A letter from death
My Annabella. The apple of my eyes. My first sin.
What shall I pay you?, for my disubordination of duties... duties so great that you would entrust them to me... a lowly common man such as myself.
My Annabella, was i your proprietor or a part of your propriety. My dear Annabella. I write this, not in order to sulk over your loss... nor to shed light, upon the brutality wrought upon you, by the scornful Martell. But, truly my Annabella, I write this from beyond your grave to bastardize your impeding existence upon person... in the plain of the living.
I remember when we first met Annabella... you met me with a smile, whilst I had an indifferent expression upon myself... imagine that - a commoner, such as myself, being able to show indifference to one whose blood is as pure as yours... flowing holy from top to bottom.
Annabella, when did you truly die... to me, that is? For has long as I can still remember us knowing each other, I always heard a beckoning call in me telling me to indulge in the purity, one such as yourself is to bear...
But, no! No matter how long my brain screamed and cried for my indulging into your pure existence, I restrained myself and my thoughts... for in you, I saw a future... a future gleaming and brimming to its fullest with freedom.
'Freedom from what exactly?' you might cheerfully ask from the damp floors of your grave... and to that, I'd say, freedom from our lesser instincts. Freedom from stupidity... freedom from being trapped in a cave, closed in by a rock, away from the sun... from those whose soul instinct is to hate and scorn the sun.
O, my Icarus! My sun and my hubris incarnation. My Annabella! Is this what you might have wanted? Is this what you might have sought... my death, truly?
My impending doom approaches me with full prejudice... ever nearer, all seeing, all knowing, all being, all encompassing. My guillotine, Annabella de bourbon, my sweet relief.
Seeing that it shall not be you who delivers me from my sins, but, one that claims your name, face, clothes, and all except for your purity and wealth of knowledge.
My Anna...
En fin, de bourbon.
Posted Apr 16, 2026, 2:46 PM UTC