Post-it graphic provided by Silverah.
Word count: 558

He had notes.
They were kept neatly tucked into a pocket journal, the kind with an elastic strap to keep it shut. There were skritches in Swedish and Norse on the pages around them, mostly single words or phrases meant to remind him of things without giving away his involvement in the Negaverse. The journal was becoming soft edged and worn from travel and pocketing.

The notes were become pliable and more like cloth from gentle, but frequent handling. Some of the ink was smudged a bit, bleeding into the fiber of the paper. Blood seemed more literal with the other- the crossword bit with a brown-crusty seal and hasty writing. The discovery of matching handwriting in his patrol pad, even without the seal, was also treasured there. Hvergelmir's unexpected gift. A favor from a High Lady. And the Post-It with the little lamp, assuring that Babylon had gotten home safe was there, his first gift of knight magic and a proof of trust, a favor from a high lord.

He pulled the three notes out in turn, tracing the tiny letters with his too-big hands. Pressed and cupped the little papers like prayer between both paws, and rested his forehead against his hands. A heave of breath came unbidden- too similar to a sigh or sob for comfort.

I wish there were some way to reach them back. Hoping for more words, even just to know they are well, sleeping or making tea. Settling down to ...do whatever they do when they are at ease.

'To know they are well.'

I do not trust they are kept properly. Could I do so? Look at your own lord, how well you have kept him. When you can even find him. What do you keep, but hope? Hope and wishes to know these other high lord and lady are well. They're health and happiness can't replace Obsidian's. It doesn't make that ache do away. If they did write you, it wouldn't make his snarls less painful when you do manage to find him in the Rift. Or in the little apartment. It won't make the addiction go away.

It won't stop the descent any more than you've been able to with your 'keeping' of him. Fine service, fine oath.


"Why have they made me a captain. What worth have I shown to lead."
They weren't questions, they had no answers. He hadn't inspired any fellow lieutenants. He hadn't shown any great successes in duty or on special missions. The few other operatives he knew were inactive, insane, or disgraced. And what does wishing on enemies, even if they're friends, help with? It doesn't. I don't even know if talking to them as I do will get me branded or demoted just like Buddy or Ladon. I should care more, if it please my Queen.

I wish there were some way to hear her pleasure instead of her disgust. She spoke to all of us at that meeting. It is hard to love a Queen from so very far. Not even a word. Not like these notes. I know they are at least a little happy. It eases my heart.

"Queen and Lord. They have voices, but they do not speak."

And I am lost.