Dearest tanager,

This is the letter that [Aerugo]'s name is taken from, and accordingly the page that they chose to assume guardianship of (see excerpts from scripture).

Tayra wrote unsent letters to Klipspringer as well; they were both dating Tanager and were themselves good friends. This is the only surviving letter, which [Aerugo] assumes—correctly—means they weren't kept in a cache forever and Tanager (and Klipspringer) did get to read them. I'm not sure what became of their rebellion, but in that, at least, they got a happy ending.

I aimed for the most Friends at the Table thing I could think of and landed on "love letter between separated members of a struggling rebellion." It's a good show.

Transcript below.

Dearest tanager,

That pseudonym suits you, have I ever told you that? Someone must have. We hear tanagers more than we see them over here, but I caught one going at a wasp nest the other day (no complaints from me). If even one stinger landed it never acted like it, and after it ripped through the larvae it flew off singing, sweet as sunrise. It was beautiful and, as nature is wont to be, a little horrifying. (Not that I think you're horrifying. Brutal, sometimes—but you've had to be, sometimes.)

I miss you, less like an ache and more like an arrhythmia. All these months, and sometimes I still feel out of step with my own days. (If I'm here while you're reading this, I'm sure you're giving me a look. A Look. Save it, tanager. I know why we have to limit communications, and if you're reading this at all, then everything worked out, didn't it?) I know you, plural, are doing well, since reports keep flying, but it kills me, not knowing whether you, singular, are doing well. It must b No, that's too close to details. (The tanager story is fine, right? If someone who shouldn't be here finds these letters, that game is already up.) You must miss the city—that's better. At least our klipspringer is with you. I miss her, too, but it's good to know you have each other, and someone will make sure you get some rest. Or, well, try.

This sounds mopey, but I promise I'm not spending all my time drifting around weeping at birds. I'm ok; work is frustrating in only the usual ways. I simply don't want to say too much, just in case. Someone finding this place doesn't mean they know everything. You understand.

The r You-know-who got out of their cell last week—still under guard, for now, but basically free to do as they like. If you were here you'd be clucking your tongue about it, I know—"risk is the cost of trust," I know, but you decided to trust me! And tanager, you should have seen them. After so long on this side of the sepiment I thought they'd want to get some air right away, but they just... wandered in here. They looked dazed, maybe reverent—tracing the aerugo over what once they meant to destroy, shrouded by the city, rendered beautiful by an aeon in the mist. Painfully gentle, like they'd never seen anything so old and wanted to be part of it without quite knowing how. All this to say, they get it, tanager. I know regret when I see it. They get it, and they deserve this chance.

Safety comes first, and we keep the sepiment for a reason, but we have to let people change or we'll never get anywhere. Not anywhere real.

In the future you're rolling your eyes and calling me pretentious, and I'm rolling mine back and calling you stuffy, but right now, from the past, I'm smiling at you. So don't be fooled.

(Are you ever?)

I love you, tanager, grumpiness and all. I believe in this and I believe in us. Stay safe.

Kisses,
Your tayra