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Dearest Jasmine,

You once told me I could tell you everything. I didn't. I think that was the first time I failed you. I tried, though. I tried to tell you I didn't feel worthy of complete happiness because of the things I had done, and you smiled and said I deserved whatever happiness you could give me. For what it's worth, you gave me a lot. For the first time since coming to this world and failing at the task I was raised to do, my life made sense to me again. I existed so that you could come to us and bring us peace. Everything that happened to me, everything I did to others, surely that all was justified if in the end there was a world of peace and happiness for everyone?

One of my professors quoted Milton recently. Did I request thee, Maker from my clay/ to mould me man?/ Did I solicit thee,/ from darkness to promote me? He said he doesn't know how anyone could love their creator. I guess the only way is if your creator is also your daughter. I could never be angry with you. Everyone else hated you in the end, as you knew they would, and you couldn't deal with that. So I never could be. But the thing is, Jasmine, that's why, if you came back, I still couldn't tell you everything, and why I'm writing to you now when I know you'll never read this letter. Because of course I'm angry. It took me a while to understand about Cordy. Before you died, before I died and got mindwiped and brought back, before that I thought Cordy was like me when it came to you - that she chose to be your mother, and that everything she did was for you, to create a new world, because that was what she wanted. I didn't figure it out until my memories came back. That Cordy hadn't been like me. Okay, maybe in parts, maybe something in her had said yes at first, but mostly you overwhelmed her.

That's why you had her moved to that church, wasn't it? Because it suddenly occured to you that there might come a point where loving you and loving her wasn't going to be the same thing for me, now that you were separate beings. Most of the time, I try not to think about it, because if you made her be with me, if that wasn't her decision, it means I helped you rape her, and I loved her. It also means that the one I really had sex with was you, and that's maybe even worse. When I got that the first time, I ran out of class and threw up. I was still at Stanford then, and when I came back, Tim Hu said, Man, Riley, I thought you didn't have much beer last night.

But each time I think of that and each time I'm angry with you, I also remember how you were during those few weeks, and I can't get it into my head. There was nothing malicious about you, I know there wasn't. You couldn't even stand watching me hit your enemies; you told me to stop that when it happened. You were kind and gentle, and I know you wanted to give us everything. A world with no hate. And you loved me, and Cordelia. I felt it. I never felt whatever everyone else felt when they looked at you and obeyed you completely, but I did feel your love. Just like I felt your despair, later. So that is what I can't understand, Jasmine. I can understand Father. It wasn't that he didn't love me, he just hated Angel more, and there was no way it could have been otherwise. One person just isn't enough to make up for everything that happened to him. But you didn't hate anyone. Especially not Cordy. So how could you do it?

Maybe what I should be angry with you about are all those people you ate, but somehow, I can't be. Which I guess makes me have fucked up double standards, given that I hunt vampires who eat not nearly as many if they're not Angelus or Darla. Anyway, the eating people thing - that never felt personal, you know? But what happened to Cordy does.

Sometimes I wonder. Whether I could have saved your life instead of killing you, if I had been angry with you to your face. If I had refused to do what you wanted earlier. If I had done all that, and still wouldn't have left you. Because then you'd have seen it's possible. That someone loves you without you making him do so, and that you can bear hate and anger because there is still love left as well. I don't think you understood I didn't love you because you made me; if you had understood that, you wouldn't have tried to keep the fact your blood made Fred and the others see you as you really were a secret from me. And how could you have understood, when I didn't have the guts to tell you?

So there it is. I'm angry with you, and I failed you, and maybe sometimes I hate you a little, but what I said to you before I killed you is still true, and you must know it. I love you. I always did. I always will.

I'm sorry.

Connor
abetterlie: (Default)
ooc: As requested for Christmas, and written on paper in Connor's less than stellar handwriting which is a weird mixture of old fashioned (due to Holtz) and 21st century messiness.

Dear Man of Many Talents, )

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abetterlie

July 2010

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