2022.05.15, Cú Aoife

I cannot say that I have always been close with my family, as you well know. They have inflicted certain difficulties upon me in my life, and for that reason I will hold them in my heart with a burning hatred second only to one, and that is you, my dearest. Ties may be severed and the blood of kin spilled, but the mark of family is not quite so easily erased. I may be estranged and exiled, but I am still an Ulaidh at heart, and always shall be.

Which is what brings me to the primary subject of my letter: my mother's comfort food, crab cakes. It was an old family recipe of Méabh's stretching back generations. Her own mother, my grandmother, used to prepare it while she was pregnant with her children; a tradition that Méabh continued. Even afterwards, I have many fond memories of being a small child, helping to knead the ingredients together and even, once I was old enough to hold a knife, helping to kill and clean the crabs.

Killing the crabs was always my favorite part. My mother expected me to have some measure of concern over it, but I never really did. They're sea bugs, after all, and just because they were bigger it didn't bother me more than swatting at mosquitoes. My father, I remember, used to watch me do my butchery with a strange look on his face. I think he thought that this was a good sign in his child, that a child unbothered by ending the life of a crustacean would certainly have no compunctions about ending the lives of much bigger and more intelligent creatures. I was certainly a disappointment to him in that respect, though I suppose that, looking back, that he was correct after a fashion. Child I no longer am, and I certainly have no regrets for my actions at the end of his life. But there is such a difference between the butchery of an animal to live and the murder of a person. Years later, even after I gave his flesh to the crabs he so loved to eat himself, it still remains frightening to me that he could not see the difference.

But I digress. The point of this note is not to bore you with stories about my family that you have heard before, though I confess that I am of late thinking much about my upbringing and early life. It's only natural that one should think of the beginning of life when confronted with the end of it, however maudlin that sounds. Which brings me back to the primary subject of my letter, namely, my mother's crabcakes that I miss so dearly. Would that I could make them here, but alas, even if we were to have a consistent supply of shellfish, I cannot say that the herb mixture found near these ruins is especially tasty. My mother used a combinaiton of capsicum, cardamom, cloves, and musardseed, and of these the only one that I have a ready access to is the flask of pickled chillis that I keep with me on expeditions, and even then that has a wildly different flavor from the varietals that my mother was used to cooking with.

Our ingredients, then, are as follows:
 * spice mixture, ideally consisting of aromatic herbs, crushed pepper, and salt in a ratio of 2:1:1
 * meat of one large crab, or several small ones, cleaned and minced
 * crumbled toasted bread, approximately 1/4 of a loaf
 * 2 eggs
 * butter
 * 1 green onion, chopped

Ideally you would have access to a chicken coop of some sort for the most authentic version of this recipe, as I would often go to a neighbor's to borrow eggs and dairy for this. The fresher, the better. Wherever they may be sourced, combine the wet ingredients together into a bowl with the spice mixture, and stir together until well combined. At this point, slowly add in the meat of the crab and the bread, incorporating them into a dough.

Lay out the dough into a ball, and squish it together between your hands such that it creates a small cake. Butter your pot or pan of choice and place it over the flame and pan-fry the cakes until golden brown. All but the most dedicated of spies have certainly stopped reading at this point, yes?

This expedition was a disaster. It began well enough: myself, Thomlyn, and Worthy Friend were to approach the dam found previously and attempt to deal with the mechanical creatures that lived inside. Our way there was mostly uneventful, save for one point where Thomlyn attempted to wade across the river on Worthy Friend's back, nearly killing the both of them until I stepped in to save them. At that point I decided to have Scáthach take us the rest of the way, lest we endanger ourselves further.

Upon our arrival at the dam things quickly escalated. Worthy Friend immediately reduced one of the short towers adorning the front of the dam to rubble, at which point some of the mechanical creatures showed up. In the wake of the explosion, the mechanical beings showed up to begin clearing the rubble, and both Thomlyn and I attempted to engage them in communication, hoping to avoid bloodshed. My attempt was a failure that rewarded me with a painfully singed hand, though thankfully I retain the use of it. Thomlyn had more success in communication with them, for a certain value of "success"--it did at least seem like they understood that Thomlyn was attempting to communicate with them, but their response was to summon reinforcements.

The fight that followed was brutal. One of the mechanical creatures seemed to be some sort of leader: at least, the other ones defended it, and it seemed to issue orders. We made this a priority to destroy, and we were eventually able to, but at great cost. The other creatures fought brutally, with powerful attacks and no individual sense of self-preservation, throwing themselves in front of our blows that had been aimed at their leader. But we killed it, thanks in no small part to Worthy Friend and his overwhelming force.

Which makes what I say next all the more sad. We realized that recovering this body was a key part of our expedition: its autopsy is sure to be one of the most valuable actions we could undertake. I was able to escape first, carrying it upon my back, and waited a safe distance away for Worthy Friend and Thomlyn to follow. Thomlyn had taken a hard beating, but Worthy Friend helped them up, and he stood back to cover their retreat. After our rendezvous we stood in the shadow of the dam, silent but for the soft mechanical whirring of the dam and the flow of the stream, for what felt like an age. Worthy Friend did not return. We could not even recover his remains without jeopardizing our mission, and so we left him in the ruined tower that was his grave and set back for the portal.

Our journey back was not easy. One of the villages along the way was infested with insectoid monstrosities, and we were forced to take the long way around. The very sky itself seemed to call out to us. I cannot put it into words. It is as though every step was the last step off a precipice. It was as though the earth was in its death throes after the Sky had slit its throat, and we were the loose coins in its pocket that the brigand firmament was pilfering. It was sickening. The weight of the mechanical creature that I carried helped steady me, but Thomlyn looked as though at any moment their next step might be their last, and they would fall upwards into the sky, instead of continuing to blaspheme against it with every unsteady step onto the ground. Up and down were to be married, and with every inch forward we insisted on their annulment. I do not know if the Sky can feel hunger, or rancor, or contempt. But if any could, it would be this.

As we neared the end of our journey, disaster struck. A group of herons set upon us: whether they were attempting to eat us I'm still unsure of, as our efforts to throw them back did not end in success. I attempted to scare them off, to little avail. Eventually I ordered Scáthach to fight and to cover my and Thomlyn's retreat as we ran, hoping that her ferocity would cover for us. What happened next was unthinkable. As I neared the portal, my prize in reach, I felt my arm snap. In that moment, my father's lectures about being one with the shadow, to merge my consciousness with the Gloam--I understood it. I felt it. I felt the heron's beak slice through Scáthach's arm, and I felt the horror in watching my--her--our--the arm lie on the floor, leaking smoky blood. Her right arm is gone. My left arm is useless. In that moment, she retreated back to me as Thomlyn activated the portal, and we returned, our payload intact, our party broken, our bodies ruined, our spirits fractured.

O Aoife, my Aoife. My dearest nemesis. I have never been as alone as I am now. My colleagues come to visit me in my convalescence, but the inches between us might as well be miles. The lamp by my bedside burns bright, but I cast no shadow. I lay at night, fevered, thinking of my mother and her kindnesses, my father and his crimes, my lover and her cruelties.

I have not seen Scáthach since our return. I am ascian. It is done. I am victorious. But is this what victory feels like, to lie abed wondering if I am the arm that was severed?