Winter in Hieron 07: Two Hands

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I promised you once that I would not ask the question ever again. That whatever our differences, however foolish your faith, I would respect your wish and let it rest. You told me that if I did not relent, you would stop responding all together, and I feared...

No. That is not why I gave up on you. It is because you made the case clearly, with strict logic and rhetoric curved sharp: If I did not accept your decision to remain in Rosemerrow—and now, in Velas—that I would be betraying the most fundamental of the precepts I teach: That we are each of us a world unto ourselves, sacrosanct, complete.

But now, in the face of this morning, I must ask again. One more time, and forgive me this sin: Please, Alyosha. Accept my offer. What comes next is grim, and we could both be gone by the end of the week. And then we could help others do the same. Please.

Your Tutor, always.

This week on Friends at the Table: Two Hands

Arrell. Once, back in the shadow of the Grand Tour, I found the prelate who raised me sitting alone in his tent, crying. "What is wrong, sir?" I asked. "I lost a locket, Alyosha, in the last battle." He said. "I miss it. That's all. Do not worry about me, son." 

Have you ever thought about what it means 'to miss' someone?  It is the admission that you are unfinished, that some part of you—a center or a corner—is empty. And we are all of us incomplete, mosaics missing embellishments. 

I will remain. I must, now more than ever. And I will see you again, under the sun. But please Tutor, next time, just say what you mean.

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