My name is Yero Sunwind, and this is my first "life letter".
Last night Sira and I had a lengthy talk about our plans for the future. At one point Sira noticed that a lot of visionaries tend to become cynical - the reason being they lose sight of their goals. These "documentations" shall record my aspirations. In moments of weakness I want to read these, to remind myself of what is dear to me. Well, this is the first one.
Just yesterday the Keeper of the Order from Ark visited the village. And if that weren't enough, he also detected some magic inside of me. Is that even possible? Me, an arcanist! It's difficult to express my feelings with words. I feel like all my hard work is finally paying off.
Interestingly this arouses a peculiar, somewhat morbid thought: Maybe it is, in some sad way, even "good" that my mother passed away. Why? Because it opened my eyes. Now I don't feel anything other than a lack of understanding - and yes, even anger - towards the simpletons of the village, both the children and adults. Day after day, it is always the same: They get up, work, and let themselves be amused by the bards in the evening. Can't they see what's happening with the world? Everything they pass on, should it really be just a brief inscription on a stone? Sira is different. She understands me; she shares my dream. And if Master Igraz accepts her as an apprentice, we could continue to be as close in the noviciate as we are right now.
Fifteen years have passed and a lot of my wishes have come true. Sira and I are now living together, but with the craftsmen, instead of in the Temple Quarters.
It has been five years since I completed the Holy Trial. Despite what I had originally planned, I have decided against the military path and will be a school teacher instead. Why? Because I believe that I can reach a lot more people by sharing my vision with the young, rather than fighting in wars. Such things might sometimes be necessary, but they stand for everything that I stand against.
Beyond that, the Truchessa has recently adopted the "Food Bank" bill, which Sira and I developed together. Twice a year rich Endraleans are obliged to contribute a handful of Pennies into a chest, with which the poorest in the Undercity are bought a warm meal. The reactions were mixed. Some agreed almost enthusiastically, while others were outraged. Often I would hear things like "It's their own fault they live in misfortune!" or "If they would actually work, they wouldn't starve." Such people make me furious. What cursed ignorance this is! Of course it's easy for them to see the sky from the top of their ivory towers, but they will never understand the plight of the poor.
Despite how angry this letter might seem, I'm quite content overall. I am starting to feel as if I have a purpose, that I'm moving in the right direction. And my happiness is due in no small part to the woman who has always stayed by my side throughout all these years. It's strange ... I know you will probably never read these pages, just as I might never see one of your letters, but still, I have the feeling as I'm writing these words that I'm talking to you through the ink. With that in mind: I love you, Sira.
Sira is dead. Killed by a group of scoundrels as she was delivering food for the Food Bank in the Undercity.
How quickly these words have been written down. But how can I express this anguish, this ... emptiness, even remotely? It sounds so absurd. I'm talking to a piece of paper, because no one else wants to listen to me, nor could they even remotely understand what this means to me. Sira always told me that these letters would give me strength, but they don't. These lines appear unfamiliar to me; everything feels wrong. I feel wrong as I get up in the morning. I feel wrong when the sun hides behind the cloudy sky at noon, and I feel wrong as I lie alone in this big bed in the evening.
Malphas judges suicide to be a sin, since every one of us has a purpose in life to fulfill. But could this really be my purpose? I might have thirty winters left at most, depending on whether or not an illness snatches me away, and behind me I can see nothing but failed dreams. Our damned Food Bank has led to downright wars at the banquets of the Undercity, the rich trying to weasel their way out of making payments as much as they can ... And in front of me I can see nothing but ... Fog? That seems most fitting.
So tell me, Malphas, is this really my path, is this my purpose? To be a failure whose fate it is to die alone?
My thoughts are chaotic, and I'm tired. I don't want to keep writing.