Arno intuits he somehow needs to help Syrtanyelle to heal her wound emotionally, and so he decided to write yet another time letters through her, as if she had written them. This time sending letters won’t be enough to bring peace, and it will be necessary, to call, speak to every person that was hurt and let her emotions and her love freely flow. But before that moment of undammed emotions, there are some colours to regain in her heart still. And Arno can help her with that, with emotional recognition.

First of all, Syrtanyelle decided to write to Arno’s uncle whom she has hurt and shocked. She knows from Arno his uncle doesn’t want to hear her name pronounced again, and he wishes his nephew to forget her altogether. But fate has other plans for them all, as Syrtanyelle will one day marry Arno. They have both made smashing entries in one another’s lives and families, shattering glass and causing many bruises and hurts. And now it’s time to repair it all and bring fairness and peace to the heart of each.


My dear uncle,

Last time I wrote you, I did not dare to call you this way. But now I will. You think me crazy. Unstable. Hysterical. You think your nephew delusional, obsessed. And you’re right, in your place I would have thought the same.

But this story is more complex than it seems at first. Way more complex.

I had a wound, a deep wound, with my parents who have abandoned me. A wound I had enclosed in a dark hole of my memory. A wound I refused to explore and live. And it was Arno who pushed, pushed, pushed me to heal. Through the love I felt for him, I was forced to explore an emotional depth unreached before. I was forced to confront myself, be confronted, by the past. And there were ugly things hiding there. Ugly things that sent me in sheer panic many times, and caused me to push, push, push Arno away to stop the pain. Kill the pain. Close back the dark hole. Of course, it didn’t work. Once this place of pain is opened it can’t be closed again. When I learnt Arno would come to visit me in Melroel, part of me was deeply pleased, such was my longing to see him and embrace him again. And yet another part of me was very much in fear. And as the time came closer and closer to his arrival, I panicked. I knew I could not embrace him. I knew something beyond our control was blocking us. I knew if I saw him, if I spoke to him, if I wrote him, all my defences would melt away. But I could not afford that, I could not allow that. Because if my defences melted away, I would be entirely naked. I would retrieve myself in a position to be hurt again and again. Arno had not yet understood everything about love, and even if he conveyed the deeper tenderness for me, he also still hurt me with his words and his deeds. That was too dangerous. I could not bare my heart for him yet. And by coming he had precipitated everything. And yet I wanted him to come, I wanted him to come a break me out my walls. But it would not be a prince saving his princess from his dungeon. Oh no it would be way harsher, way more difficult. His princess had prepared a trap, ambushed him, to test his bravery and his love. Would he cower away and return to Vilnen, or would he confront hardships and pain for his love. He was asking from me to do a tremendous sacrifice, to go down where my wound is entirely putrefied and clean it and cut the dead skin. And the only thing I could do was asking him too to do such a sacrifice, and let go of his freedom, of his honour, of his fear and submit to pain. My heart cried and bled for him, but I was too much in pain to do anything else. I needed him to support me. Not through hugs and tender words, but through deeds of courage. I needed to make him feel as I felt, as I had lied to my family, lied to my friends. And so I wrote you, I wrote two of his closest friends, I wrote his father and his siblings. I had known all along what Arno was doing, and had I not wanted it, it would have been easy to put a halt to it. But my heart leapt of joy reading his words, I felt a deep emotional recognition, he helped me heal layer after layer of my wound, and I let him do even when it was scary and painful. But coming to Melroel, as the time approached, pushed me to do something I had not dared to do before, pushed me to take the harshest action of my entire life, and to confront Arno as harshly as he was confronting my wound, to make him understand my pain on his own skin. It sounds absurd and cruel, but back then I had not the emotional freedom I now have. I was suffocating. Could not speak, could not write. Not my heart at least. But I could write my anger, my fear, my terror. And so I did. I caused the greatest pain in you and his family, the greatest disappointment. It was very selfish of me, but I did not have the choice. I either needed to trust my absurd intuition, or smother in my pain. And so I trusted my intuition. I started by writing Arno’s friend. I hoped it would be enough. But it wasn’t. I needed to make him feel more pain, more shame, more turmoil, until when he would not be ashamed at all anymore, until when he would heal his pain and his fear, until when he would be able to entirely understand me, and truly save me. So the trip of Arno to Melroel was not a wasted trip. At the contrary, that was our only option to heal our wound in its depth. Our only option to one day grow in the persons we dream to become. We did a lot of damage around, and from outside what we did can be called selfish. But life did not give us the choice, and a small voice in my heart kept on telling me everything would be fine at the end. Arno had written a poem the same day before I wrote you harshly, and somehow by reading him I knew his soul was foreboding what would happen.


It’s scary this dance

on the verge of abysses

we need to trust one another


with our own life

the slightest misstep

and you cause my fall

or I cause yours

the slightest misstep

and the dagger we juggle with

may end up in one of our hearts

It is a crazy dance

one that leaves no place to fear

no place to doubting

of one another skills

one another promises


With his words, he invited me to trust him like I had never trust before. Even if with our dagger I opened his heart, he would shout in pain but deep down he would know I did not intend to kill him. This trust between us was essential, as a false motion of him, of me, could be fatal. We both balanced on the finest cord, and had we fallen, we would have ended up in the realm of madness. But we did not fall. We had been well prepared. I wrote you with very much harshness, a harshness unheard of before. And that allowed me to get out my anger and my panic. And when I prepared the file to accuse him of unauthorized use of love magic, I already could see more clearly, I could temper my panic, I could fill it with things that would be scary enough, without leading to a heavy condemnation. I needed to open his heart, without killing him. I needed him to feel betrayed, to feel the deepest pain, to feel as I had felt when I was a child and my parents abandoned me. I needed him to write stories and poems later on, and let me understand all his emotions, all my emotions, to let me understand how I had felt after having been abandoned, my despair, my guilt, my terror, my pain. And so he did, so he did, until I found such a deep emotional recognition I could let go of my last fears and trust him even more than before, trust him enough that I can melt between his arms knowing that he understands me so very deeply, knowing that never ever he will hurt me again as I was hurt, knowing he will protect me of pain, because he has understood pain on his own skin.

Still my dear uncle, all this talk must sound not very concrete to you, and I can imagine you are in deep concern for your nephew, and about the choice he has made to continue on loving me and to open his arms to me even after all the hurt I have caused not only to him, but to all his loved ones. That is unpardonable. And indeed what I did was, is, unpardonable. What my parents did was unpardonable too. The only way to pardon so deep a betrayal is to show my pain, show my grief, and weep openly, showing my innermost nakedness, and then, only then, others can understand and pardon. I did not act out of harshness, out of unlove, out of hate. I did not act to hurt. I acted because I was in so much pain. I acted to heal myself, and to heal Arno, and by extension help all the people around us heal. Always when you go to the hospital, when you go to the dentist, you feel pain at first, as your wound is opened, cleaned, cauterized. But when you return home, you start feeling better, much better, and lighter after some time, and you don’t regret the pain. And my dearest hope is that it will the same now. That this pain you have all felt, we have all felt, will be an occasion to bring healing and renewal. An occasion to understand new pieces of life we never had before.

And so my dear uncle, this letter won’t be sent nor read, but one day I will call you again, in Arno’s presence, and I will let you see my face and my heart, and I trust you will then understand why I acted this way, and that you will pardon me, that you will all pardon me, and welcome me again as touchingly as you had at first, as a lost niece, a lost daughter, who has erred in the world before coming back home, before understanding the beauty and the depth of love. I have made mistakes, yes, but I now understand them, see them clearly, and these mistakes will never be repeated. For the first time, I let my mother and my father see my nakedness and my vulnerability, since when they had lost me and I had lost them as a child. For the first time I told them all the truth of my love and my dream. For the first time they understood all my pain, and could offer me the deep compassion and understanding and acceptance I looked for. And now they too are ready to embrace Arno, and to give you their hand and their sorrow. And one day I hope we will celebrate all together our reconciliation, as the old lands of Falnë and Melroel retrieve a long lost harmony between them, and we all discover a family bond between us all we did not suspect existed.

With love and sorrow,

Your niece,