History: Originally conceptualized as the character most integral to the instigation of numerous significant events which predicate the start of the full-length novel (PART 2- The Novel Chapter 1), Benedict was intended to be considerably anatomized through these three letters he left behind. As Benedict had been presumed dead twenty years prior to the initiation of the narrative, the novel’s protagonist, who encounters the old correspondences, experiences one side of a revelatory and intimate conversation that elucidates Benedict’s personality and past tribulations. Throughout the remainder of the still-unfinished novel, I planned to sporadically contribute to the further development of Benedict’s character and mentality through the retrospective accounts and reminiscences his past acquaintances would provide.
Background: One of the most paramount influences on the specific vernacular and legato cadence which categorize my particular writing style is unequivocally Edgar Allan Poe. I was profoundly affected by the aberrant, oxymoronic nature inherent to his writing, whereby his eloquent and mellifluous language was often employed to beautifully describe unconscionable acts of brutality or the gruesome, progressive corruption of the human psyche. When approaching these letters and the sort of subject matter I desired to depict, the atmospheric, morose density of Poe’s words seemed to be extremely well-suited to this scenario, leading me to irreverently challenge myself to emulate Poe for this short segment of my novel. Though I can’t profess to have achieved accuracy (I didn’t), this self-imposed test was still entertaining to attempt!
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Dearest Antares, (June 1874)
I hope this letter serves as the warmest of welcomes awaiting your formal arrival amongst the prodigious halls of the palace. I must admit, though we witnessed the extensive preparations which preceded your move to the capital, it has, only now upon the recognition of its reality and the submergence into the silence left by your absence, become inescapably apparent that we are regrettably ill-equipped to contend with so substantial and immediate a change as this. The jocularity surrounding our final moments together still resonates soundlessly within these walls, and despite the innate impossibility I still almost expect the visage of my greatest friend, my goddaughter, and my son to greet me should I be so inclined to unlatch the front door. As difficult as this transition has been for me, it is truly trivial in comparison to the execrable pain foisted upon poor Josephine. I have found that the oft curative nature of the passage of time has yet to stymie the fluidity with which the heavy tears roll down her soft cheeks. I know she does still assent to the decision that we made regarding Edwin; however, she will not forgo ascribing blame on herself for being the progenitor of its unfortunate necessity. I would be much obliged if you could include some additional words of comfort to her in your response, as mine alone have been surely inefficacious in allaying these terrible cogitations of hers. I fear that, in her weakened state, the stress of the separation from our son may only prove to exacerbate her symptoms. The doctors assure me of her current stability, and I have every expectation that the end of this summer will coincide with the restoration of her former health and vitality if all proceeds as anticipated with the treatment. Perhaps continuous reminders that Edwin’s return home will swiftly succeed the cessation of her illness can encourage a hastened recovery. I can already sense your incredulity at my expression of what must be an unscientific principle, and I presume my assumptions will be affirmed upon the receipt of your reply.
No matter the duration of Edwin’s residence with you and Cinna, I cannot effectively articulate my gratefulness for the devotion and love you have demonstrated for our family. I am resolutely certain that the capacious corridors of a palace are far more suitable to the adventurous, puerile whims of children than the shabby, narrow rooms of our apartments, and Edwin, most assuredly, will flourish there beside his best friend. Josephine and I are aware of his initial response to the departure, as we heard his tearful wails trailing behind from our open window, though I have hope that, like his mother, he will find the dissolution of his sorrows to accompany the gradual passage of time. Additionally, the malleability of the young mind will prevent the pain of this moment from being irrevocably riveted into his memory. In that knowledge, I must find solace.
Remind him frequently of our affections for him.
-Benedict
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Antares, (November 1874)
Forgive me for the explicit nature of the following recount, I unfortunately feel it is a necessity which may allow for some semblance of justification for my actions. You are cognizant of the wretched lowness of my character, yet I do not want your pity nor your sympathy, instead, I only ask that in reading my words, you can refrain from the most malicious of judgement. Of my love for her you cannot doubt, even as the categorical verbosity of my writing unexpectedly fails me and I am consigned to merely express this love in such base terms as “profound” and “ineffable”. As I have previously expressed in my letters, the degradation of her health has proceeded unimpeded by our innumerable attempts at amelioration; however, as of recently, Josephine has declined precipitously. If I am to be honest with you, and if I am to be honest with myself, the physical manifestations of this change disturbed me terribly. I witnessed, with insurmountable despondency, the warm blush that gently caressed the soft curves of her cherubic features gradually sallow, as her rounded cheeks hollowed into sunken cavities. The beautiful, affable vitality once captured in the luster of her expressive green eyes faded, supplanted by a cloudy film falling like a veil across fixed, lifeless pupils. Her luscious, smiling lips thinned and curled, and their perpetual part laid bare teeth that were stained and smelled of stagnant blood. She would turn her fetid breath toward my ear and whisper in a cracking, feeble voice as I held tightly to her trembling hands, “Don’t leave me”. Every evening as I relaxed in an armchair beside our bed, I would be inexorably haunted by the phantasmagoric specter of her cadaverous appearance that seemed to arise from amongst the silent shadows of the lonely apartment. Sleep soon forewent its nightly visitation. You must understand how the pernicious corrosivity of the contemplation of her decaying form ate away at my mind. I made my decision, after weeks of agonizing perseveration, to leave her well-being entirely in the hands of her capable attendants. At my exhortation, they send messages divulging her status at the end of each week. She asks for me often, as I am told. As much as I desperately long to be by her side, I cannot bring myself to look upon her for the fear of tarnishing the integrity of the remaining memories I have of her at the peak of vivaciousness.
Excoriate me for my lack of mettle, and here you will find no objection.
I have found the dissipation of this darkness that surrounds me to have its only derivation from reminiscing upon the comfort of your visage and this presence of you I feel elicited from the tender words of consolation you offer, despite its unfortunate lack of both physicality and tangibility. Though I must be frank with you, I regard the growing latency of your replies with great sorrow and trepidation; I hope I can attribute the infrequency of your letters to the accumulating responsibilities preceding the upcoming coronation and not from any declination in affection for me born from our continued separation. I do not wish these previous statements of mine to be perceived of as some sort of injunction, but suffice it to say that your letters and my work are the two sole sources of happiness I have left in this world.
It has brought us both comfort to hear that Edwin’s acclimation to the regimented daily proceedings of the palace has progressed with greater rapidity than anticipated. Perhaps, in a few months’ time, you will finally find him able to sleep uninterruptedly without those punctuated, violent fits.
-Benedict
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Antares, (June 1875)
She is gone. We are to convey her body to the charnel on Sunday morn after these two agonizing days of observance have past. Fortune, it seems, has never been more to me than an obsequious, combative foe, of which I am now immutably certain, given the untimely day that Death has decided to make my wife his acquaintance. Though news of recent events has mostly eluded me, I am cognizant that the date of your coronation is officially set for this Monday. I fully understand the consequent implications, and how the possibility of your presence at her funeral is compromised. It would be indubitably selfish, and frankly untenable, for me to presume that the festivities could be postponed on my account alone and, resultantly, I refuse to give credence to these thoughts or submit them for your potential rumination. However, at the very least, Antares, please, with all the love that you feel in your heart for me, try to be at my side in attendance of her burial. Upon perusal of the local train schedule for this upcoming Sunday, I have ascertained that an afternoon departure should coincide with an arrival back at the capital in the early evening; would this be sufficient to afford you time to prepare for the ceremony on the succeeding day? It is my most sincere hope that the caprices of fate will allow this to be an acceptable arrangement, as I am truly in desperate need of the attainment of some modicum of alleviation of my sorrows.
In all the sound and fury of the past few hours, the suppressive silence welcoming my return to solitude has unexpectedly conjured the most vivid recollection of that dismal afternoon when we bade our final farewells to Eliza, while newborn Cinna writhed agitatedly in my arms and shrieked as clangorously as her little lungs would permit. As evidently disparate as our current trajectories in life are—I am sure you will not interpret my saying so as a demonstration of jealousy, as you know this to be innately incongruous with my disposition—it seems we have still managed to experience commonality in the nature of our grief.
Though I am anxiously awaiting your reply, it should be known that, regardless of its contents, I assure you my affections for you will not waver.
For now and always, your greatest friend,
-Benedict