Mearcstapa
The funeral of Sir Hartley Wentworth is not a public affair, but it feels like one. The entire extended family, it seems, arrives to pay their respects and politely eye up the estate. Wentworth didn't have children, after all. So to whom will the crown fall?
The halls of the house echo with whispers regarding the specific circumstances of Hartley’s death. The broad assumption is, of course, that he died heroically in the line of duty. No one disputes it.
The body is interned in the family mausoleum. Presiding over events is a dark-haired stranger with yellow-green eyes and a scarred left hand.
To the immense chagrin of every distant relative, Nassim Mahmoud inherits everything.
The ensuing legal disputes come to nothing. The will is perfectly clear, and Nassim, apparently, has been Sir Hartley Wentworth’s child by law since the age of fifteen.
Still, it’s utterly preposterous, the relatives scoff impotently. This inheritor, whatever their name is, never even visits the estate. They spend more time three hundred miles away, squirreled away reading poetry in some northern town by the sea. How is that fair? No, they say. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.
A letter, written in Grendel’s handwriting:
Nassim.
Yes, that is your name. Try not to flinch. He’s not here anymore.
You’ve been through a lot, in the past year. You don’t remember any of it. That’s alright. Life and loss are always holding hands. But you know that already.
There’s a question you should ask yourself, if you haven’t yet. It will hurt you. But it’s important.
Think of the day you met him, if you can. Soaked with rain. A muddy airfield, traversed under the cover of cloud-shadow. Your hands on the controls, steady and skilful when they really should have fumbled. The impossible rush of flying. And then the comedown. The guns, raised then lowered at the sound of his voice. The shock setting in. Your hands shaking, finally.
His offer. The choice that wasn’t really a choice.
If you were in his position, Nassim, would you do what he did?
When a friend asked me that question, I knew my answer immediately. I’d let the child go. Check that their home life was okay, maybe. Find them what help I could. But I wouldn’t keep them. I’d let them go.
I hope thinking about that changes things for you. It changed things for me.
It wasn’t that question alone, of course. It was conversations, card games, shouting matches. Sometimes it was bloody, sometimes softer. Nassim, you are marked with scars from a journey that will be forgotten. And yet that lack of memory does not make you any less changed.
Hold onto Frances, please. It doesn’t matter how you met, how it started. Not really. What’s important is how it carries on.
Let her be kind to you. Please. And be kind to her in return.
And, one day, maybe, once you’ve finally worked up the courage, show her our home, as thanks for letting us into hers, and as a long-deserved reparation to yourself.
Tacked on just before the signoff is a fragment from a poem, written in the same handwriting:
our city of gull-cries and prayer-voices
watched by over by God and the silent clock tower;
our city of sea-scent and sun-warmth
glowing through rainless clouds over speaking waters.