conceal my confusion; the man, noticing this, spoke to me. He said, in a deep, yet dainty tone, that he was Näeva. I said, 'surely not!', as if out of instinct, before I caught myself — perhaps the same fate I faced befell her as well?
I recomposed myself, and recalling my etiquette and upbringing, invited Näeva inside for tea, and to further explain what had occurred. He assented, and as he crossed the threshold of the hut, before my very eyes, his flesh began to shift. Yes, Annabelle, you read my words correctly — the very skin and tissue that you and I consider a constant was manipulated with the ease of a shepherd shearing. His skin stretched and warped, moving across his skeleton, until — not a minute later, before me stood the woman who I had known as Näeva.
It was then I knew that I would stay here for as long as it took, for as long as they would permit — I needed to comprehend all aspects of their ideals, and to understand how they did such feats of shapeshifting. We began to speak, Näeva and I — she told me of the grace, granted by their divine, and their history of shaping the very flesh that makes us. I told of my sudden transformation — and just then, Näeva interjected, to ask the most wonderful of all questions:
"Ah. You too have no need for man, nor for woman."
That is it, Annabelle, that was the answer for which I travelled — while, in the moment, I did not truly comprehend her words, with time, they revealed their truth to me. For, you see, when she stated that I have no need of man, nor woman, she was not talking of companionship. No, she was telling me of a far grander idea, and one which the nälkän people truly live by: they live beyond the binary state that curses all of humanity, and in doing so, have become so much more than we could be.
Näeva, in a single sentence, had explained to me all that I needed to know, and yet, three years on, I still felt like an infant, a new world to discover at every turn — and a new self to be each day. I never learned their ways, or their powers — no, that was never something I wished for. Instead, I learned how to be myself, I studied the self, I poured over manuscripts of self, reread poems of self, pondered the choices my past selves had made — and at the end of my years there, I came to a conclusion:
Näeva was right. I have no need for man, nor for woman. Those are ideas which have no relevance to me. I have abandoned my shackles of a binary choice, and escaped to a place of infinite possibility:
I am Orlando, and that is all I need to be.
If you receive this missive, and no longer wish to hear of my travels, simply respond, and I will cease this at once. If, by some twist of fate, you would like to hear more of my travels — I promised to tell you of the world, and I see no reason why I should stop.
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando
Dear Orlando,
Hello. My name is Susan, and I have a very important question. For as long as I can remember, Granny Anne has told stories of a wonderful poet named 'Orlando' that she once knew. She told tall tales of mystical toymakers, fearsome dragons, people who can change between men and women, and even more than just that!
I wish such a thing were true - it would be a treat to change myself like I do my clothing, and I have spent many nights dreaming of travelling far, far away, as you did, and meeting new people and exploring new and magical worlds - and maybe, even meeting Näevä?
My brother insists that you are nothing more than a fairytale for babies, while my father calls you 'the mad ravings of an old biddie'. But I am not them.
I believe you are real. I believe Granny's stories - is it true you once saved a princess while composing an epic?
I have one more question, please. I snuck into Granny's cupboard, and far at the back, I found a scrapbook — it was filled, full of so, do many letters from you. She always said that you still told her of the world, long after you had fulfilled your promise to her.
She would not want me to say this, but — in the back of the book, folded within linen and sealed with wax — letters, so so many letters Granny wrote to you, responding to each and every letter. Did you get her letters to you, as well?
I must know — I eagerly await your reply.
Your Friend,
Susan Browne, 12
My Dear Susan,
I was delighted to receive your letter, as it was a rather unexpected surprise — you see, few things left in this world are unexpected to me, and you should have seen the face I made! When I saw a letter appear on my doorstep, with the same wax seal your Granny had used so long ago, I was speechless; could this possibly be an unwoven thread from my past? And then, when I read what you wrote — delightful penmanship, might I remark — I knew that I must proffer an answer:
Yes, Susan, every story your Granny told you was true. I did once save a princess, and more than that, I was engaged to her too! And yes, I did compose an epic at the same time (although I did not like it after the fight, and destroyed it posthaste). And Näevä.
That is a name I have not thought of in a long time.
Thank you, Susan, for helping me remember such a time in my life. In return, allow me to reward your bravery in penning your note: the promise I made to your Granny Annabelle, I now make to you. I still traverse the worlds, known and unknown — and I will send you stories of my travels, the magics I encounter, and the secrets of this world that cannot be true.
I am now in a far away place, halfway across the globe — I find myself in a cottage in a place with no name, and I am unsure how I may free myself. Not that it is a major concern for me, mind you, but, just like you, I must eat and sleep…..
Devotedly Yours,
Orlando