A lone slip of darkened by the sun parchment rests folded on the porch of a certain somewhat hyper man. There is no writing on the outside, it is tri-folded neatly, and the words inside are clearly written in old bluish-black ink. The handwriting, if the letter is opened, seems odd. As if the writer was unsure how to hold or use a pen, yet the words are still written neatly enough to be read.
The odd part, however, is there is no mailing address of any kind and there is no visible sign of anyone having walked up to the house recently... As if the letter had just appeared out of thin air. . . . . . .

______________________

Dearest russet-headed time lord,

Do not return this letter. Do not try to seek the sender of this letter. For dire consequences will occur if you do.

I haven't long to write so I will be quick:
You mean more than the world or life itself to me. I feel deep regret and hatred of myself for being unable to tell you so for all this time. You do not understand, but I had to wait. And for that I am so deeply sorry.
I know words nor deed can atone for my actions, but know this: you have never once stopped being loved. Neither you nor your brothers...

I so earnestly wish and hope I could ever make you feel and treat you as you should have been made felt and treated. But that may yet still need to wait... perhaps one day it can all be explained to you. Until then I can only beg and plead that you be patient with me so that I may tell you what needs to be said.

I haven't time left now. Please keep this letter safe or if you can't or won't then I ask only that you burn it in iron.

Stay safe and happy my little tadpole,

Clad in iron, Keeper of Knowledge.