Love

He stares at the word scrawled neatly on top of parchment paper, chewing the end of his quill thoughtfully, then dips it into the inkwell again, and lowers the instrument slowly onto the paper once more.

Love is the butterflies fluttering in your heart 

When your loved one comes and calls

Love is the skip in your step when you walk to the door

When your loved one comes and knocks 

Love is the flowers blooming in the early spring

Is the warm glow of the blazing sun 

Is the dance of the leaves in the crisp autumn air

Is the first snowflake cascading to the ground

Love is delicate 

Like Florence's crocheted lace lying under the sun 

Love is strong

Like the bonds which has held us 

Love is beautiful 

Like the red rose that blooms in the dawn

Love is the ripple of water

When a stone is thrown in 

Love is the cold whispers of the dead

Love is the silent wait of the trial 

Love is the subtle appearance of Hades 

Love is the skip in the maiden's step

When she dances in the Mayflower dance

Wearing a dress and a flower crown 

The crown of the Mayflower Queen 

Love is the Crowning of the grown 

Of the mature and of the wise 

Love is everything and nothing 

Love is the silent promise between me and you 

Vale, amica mea, 

William 

With a trembling hand, the man signs his name in a flourish, and places the quill on the inkwell carefully. He straightens the paper, and admiring his handiwork, puts it under the candlelight, and stands up to fetch another parchment, as well as an envelope, and of course, his family seal. 

The seal of the Hallowreaths. 

Carefully, he copies his letter, word by word, stanza by stanza, the description of love which so delicately and subtly weaves its way through the yellowish-brown material of the paper, and once more, signs it with in a flourish, this time sliding it into the envelope and sealing it carefully with wax, putting the mark of his family proudly on display, a wreath made of thorns circling around a dagger, one long vine detaching itself from the top and bottom respectively, wounding around the smooth blade and then joining the wreath once more, with a large silver H on top of the point the thorns met. 

He also writes the name of the person who will receive the precious letter at the back, and admires the way he himself traces the name of his lover, then places it aside. 

Then, with the other paper which he has so meticulously laboured on, he folds it into half, and places it into a small lacquered box in which he has kept many other small treasures...a flower, a bracelet, an engagement ring... 

The man closes the box with a snap. He cannot afford to let those feelings consume him once again, just as they had done so on the day of his death. It will only bring grief and sadness. 

He picks up the envelope once more. With a loving caress and one last look, he flings it into the fireplace in which a fire burns brightly within, and lets the flames consume the paper, before turning away from it with steel-like resolve, with the name of the recipient still fresh in his mind. 

Jung Daehyun.

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Note: this may or may not be a spoiler for In Statera Et Iter. We shall see ;)