Gideon,
I suspect the first that thou mayst note of this letter is the quaver which I cannot keep from the lines of my letters. This night it is not a thing of fear, nor excitement, nor illness nor weariness, rather it is simply that I cannot find a still moment on this ship that will enable me to write clearly. In this moment, my humors are balanced and I steal a little bit of peace.
The days are long, and as I have suspected, quite full of illness. I fear that my trousers shall be too loose to wear without a belt within a matter of days, but such is the way of things. The sea and I never were meant to be compatriots.
I wonder how the strange home I left behind me doth treat thee in my absence. I think often on it, and most days, I find that I long powerfully to simply demand the ship turn about and bear me home. It is folly, I know what must be done and I shall not turn back in the face of petty reservations. I have been misused, as have my kin, and I shall not stand idly and allow everything to wither and fall, not without singing of the truth to those who may or may not be inclined to believe it.
For the strength thou hast leant me, I am most grateful. It is indeed my greatest wish that I should return it to thee with a smile and my gratitude when I take the arduous return journey to that land beyond the pale, the place that finds me better than any, and still knows me not. I hope to amend the latter once this sorry business is done.
This candle burns down, to disappear to nothing soon. Know that I think on thee fondly and pray that thou art well. Until the morrow, adieu my friend.
With my warmest regard,
E