I regret nothing. Everything was meant to unfold exactly as it did, to bring us here. My only true regret is never telling you how much you meant to me.
As a teenager, I dreamed of Safe Hill while reading about the lost treasure of Solomon's Knights. Years later, I stood on its summit, gazing out over the Zhironda.
I dreamed of Velence's Gothic spires while studying art, and soon after I was gliding through its turbid waters, lost in the feverish mist of the lagoon.
But I never imagined I would marry an assassin — and become one myself.
You never wanted me involved in your missions. It began the night you left your spare gun in the glove box. Thank God you did. It only kept death at bay for a little while.
I always wondered whether you ever felt more than friendship for me. How could you, though? We had known each other for only a few months. I was introduced as your colleague and soon became your fictitious wife. It was strictly professional. I have no right to blame you for your indifference, or for not seeing what was right in front of you.
I should've spoken.
I should've asked.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Because we're a damaged, crippled generation.
The reluctance. The impotence. The West has poisoned our minds with its propaganda. We can no longer believe in unconditional love, in selfless care. We've been taught that only sex and money matter, and anyone who disagrees is a sentimental fool to be mocked and discarded.
I am that foule sentimentale. I always was. In my youth I surrendered blindly to my emotions, pouring my passion onto people I believed I loved with all the raw brutality of youth. They didn't want it. They didn't value sincerity or decency; they wallowed in immorality. It took me years to accept that. To protect the light inside me, I dimmed it and cloaked myself in apathy. That was how I survived.
Then I met you.
You were the healing force that quieted the rage consuming me. Every glance, every word from you filled me with joy so fierce I could hardly bear it. I counted the hours until I saw you again, yet when I did, I could scarcely meet your eyes for fear you would notice how happy I was simply because you existed.
No matter what anyone says, or what you might have thought, our marriage was never fictitious to me. It was the only real marriage I have ever known. And what a marriage it was.
It's easy to confess now when it no longer matters. I can't change anything with these belated words. Still…
I love you, Volodja.
I love you with the force of a magnetic field, and I'm terrified it will crush me.
I'm so sorry I never told you before. God knows I had plenty of chances.