The Captive Titan [ManxMan]

Chapter Nine: Cursed Parchment

I scowl at him for a long moment. However, as my anger slowly starts to fizzle out, I huff and look away, clenching my hands into fists to keep them still. "I have a letter to think about," I eventually reply, and I will deny to my dying breath that it sounds sulky. When Loki looks prepared to add something, I merely cut him off with, "And I wish to do it alone."

- - - - - - -

Ruad Rofhessa,

I write to you

-

Almost immediately, I unnecessarily scratch out what I have written in a fit of frustration, and then I promptly erase it with a flick of my wrist and a brief shimmer of magic. It is tempting to toss the parchment on the floor to join the number of pens I have destroyed and been too upset to fix, but my access to parchment is far more limited while I have an entire box of disposable, ballpoint pens. After all, pens are quite common, but parchment has long-since been replaced with paper.

The Dagda, however, would likely not accept a thin sheet as a letter.

The king god of my pantheon - the Dagda to most, but Ruad Rofhessa on the occasion that those within my pantheon wish to be particularly respectful - is a bit of a traditionalist. Or, he was, and I do not want to tempt fate by assuming that that is no longer the case. He is undoubtedly going to be angry with me after he reads my letter; I just do not want him to be offended by the very letter itself.

Maybe I should just send a stone tablet; he might appreciate that more, I muse sourly.

Silently scoffing, I try again.

-

Ruad Rofhessa,

It has been many years

-

I stare at the words for a long moment as they start to blur together, but it is not an episode; it is just the fact that I have no idea what I am trying to say or what the Dagda will want me to say, and I thus do not know where to begin. I have tried to start this letter no less than thirty times - plenty more, though, as I intentionally stopped counting at thirty exactly ten attempts ago - and though there are only so many ways to start a letter, I cannot seem to find the one that feels right. How, exactly, does one start a letter to someone after disappearing for hundreds of years?

-

Ruad Rofhessa,

I am a horrible, horrible god who

-

Hissing in frustration, I toss my pen against the wall and stand up from the bed to start pacing along the length of my room, feeling like both a failure and a fool.

I'm going to have to think on this some more.

- - - - - - -

Ruad Rofhessa,

I know it has been some time, but I have returned, and

-

The ink vanishes between one breath and the next, mostly without conscious thought, but it is not as if that one was going to work. Burying my face in my hands, I groan in dismayed frustration, as this letter marks the third hour that I have been attempting this to no avail.

Perhaps I should try again tomorrow with a fresh mind.

- - - - - - -

The next day arrives, but it brings no relief.