When you were shot protecting me, and you were bleeding out over me, you promised to love me forever. Now, I don’t know if that was even truth, or something said in your perceived last moments.
We did battle together, and now, I’m left alone. To me, it feels like you died that day. I know that you’re not dead, and likely out finding someone better than me, but in my heart, I’m still mourning you. I’m mourning US. What could have been is always on my mind.
I’m sorry I told you if you left it was over. It took me about a week to figure out that was horrible to say to someone I love. I was scared. Losing you meant losing me, and now, a year later, I know that you’re truly gone.
I lost you, D’Artangnan, and I’m slipping away too. We were forged in battle, and now, I’m fighting alone. I don’t have my partner, my soulmate, or my best friend. I don’t know what I did to make you want to go back to the US, but I’m sorry that I gave you an ultimatum when I should have asked you to marry me.
I wanted to be your husband.
I even bought the rings.
That night, we were going to sneak over to the next town and have dinner. I was going to propose onthe cliffs. I was going to ask you to marry me—to stay when your tour was up. I was going to ask you to be my forever.
And now, forever is gone.
I’m gone.
I lied. I do know why I’m writing these letters. It’s so I can never forget that I had my soulmate, and instead of being a coward and afraid to beg on my hands and knees, I let you go.
I’m sorry, D’Artangnan, my M'eudail. I’m so goddamn sorry that I failed us. I wish I could take those moments back. I wish with all I am.
Yours forever.
G.’
Oh, hell.
Michael read the letter, and it hurt his heart. It hurt him in ways he couldn’t even articulate. Had he known any of this, he would have told him the truth.
He would have shared the classified nature of the job he’d taken for them. Michael would have broken the rules for love.
Jesus.
The pain…
Michael couldn’t imagine how much Graham was suffering in that year after.
Oh, he’d been too, but he’d moved on, being angry with him when now, he saw that he’d been just as guilty of making the wrong choice.
He could have told him the truth.
He could have put country behind love for one moment in time, and trusted that Graham wouldn’t have said anything.
Why didn’t he?
What had been wrong with him?
When the box in front of him moved again, closer to him, he got the picture.
Either Duncan or Ciarán wanted him to read more. Maybe they both wanted that.
He wasn’t sure.
Pulling out the next letter in the sequence of the envelopes, he opened it.
And he began reading it.
‘My Dearest D’Artangnan,
