Dear Peter,

It was a rather starry night, do you remember?

The moon hung in the corner of the dark tableau, much like an ornament. My heart was fastened by a thread, wailing like the blatant sirens that encompassed us that very night. Oh, how could you not remember the poniard plunged—immersed into your soul with the guilty, bloodied hands held so dearly by you before?

It was a terrifying night.

I told you not to fight; I said it would scar your soul. But to paint instead, not with the blood of your disadvantaged opponent, but with the colors of life and of love. But you didn't listen to your sweet Lucy, you never did. 

You fought. Blindly, with your heart locked away like a rogue animal and your fists flying freely through the thick air, you fought. You fought your fight and did not come out unwounded. Touched, scarred, pained by the realities I had warned you so intently about, you were victorious. It was not doubt that had previously embedded itself into my heart but fear. It was the fear that you'd seek through the conquering mist something unattainable— impossible to feel with the bloodied, yearning fingers that branched out of your heart, and came hurtling towards mine. 

It was exquisite.

You'd given in. You had given in to my silent pleads and cries, spoken in a language unknown to any other. With an art seeming so alien to you before, you painted the perfect picture. It was you and me, do you remember? Just us. The diverse colors that had stained the sky following a tormenting, electrifying storm, had never before seemed so beautiful and so calm.

Now it's my turn. 

To you, Peter, I write with a pen filled with the ink of love, inscribed on a sheet of fate. To you, Peter, I embellish this paper with words deeming appropriate for our story. The story of Peter and Lucy. 

And my dear Peter, I hope this is one you will remember.

(a/n) an idea. thoughts?