Author's Note: Yes, this is the last one. Quite honestly, I've never loved writing anything as much as I loved writing this. I breathe Shakespeare, I'm a bit of a freak, and this movie has been my favorite since forever and ever and ever. This is my favorite work ever, perhaps because I felt so close to Will and Viola when I wrote this. I've been putting off writing this last one for a while, because it's this one that will define the whole thing, as this is the most important scene/mood in the movie. Thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: I own neither Viola de Lesseps nor William Shakespeare nor Earl Wessex. A Daughter's Duty refers back to the movie Shakespeare in Love, which I do not own. The reference to a stolen season is as well.

I am resolved. What can I do but leave him, my darling, my completion, the only one who has ever heard my secret dreams and hopes? The last thing in the world my heart wants to do is put an ocean between my soul and his? Although our love can cross the seas, our love can span those miles of blue divide, our souls can still meet, but how can I live without his face, his breath, his words, his very being? I do not wish to go, but I must. I must for myself, and for him, though our very essences cry out in agony at the separation. What will Wessex do to my lover if he loses his prize and his money? What else can I do? I am as trapped as a caged bird, one that has been taught to obey, and only dreams of a life of her own.

To leave say farewell, and for what will seem like a thousand years never once reach across the miles that divide us and reunite? But I can do nothing else. I have to leave Will, Will, the only one who has ever understood me, who has ever cared that he knows the very secrets of my soul, and who has treated them with such tenderness that they became his. When I think of my life as it is to be, I stare it on with a resolution that does not seem to be my own, a resolution that time and tradition has bred into me, but behind that, a part of me is weeping, weeping, and those tears will never stop. It will be a life of obedience, a life of mundanity, a life dictated by Lord Wessex. All I will have is my thoughts, my memories of those three perfect weeks, for my souvenirs cannot be taken away from me. When Will and I sat by the water that day after I thought he was dead, I told him that I had seen our end, and that it would come. Throughout those hours of perfection, there was always a part of me that knew that this too would pass, this too would fade into what had to be done. My soul cries out at leaving, my heart weeps, but my mind knows their fate.

I can remember all those sweet eternities we had, eternities that seem like fleeting dreams now. They seem more real to me than this world I live in now, though. The nights we spent, the recitals where every word I said was to him, and every word I spoke had been written for me. Life will never be any more melodious than those days, more content in its gentle yet passionate perfection.

But my duty as a daughter says I must go. But on my life, if I could go back in time and decide whether I was to meet Will Shakespeare, and whether I was to fall as deeply and irrevokably in love with him as is ever possible, and whether I was to make this decision, I would never hesitate in my reply.

A stolen season can still be remembered, unless it is forsaken. And so, here is where I must part and bid the only one whose heart beats with mine farewell.

Farewell, my darling, farewell. Please, think of me sometimes, do not forget me, me who you hold in the cradle of your hand. Do not linger on me, but still remember....

I have no words. And for the first time, I do not desire them. My soul was what inflamed me to write before, so how can I continue when that soul is gone, gone far across the oceans to a place I cannot divine? To feel like this, like nothing in my life will ever matter again, as if I have lost the very thing that held me on this earth. She was an angel, it seems, something that came down from a place that I could never have trod, and now she must return to her home, someplace too far away for me to reach, someplace beyond my stature in life.

For a few short moments in my trivial life, I stumbled upon what life in all its perfection must be, but now they have slipped beyond my grasp, never to be regained. I was never meant to have those instants, it was only my impudence and temerity that brought them into my grasp.

If only we had ever had a chance. I would challenge that Earl Wessex who destroys my very heart with his greedy clutches, but Viola would never hear of it, she would never allow me. She can look past her feelings and hold her judgement only in her mind, a talent I do not possess. I would fight this separation with every bit of strength in my frame, anything to escape the cold life that is closing in on me without her divine presence. I can feel its breath already, seeming to freeze that very spark that guides me. O God, to live without her, to wake everyday knowing that another possesses her,I have not the endurance nor the power to go on. What can I do to fill this void, to somehow end this aching emptiness that encompasses my very being?

As she turned from me after that one last embrace, running down the hall, I knew that she knew that if she stayed longer she would not have the strength to leave. The one last glimpse of her fleeting form is all I have now, is the last moment I will hold forever in my memory. Her last words, "Write me well." Nothing in me wants to write, to pen another play that is not a tragedy that reads what my soul experiences, but the instincts in me are all-consuming; when she mentioned Orsino, I had to begin to explore his possibilities, and elucidate in my mind upon what he could do, and be, and love.

If my darling will not stay with me, then I will fulfil her last request of me - I will not give up writing for her. I will, rather, write every word that flows from my fingers to her, every letter that is curved from the guidance of my hand will be dedicated to her everlasting memory, to the love that we both feel. Not a play, not a sonnet, not a poem, not the most trivial of enterprises will go unpledged to Viola. Beginning with a comedy, by William Shakespeare. What irony is there, a comedy written by the most lovelorn fool in the entire country. But the heroine will be Viola, a lady not like the others, who forges her way in a new country after a shipwreck, holding her own every step of the way, and enver once loking back and regretting her circumstances.

Will Shakespeare. Will anyone ever fathom the past of mine they do not know? Will Viola's true place in my history go unnoted, will she ever grace a page with my name beside it? But she does not need fame, nor the tarnished medals of public recognition, she shines as clear as a drop of moonlight on a dark night, as silvery and pure as a unicorn's tear.

Goodbye, my love, a thousand times goodbye. There were never words to say the depth of love I hold for you.

And I will write you well....