The following is scrolled in a careful hand, with tightly looped letters. The page bears shallow indentations beneath each strand of script, betraying the author's meticulous need for even, guided lines.
I asked Tychoric for something to write on today. I don't expect this to become a regular ordeal--parchment is costly, or so Rye always told me. But, nevertheless, it feels good to finally hold a quill in my hand. It's been ages since I last attempted, after my wrist was... injured. I suppose he regretted allowing me write for so long, when he found my sister's correspondence.
That was nearly two years ago, however. I should focus on happier things-- my cause for writing, for instance.
It's a childish reason, really, a waste of paper. I suppose I might simply be feeling bitter. But, as it happens, bitterness is far more pleasant than sorrow, and sorrow more pleasant than guilt, and therefore I shall embrace my bitterness with glee.
You see, my dear, borrowed parchment, last night a tune sprung up from my memory, one which I had not remembered for a very long time. Do you recall that poem the children sung when the Wormwoods were found dead in the marsh? Surely you must, despite being a scrap of an old sheep's hide. Even the sheep here must have heard that infernally catchy tune, back when it was fresh. Perhaps you don't know. It went as such:
Wormwood, Wormwood, with eyes of coal,
What secrets lie within your soul?
There's a loop of rope that's blowing free
Down from the boughs of the hanging tree.
Does it hang for you? Does it hang for me?
Does it ponder the cost of the murders three,
As we grieve for the loss of your family?
Black eyes, black eyes, what do you see,
Beyond the loop of the hanging tree?
It was always such an unnerving little tune. I must admit, however, I liked it better when I didn't know the answers. I know too much for my own good, or perhaps just enough, depending how you see it. They were answers I once readily forgave, but my heart has hardened as of late where Ibota Wormwood is involved. The tune stuck with me throughout the entirety of this morning, and afternoon, and evening -- I daresay Foredawn is upon me as I write this. I made the song longer, changed some of the words. Questions are far kinder than that which Ibota Wormwood deserves. Do enjoy the fruits of my bitterness, dear parchment: there's no one else who will. I call this song "The Hanging Tree".
The Hanging Tree
Wormwood, Wormwood with eyes of coal,
I know the marks upon your soul.
There’s a loop of rope that’s blowing free,
Down from the boughs of the hanging tree,
All for the sake of your murders three,
And all for the love of your family.
Lie on, Lie on with eyes of green
Beside yourself with jealousy
There’s a loop of rope that’s blowing free
Down from the boughs of the hanging tree
All for the sake of your murders three
And all for the love of your family.
Wormwood, Wormwood, with eyes of brown
Crying as caskets hit the ground
There’s a loop of rope that’s blowing free
Down from the boughs of the hanging tree
All for the sake of your murders three
And all for the love of your family.
Lie on, Lie on with eyes of blue
Never forget that the eyes see true
There’s a smear of blood on your black shirt sleeve
There’s a glint in your eye, you pretend to grieve
For the victims of your murders three.
The drowned and mangled — Your family.
Wormwood, Wormwood, with eyes of white,
You’ve disappeared from the valley’s sight.
But the loop of rope’s still blowing free,
And it waits for you, and it waits with me,
Keeping a vigil, we’ll always be,
Under the boughs of the hanging tree,
For the memory of your murders three,
And all for the love
Of your family.
I suppose you might think me cruel for making it so… well, frankly, threatening. Think all you like, but I swear on the grave of my mother that it’s well deserved. If only you knew what horrors she has committed, kind parchment, you would see.
But, alas, having written on both the front and back of you, I fear my writing must come to an end. I cannot stand to have cramped writing squeezed in on the margins, you know. It’s an old habit, but a dear one.
Perhaps someday I shall write again. Until then, be well. Try not to get scorched, or worse, fall into the hands of someone just distant enough from Ibota’s twisted mind that they still deem her trustworthy.
Much love,
Anola Morley
