#I’ve grown attached to the Cornish Koloman over the weeks

[viric-dreams]

There was a silver lining to Jones’ stressful mission infiltrating the Koloman Delegation during the Games. He’d managed to make a friendly contact—a surface spy from Cornwall, who found the goings-on just as ridiculous as he did. But her bosses told her to come down to the Neath, so here she was.

The Cornish Koloman at least had a sense of humour about it. And the longer they spoke, the more affinity he had for her. This seemed to be reciprocal, with the interest she’d taken in him. She didn’t know his role, but seemed generally sympathetic toward the cause. Perhaps she could be turned.

Following her departure to the surface, they kept in touch, their letters decidedly friendly in nature, but always with the undercurrent of something else. She’d mention updates from the surface, vaguely allude to the pieces moving above, hints that may be useful. Perhaps she’d suspected his allegiances and wanted to offer something of use. It’s unlikely to be simply friendly small talk—she’s clever, after all.

As time went on and the constable’s menacing weighed heavier and heavier on him, it became more and more difficult to write. His letters would be equally sociable in nature, each piece of correspondence dutifully reported up the chain, but slower, each letter needing longer and longer to write.

He was hardly working anymore. What was the point with the walls closing in on him? If the Constable wouldn’t get him, his own side would. The surveillance was constant now. They were gearing up to make a move, he could feel it. He’d meant to write some sort of a goodbye, yet it had somehow gotten buried in the pile—too many affairs to get in order. He’d probably forgotten something important, but he’d long since stopped keeping track of the things he’d forgotten. He regrets not writing a final letter.