Found Stuffed in the Barrel of One of His Guns My dearest Morgan,
There, three words in and I've already earned an eye-roll, I'd wager. I'm very sorry, but I am not of the temperament to address you in a letter as "Morgan", so my dearest you shall remain. By the time you are reading this now, I am likely already dead. I know this because I am dead at present even as I write this. But you see, I've always wanted to write that out because it has a shade of the glamorous, so I do hope you'll forgive my giving in to temptation.
It is three days until Halloween. I am both relieved and annoyed at the state of the world. Relieved that you will be on standby at the hospital in case there is trouble at the ball, annoyed that we could not attend the ball together. It is ever so rare that I get the opportunity to force you to dance, after all, and I am convinced that my epic pout and tremulous smile would whittle you down for one waltz at least. I'll be dressing up as a vampire - horrifying! - and will be wearing a cloak from the olden days when people said "thee" and "thine" quite a bit more than they do at present. I dearly hope that there will be no violence. Halloween is my favourite holiday, after all, and I know it to be yours as well. Perhaps it will be a quiet night, and I will visit you at the hospital afterward, and I'll tell you how much spiked punch Dorcas imbibed, or tease you about how your Gus-Gus hollered at an Auror in a most inappropriate manner, or even sport a prize for best costume.
But perhaps not.
I know you despise love letters, and I do mean to honour that, but you see - I believe in love letters. So much in our lives is impermanent, Morgan. Flowers fade, clothing turns threadbare, and memories grow hazy, but ink struck unto paper... it isn't invulnerable, perhaps, but it is something. The years move by with such speed that some days I have nothing left to do but hold on. I would wish them to slow, Morgan. I would wish them to slow so that what we have right now - for all its fights and annoyances and imperfections - would remain. Eternal isn't eternal at all. Every day, a loved one vanishes, especially in this world of violence and pain. Every day a memory dies with whoever lies within the casket. It moves too quickly. That I confess is what initially worried me most about our coupling. Not your stubbornness, not my old-fashioned frippery. Simply the selfish desire that I would wish the days to slow so that I could have the proper time to memorize your laughter, to impress the lines of your smile into my brain.
I don't know if we'll have that much time, my love. I'd just said that little was permanent, didn't I? Lives pass on with the guttering of a flame, it seems, no matter how much we will that they would not. But some things remain.
Do you know the ice roses on the east side of Caer Dubh? I first planted them there many years before when I was going through a difficult time in my life. Angus had taken me in as a stray, sorry to say, and he and his wife Bronwyn were terribly kind. In an effort to make myself at least somewhat useful, I worked on the castle's grounds. Bronwyn particularly liked the ice roses. After she died, as mortals tend to do, I continued to care for the roses, and strangely enough, they thrived. And now they've practically taken over the east side. It's difficult to believe that they started from a single plant.
I suppose what I'm trying to say: I'm a farmer first, Morgan. Things come and go. Seasons cannot be predicted. We're at the mercy of a God that we cannot and will not understand. But love remains, as certain as the roses cling to the rock outside Angus's window. I don't know when you'll find this note, as I've crumpled it away quite well, I think, provided that Appetizer does not sniff it out, but I need you to know: I love you now as I write this, I love you now as you read this, and thousands of years from now when the earth is a ball of flame, I will love you then.
It's never goodbye for long, even with eternity to consider.