A Letter to Jen

Dearest Jen,
 
Things have taken a rather drastic turn. I talked to Caerbhall earlier, and his insistence of Edward's fidelity led me to believe that I might not even be his son. I must be a Leongling, in blood, but it's likely I descend from one of the former King's bastards. It's strange, but entirely believable... and I would not put it past Magden to have lied to both myself and Edward. I feel a little lost; I thought I had found my father but it turned out to be just another lie. These seem to keep piling up around me.
 
I used to think that I had some sort of claim over the throne, on the artefacts but I suppose the truth was very different. I'm undecided but I think I'm going to turn in Palatine and Ardon to the Queen, and her child. Edward's child. I don't deserve to wield them, they're not mind after all. I'm thinking also of rescinding my title as Prince of Callic. Again, this is the title for the heir apparent. It turns out I am anything but. I don't write this to garner sympathy but I refuse to live my life the way Magden did, shrouded in lies. I shall present my thoughts to the Queen, and I shall offer my support in another capacity. As a scholar perhaps, which has always been something closer to my heart. Speaking of, I have gotten further in translating the runes on the cloak. It is an old language, something never seen in this land. I am unsure but if the cloak was 'sewn' by the gods, then perhaps this is the language of them? I wonder if the last ability I possess from Mithani is the ability to read these, to interact with the divine world.
 
On that note, I've been thinking Leondric was created by the gods, with each giving him a token of their abilities so he might triumph against the Other King. What I'm trying to say, Jen, is that the trip has not been uneventful.
 
I am sorry, once again, for how I left things. It's no excuse but I've been thrust into a world that I thought I understood and I... I don't know how long I can keep my resolve. I feel like a plaything of the gods. Caerbhall knew, in a way, about my night terrors. I couldn't deny it so his musings has to dangle in the air. I was rude to him and I regret that. I've had so much anger bottled up, I think for years, and now it's coming out and hurting those around me. I wish I could forgive him, Caerbhall, but I feel bitter that he ran off to a quiet village to lick his own wounds and left us. If I hadn't stepped up, Takuma would be dead to bandits. If I hadn't been there, the Basilisk likely would have killed everyone. Killing was supposed to be his job! Not mine but now it's too late to take it back. Now I have the nightmares, and the brutality, as a part of my soul.
 
Ah, but why should I be wishing that on him either. Because he was already so far gone? Because I'm resentful he got support for trying to get better? Perhaps because I wished- no, not that. I think I may be so angry because telling him to leave the party was my choice, and then he turned it into his. And I have so little choice lately, where it matters, that I might resent him for taking that from me. I think, if he saved me, I may just begin to hate him. Because I don't want his help, but I don't want to have to save him either. I know, Jen, I sound rotten. I don't know what happened to me. I thought I wasn't like this, but I suppose I was, deep down. After all, no-one changes that quickly.
 
I think it's best that I will drop myself from the line of succession. Learning about Edward changed everything; I have no more desire to exert my authority because I have none. I have no more right to anything. I'm a bastard, as entitled to a throne as some bastard of your great grandfather would be of yours if they existed. It's an odd relief actually. Perhaps I can try to become a better animal now. And be useful. And help people, without having to prove I'm worthy to do so.
 
With deep affection,
 
Martin