She sends Amarant letters at regular intervals during her travels, ignoring the grumble-squeaks of the mail-mogs, who complain frequently that the man is equal parts unsociable and hard to find. It seems like a futile hobby to have, writing letters to a self-described loner, especially one whose favorite type of conversation is ‘none at all,’ and, failing the availability of that particular, operates with bluntness, condescension, and grunts as his main vocabulary. But she does it anyway. She knows he receives them (the mogs attest to that much, telling stories of irritated glares and barely-escaped swats), and though the “none at all” rule seems to apply just as much, if not more so, when it comes to written conversation, she continues to write.
He never writes back, except for a single occasion, after a spate of letterless weeks where Freya found herself tired of tossing thoughts into what was in her mind essentially a black hole. It comes to her crumpled and coffee-stained, hardly a letter at all, written on the back of a sun-bleached bounty poster she imagined he had ripped off of a small-town bulletin board. Three sentences long, the first and last of which suggests her foolishness in words she can imagine grunted.
Nestled between them is a smeared ink scrawl asking if she is still alive and stating briefly that she had better not have gotten herself killed, as he would consider her an embarrassment.
She picks up writing again soon after. He returns to never returning her letters. She never learns if he has opened a single envelope from her, but has come to accept that that is hardly the point. He may never read those letters, but he always receives them. That is reason enough for her to send them.
