April 4, 2051

Dearest Mr. and Ms. Balthyne,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Good afternoon! I hope everything is okay with everything in the family, and I hope the stapled papers don’t intimidate you two too much. (Haha)

Dante and I have been discussing the letters that we send to each other every now and then. A day before I sat down to write what I’m telling you right now, he gave me the permission to relay some of his letters to the both of you; He isn’t too keen on doing it face-to-face, and this was the one compromise he had to opening up about some of the things he personally struggles with. 

They won’t be all the letters, but I’ve taken care to transcribe/rewrite the content of these letters word for word. Though, he pleaded with me to advise that you two “don’t start an argument over it”;

I acknowledge that it’s out of a genuine concern — however, he seems to have just recovered from the slums lately — so maybe it’d be best to reserve it for a better time, if you were to ask me for advice. (If me giving advice would be alright)

The letters he gave me permission to show would have been made with his parents in mind. I’m not sure if he’s ever been vocal about the topic around either of you, but he has tried to communicate that trouble with me every now and then. 

From what I’ve gotten from reading the letters, they’re the most compact explanations he could give — despite it only spanning until 4 of them (from his side), out of the other few letters we’ve exchanged with each other so far. The first letter though, was just when we said hello to each other:

-

26th September, 2050

Merlot Vitoneye,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hello,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I would like to extend my gratitude towards being able to be available for me.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Because of recent events, I wanted an outlet to express my thoughts regarding familial connections and how various other events leading up to now make me feel.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I hope we will get to talk a lot, because I would like to talk a lot. I hope I get to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Dante

-

I just wanted to get that out of the way.

From the 2nd letter to the 4th, that’s when the actual conversation regarding his parents start:

-

2nd October, 2050

Dear Merlot Vitoneye,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I’d want to apologise that it took me this long to reply back. I’ve been busy, and I hope everything is okay with you in recent.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I’d want to be blunt here: I want to talk about my mom. I feel guilty not fully expressing the details to an extent that I’d wanted to, or at least at an extent that felt satisfying - I hope I can relay everything I could feasibly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I never got to knew my mom so much, and in a strange irony the most I knew about her was through my father talking about her every now and then. He told me about how they met at the cafe and how she worked there at that time. He mocks himself by telling me about how she used to push him to many places with tremendous speed as if him and his wheelchair were a scooter. In essence, he told me that she was really, really nice. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There’s a couple more, but I’d prefer saying them another time.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He remembers all that, and the only thing I remember about her are when she held me seldomly - when I gazed into her eyes - and how she always wore leather gloves. I could never help but think about the leather gloves the most, since it always stood out to me with how different it felt from whenever I held things and whenever my father held me. I remember she wore those leather gloves even until I saw her for the last time. But I remember I already told you about how she died when I was but 6 years old, because being born put a strain on her physically.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Before you enquire with me, no. No, I haven’t asked my relatives about her. No, I don’t want to ask them either. I’m not really concerned about how great she was as a person, because I already know she was - My relatives and my father mourn her, so why would she not be? I don’t need a ton more reasons nor stories to prove that, and I don’t want to think that either of them hate me in general or for her death - I don’t want to hate them for similar reasons as well. I’m just confused on why I had to see her that way because my own birth had to be the one thing she couldn’t push through unscathed. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I know she was very spry, very different from my father in mannerisms. My father even admitted that, gradually, he fell in love with her because of that very difference, even if it puzzled him the first time. I envy my father because of it - He only had to worry about how she treated him, and not how she looked like when he entered her life. I don’t even know if I inherited anything from her at all, from her hair to her eyes or how she remotely acted before. My father never seemed to know either - He always looked the most sorry for me. We both know by now that that’s why he left me under the care of my mom’s parents and side of the family anyway, but I want to talk about my father some other day.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I’m starting to sound redundant, but I think I’ve told you everything I could muster for now.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You can just reply with your thoughts. You don’t need to try and give me solutions again.

Dante

-

I made sure to do as he asked. But, I digress;

Please, please, please don’t misinterpret this as your grandson hating your daughter; I’m sure even he would have made that clear. Please don’t misinterpret it as him wanting you to tell stories about any time her flaws showed as well, since I think it’d still bring about the same effect.

I'd like to apologize though — that I don’t really know a good way to tackle this. However, especially with some of the other conversations that I’ve had with him face to face, most of his struggles were regarding the questions he had about his dad; The third letter would get into that:

-

21st December, 2050

Dear Merlot,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I want to apologise again for taking too long. I’ll be blunt again, the reason why I wrote to you at that time was because something happened with my father that October. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ To make a long story short, he came by during the morn. My grandmother told me that he offered to come by for breakfast. He had someone push him around - and of course they were somebody I don’t even know - and my father seemed enervated, as I’d expect him to be. But, he seemed pleasantly surprised to see that we were having roast chicken and jam pennies - the jam pennies, courtesy of my grandfather as a treat for my father. To admit, that was the happiest I’ve seen him in a while, even if he never cracked a grin nor tried to even smile, and all of us seemed to collectively enjoy it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That enjoyment would linger until after breakfast,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I played the piano for my father again, or at least - an hour or so afaicr, just so I could process what I digested. He took longer than me to process it, so it must have taken longer. I still remember the repertoire I played for him that time: J.S. Bach - “Jesus bleibet meine Freude”, Erik Satie - “The Dreamy Fish”, Bortkeiwich S. - “The Butterfly” ; Most of these were songs he heard me play for the first time, but by the time I played the first few measures of “The Butterfly”, I saw both his fingers tap on his lap along to the keys I pressed for the first time. I took it as a good thing, and I took it as a similar reaction to how he felt about breakfast. Or so I thought, when I brought my focus back on the piece - and then suddenly got a sharp slap to my face. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That’s why I say ‘most’ now, because back then - I thought it was ‘all’. That small sense of peace he had earlier? All it took to drag that back down somehow was this piano piece I just recently got to learn. Neither grandparents - nor even that stranger that helped him around - knew what was up. I would have thought I played horribly, sure, but he usually grimaces when I struggle with a piece - not do whatever that was. I tried to ask him what was wrong, but it was like I was talking to an obelisk by then. I felt tempted to hold his shoulder, or just hug him if I needed to, but I thought that the slap was enough for me at that point; The last thing I needed was a non-zero chance of him strangling me or something like that - all which he never did before as well. All I could do was see him leave early. All without even a few words to me, alone.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ At that point, it made me remember that I know nothing about him.

Dante

-

I would like to point out that around the last part, it had a lot of erasures in the original letter. 

From what I remember Dante telling me, you two implored him to write another letter to me before Christmas came around? He didn’t seem to take that too well, judging from his act when he told me about it. He did come to admit that you two were most likely just concerned — and I think so too.

However, from the erasures and small tears on the paper, considering he used a pencil this time around instead of (what I assume is) a fountain pen, he seemed frustrated; Most likely not from the reminder that you two gave him, but because he couldn’t really think of anything else he could say about his dad.

He mentioned things about “selfishness”, and how he (Dante) couldn’t even bring himself to complain about it; That was the common “theme” with the erased words. To our relief, though, he made sure to tackle that at the 4th letter — which should be the last one. 

But I should point out that around the end of the letter itself, his penmanship looked rushed and a bit scratchy; It would also be worthy to mention that the top part of the letter felt a bit stiff(?) — the kind of “stiff” you’d expect to feel after a wiped stain of sorts dried out.

-

24th December, 2050

Merlot,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I’m sorry for ending my previous letter so abruptly.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I had some time to think by then, and yet again I’m writing because of my father. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You saw that message earlier, right? I was surprised, too. With what he said, I initially thought he moved the Christmas message to today, but he just wanted to wish everyone and their families well for Christmas Eve. As I’d expect, though, he looked enervated. But this time, you could see it in his eyes - or at least I could. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You’d expect the people to be more dejected seeing it, but seeing how my grandparents reacted to it? It was probably received with sympathy and union by others, maybe? I don’t know how to explain it, because of the fact that most people here are just troubled with their own things, especially towards the fact that my father was the only Britannia left. So I guess seeing him take the time off his day to wish them well was something good for them?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I don’t know..

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But it made me remember something he gave me a few days after my mom died years ago. I was able to find it in my cupboard again:

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ Flowers, mourning, wishing. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ You were like a flower that grew on that desk. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ I was mourning—confused; You tapped my finger, the other way around; „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ You wanted to get to know me more. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ Flowers, that was the first place you took me to, „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ When you saw me mourning—when you had free time, „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ I wanted to breathe, and you let me. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ Then—Flowers, mourning, wishing; We made our vow. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ For once, this country, was filled with flowers— „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ For once, mourning was morning—they gracefully „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ deemed you queen. Their wish, and my wish, come true. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ We had made our own flower, and we received him by morning. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ And mourning, I wish, a life didn’t have to be equivalent „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ to another life, to your life. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ I sit now by that desk again, where I had once saw you. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ This time, I mourn you—only can see as your petals fall. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ Our son will only be left to wonder, I envy him—but „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ I am ashamed that the first thing he’ll learn is death; „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ But never to you, you who had once slain shame. „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ And in your name, wishing you will be here with us again, „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ I will decorate our home with Orange Primroses „

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “ The flower you were, that grew on that desk. „

and reading all that again, and I don’t even know if I can call it blunt,

I didn’t feel sadness, but I felt everything that was shame.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ This letter - this poem, it once had a snipped primrose inside of it. It was for my mom to cherish until she couldn’t anymore. When I saw it and got to hold it for the first time, it was starting to wilt - which made me gave it back to my father, as I childishly asked him to use it for the ‘decorating’. I remember that I vowed in my sleep that day that I’d do everything I could to make him happy, hugging him as tight as I could. I’ll never know if he had ever done it, I’ll never know if he meant it figuratively and I’ll never follow through that vow, because a few days after that, he had given me up to my grandparents. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The spare amount of information I’d get of my father is overtaken by the many praises my mom gets, because all I ever get are stuff I’d hear from other people or come across in the internet; His position as a student council president, in the same shut-down school where that “Wonderland Case” took place in - and I barely get time to talk to Mr. Zeph, so I’m stuck in unknowing until I’m grown up enough to reach out to him on my own.

I don’t think I’ll have enough time to wait, I don’t think this country nor myself could hold onto that sort of hope even until the later half of this decade, and I just wish that my father could just one day explain everything to me - or show everything to me, instead of be so out of reach.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But I can’t even blame him. He confined himself with my mom, and she died when I came along. Something definitely happened at that school, but it’s not like I’ll ever get any answers in the internet if barely any of the exact details are there. I want to blame him. I want to blame him so much. But I can tell he already went through so much, and I can’t even call him selfish. I can’t even shout at him even if I wanted to - I don’t even think I can shout anymore. All I can do is just bottle it up and just let it all crash. And I can’t help but think my father can only do the same.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ At that point, I then, at least, wish he’ll come over for Christmas Eve tonight. He hasn’t visited in a while..

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I hope I didn’t make him reluctant to even see me anymore.

Yours, Sincerely,

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Dante

-

I’ll be honest, I’m not usually keen too on when anything regarding his majesty may be addressed, but yes — I did see the message by that time, and Dante knows that as well. I wouldn’t want to say too much — but when we both talked about it after the year ended, I was able to help him be at ease with that whole conundrum.

I wouldn’t say his feelings about all this are resolved; In fact, I’d assume they’re far from. But, I think a part of him, at least now, is ready to at least not carry that burden alone, maybe out of a resolve he got after evaluating his dad in the aforementioned later. I’m sure he has enough trust in you both to rely on you two — I’m sure that fact was never fa.se

Please, and I know I’ve said “please” a lot in one part of this letter by now, please keep pushing through this. That’s all I could genuinely say without making it too long. I don’t intend to push and pry for the answers to whatever may be going on in the family, but I’m sure with time, you’ll all be able to figure something out together. 

Dante may not be the best at showing his emotions, but I’m sure he tries his best. He tries his best with me after all, and I’m sure it’s because of that trust with you two that was always there.

Right, and, I hope his dad got to visit him; He never really told me about how his Christmas went. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ - Merlot S. Vitoneye