Eaku,

I want to write to you to let you know you have let yourself down. I could write the words repeatedly, but I realize it changes nothing. I could scream it at the top of my lungs, let the world know just how your high ground is a farce, but the past will not hear me or pay me any mind. I could hate you. I could keep that hatred for you deep inside of me and let it hide there safely as a reminder of the lies you brought upon the Pride as well as the Council. You will deny it of course for some feigned moral high ground.

I was your friend. I was your family. I was your peer. You are a person that could have been any number of things to me, and at one point you were. Disappointment certainly plays no favorites when it chooses people in our lives to let us down. I at one point always had faith in you. I trusted you and the promises that you made to your once family. I believed in your aspirations and disregarded your ambiguity thinking naively you would choose betterment over redundancy. We let you in, against clearly the best interest of the Pride. I had staunchly defended you, and saw the beautiful parts of who you were. I made plans with you and kept them in my head like a guaranteed magnificent destination we all wanted to see come to fruition. I loved you not as a partner but as a sibling. The Pride indeed gave you all that you had until you were forced to make a choice, just as I was. We see who faltered.

You of all people know the importance of honoring the dead, that death leads to renewal, we do so as we always have. Trying to use this as some skewed and warped perspective to finger point in the 'You're wrong' is wildly laughable because we don't care about what you - an oathbreaker, an outcast to the Pride has to say. You will continue to flounder to preach right and wrong while still lingering in the desperate's grasp. You cling to this like you're the martyr in this and frankly, if your stance is just as tired as the next.


Your plays at heartstrings or guilt mean nothing to the council, crawl back to them as you crawled to them for validation, and have Enorian stroke your ego while telling you pretty little nothings to make you feel like your voice is heard. None of us truly care about your opinions, they come as frequently as gas passed from boars.

Arista

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 21st of Chakros, in the year 510 MA.