cecil warrington just wants to know the protocol. (wellcomposed) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-03-01 22:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | !owl, cecil warrington, emmeline vance |
Owl Post to Emmeline Vance
EMMELINE: I may not be in the best frame of mind to pen a letter. Clearly, having just written that, I am barely in the proper mindset to start one, yet here I am. Before I say anything else, I want to make it clear that you do not have to respond to this. It might even be better if you didn't. If you wish to never address it and pretend the owl was accosted by hawks or otherwise waylaid en route I am fully on board. I will never speak to you of these matters again beyond these pages, but fact remains they need to be shared (and I've actually the day off work in order to share them too, so the pressure's truly on to make them count). This isn't about what happened Friday night. It's not about who you were with. I grew up constantly hearing how different I was from my father. Not only was he infinitely more outgoing (and confident) than myself, but he was also much larger than either Cyril or I could ever hope to be (not to mention vastly more capable of growing a beard). And when I say larger I don't mean strictly I don't know why I'm describing my father. I'm trying very hard to find an artful way to say what I have to say, and while I hope not to meander for the sake of style I also cannot draw my thoughts out into one, narrow thread. I suppose I am labouring under the (admittedly vain) hope that my father, while not serving as a very good parent, will serve as a middling-to-fair framework for what I want to communicate to you. (Which again, yes, sounds absolutely awful. I apologise, both for this lapse in respect for the man who raised me and also for not immediately scrapping this page and beginning anew from the top as soon as I began speaking on the subject of his facial hair. I worry that, should I attempt the latter, I will never see the end of a page at all.) There were aspects of my father that my mother was not aware of. Certainly she was not blind to the more The aspects of my father that my mother was not aware of were, paradoxically, his best traits. Really, itt wasn't until he died that we, all of us, learnt of them. I'm so much more like my father than anyone gives me credit for. Not in actions, of course (I have never once gone hunting without being cajoled or otherwise pressured, and since we have been engaged I have never even thought once about anyone else) but in spirit. Where we truly differ lies in what truths might come to light upon our deaths; where my father was shown to be generous and thoughtful I would be shown to be cowardly and thoughtless. And pathetic. Petty, really. I would despise any future that involved your having to ignore my lies, both self-aware and otherwise. This letter, then, is my strike against cowardice. (I agree, the irony is palpable; however I fear that should I attempt word one of this in person I would not only embarrass myself, but embarrass you, and also embarrass any easily embarrassed birds flying past the window. Possibly a few bashful ants. Oh, and the very air itself. There are several confessions long overdue. We can begin with the untruth you witnessed the other night, because it is ------ well, it is the most obvious, and you've already been made aware of half of it. I've been playing piano in Muggle clubs all over England beginning in December through until the present. It's where I was when you couldn't reach me the other week-end. At times it feels as though I've learnt more songs than I can ever hope to play. I love modern Muggle music. I love the joy to it, the heartbreak, the thump of it that you can feel right in your chest. I love the absence of the word cauldron in the lyrics. There is an incredible sadness in me whenever I witness a silent parlour's worth of guests sitting stock still while a lone singer sings, or salon goers so obviously enduring something so (For the record, I have been playing the piano since I was four. The only ones who have heard me play at any length are of course my father (quite dead), my brother (quite indifferent), and my mother (quite sure that revealing such a fact to the general public will lessen my chances of making a good match, given that it is a past-time for "unmarried women and sickly Though I imagine it makes little difference now, I should also say that the night you saw me was going to be my final foray into the spotlight. I never had any intention of continuing this sort of behaviour past our marriage ---- which, in retrospect, was wildly foolish of me. I am so weary of dividing myself by halves. Given what I was willing to risk (what I have risked) in order to even enter said spotlight for a short while, it would be ridiculous to think I could parcel that section of myself away forever. In that way it is good we met the other night; I've come to the conclusion that if I do not do something with my music as a career, I will only grow more bitter, and more afraid, and eventually I will implode (which is an across the board messy business). The second confession is one more ingrained than even I care to admit. I began this lie before I even met you, and yet persisted in maintaining it over the course of our acquaintance because ---- I'm not even certain anymore. Because I wanted to fool myself into believing a lie (and given what I've said already about my family, do I not come by that sort of thing honestly?) so that I might ignore the desperate nature of my position in this world just a little while longer. This will also explain my earlier comments regarding my father's truths and hidden generousity (though where one might find answers to explain those in turn I have absolutely no idea). I am poor. Literally, poor. Destitute. My entire family is. Every Warrington you've had the poor fortune of meeting literally has poor fortune. Upon my father's death we learnt he left the whole of his savings to charity. There are several animal reserves presently receiving funding from this windfall, primarily in Asia and Eastern Europe, none of which I have ever seen a photograph of or even been to. My mother was left the house and the contents thereof, which, as I'm sure you can appreciate having visited the place, very cold comfort indeed, and my own dependance on the place as home lies less with sentiment than sheer financial desperation. The whole of my paycheque goes to keeping my mother outfitted in the lifestyle she grew accustomed to as my father's wife. I have no savings except a tin of a very few Muggle pound notes kept on the topmost shelf of my bookcase. When times have become dire, as times often do, we have sold items from our household in order to stay afloat. Our betrothal was arranged as a method of keeping us afloat as well. My mother intended me to act as leech, affixing myself to your family and your fortunes so that ours might improve. This tactic was also applied to Cyril, whose marriage, at least, is successful in that one regard (if nowhere else). However the joke is clearly on her, as your father (wise man that he is) has yet to give me the raise she so clearly aimed to wrangle from our union Being poor is something I am increasingly all right with. Being cruel is not. I have included the third confession in a final scroll. If what you have read thus far has already moved you to decide that it is best for our friendship to come to an end, then you do not need to read it. Truly. I trust you to act with discretion regarding everything I have shared with you, as it was only ever you I meant to share it with. Yours, Cecil If you're reading this, then you've opened the second scroll (which I suppose is akin to saying "if you're reading this, then you're reading this", which is not something I can afford to waste away time writing when my hand is already beginning to cramp up -- all the more reason to stop this line of thought as well really, so onward we go). All right -- Emmeline, you do not have to marry me. Believe me when I say I am very sympathetic to not wanting to; as detailed earlier, I am poor, I am really rather terrible at my job, and your father doesn't hold me in especially high regard. I live with my mother, I have a borderline alcoholic for a brother, and I want to become a professional musician. I consort with Muggles. And all those are only the trappings of Cecil Warrington. I'm personally rather unreliable, I hate confrontations, I feel ill at the sight of blood, I jump when dogs bark and I am afraid of 95% of this world's contents. I have lied to you, repeatedly, and abused your trust and the gift of friendship you've given me. Ultimately there is only one attribute I possess that suggests to me that I am even remotely worthwhile as a human being at all, and it is what provides me with the courage to write this and, for several moments, step outside that part of myself that I despise, and into a place where for once I not only approve of what I feel, but draw comfort from it. The only thing that proves to me that I am worth this world at all is that I love you. And over the course of your life I am sure there will be no shortage of men who love you (because I honestly cannot fathom anyone being unable to), and while history itself has no shortage of admirers who fancy themselves unique or special, I would never presume to believe I am anything other than one of those lucky few who do not fall in love, but grow into it. I didn't not feel this way at first sight (being too busy scanning the room for escape routes and keeping a wary eye on my mother's fan) but at last sight it was impossible to deny. I'm not telling you this so that you will persist in marrying me. Above all else, anything else, I want you to be happy. Ideally I would of course stay silent, that being the entirely selfless route to take, but given what has happened recently I don't believe I have the luxury. If I cancel this wedding, I don't want you to believe it's because I hate you. I cannot conceive of hating you. And I know, because I know you, that should I sever our acquaintance without a word that you will take it to heart, and you will bury it, and it will become something that drags you down and eventually adds to that sadness and guilt I so often gain glimpses of in your eyes. That I would hate. You are an incredible woman. You are a (far too) clever woman. You are a beautiful woman. You are Emmeline Vance, and you are my best friend. Yours (and many apologies on that front), PS: I am willing to call off our wedding. We both deserve more than to go through with something that one of us does not want. |