#darkling replies

Dear Anonymous,

Badly behaved? They do exactly as I desire. Your cat could never.

Dearest Alina,

Nichevo'ya wife? Tsk tsk. I am not the one who married an abomination.

Reduced to the company of chickens, are we? Sad, that your husband doesn’t care to entertain you in their place. Do you remember you once were a rising queen? You could have been my queen. And I could have been more than a ghost, still beside you. But wishing won’t make it so, now, will it?

How am I doing? Same as you, I suppose. Counting the days. Living in the past. Haunting the world I’m in, and others. Hoping I’m haunting yours. I know you, Alina. Are you lonely? So lonely you might die? I understand. I always understood.

But you didn’t. You wouldn’t have me.

Signed, Your Wounded Victim

Dear Anonymous,

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

Dearest Anonymous,

How I’ve missed answering letters to my charming fanbase.

Dearest Anon,

What is love but torment to the soul? Even ancient souls. Like my soul. My ancient soul weighed down by cruel Time’s torturous games of love. Would that I could love you, or myself, or Ali– I mean… Love is pretentious and bitter and painful. Love is a fire between the capsules we call our bodies, burning us down. Love is my hands like claws on your heart, my teeth against your throat. I know not how else to love. Is this the love you want?

Dear Lovesick Grisha,

What a kind message this is. I apologize for my distance lately, I have been busy plotting against the Lantsov exhausted. It is lonely where I am. I consider the letters I’ve received and have yet to answer every day, yet I cannot find the words to reply accordingly. In all honesty, I fear I am losing my flair. Life is a dreadful jest told by an unfunny clown, and I am the flailing punch line. What I should say is, I’m out of practice. Isolation has not been good to me. Forgive me, for I struggle even now to deliver you a satisfying message, and you deserve so much more. One day, I will give you the world– one ruled by a great and worthy leader, not some pretty-faced puppy on a pirate ship.

Mother!

We have discussed this more times than I can count over the past centuries! My cookies are specifically off-limits. It’s your sweet tooth I inherited in the first place. It’s your fault I crave the sugary things so. You already owe me half a thousand tarts.

Dear Anon,

Yes, I heard it muttered under the breath as he passed by the crew. It must have been a secret code for something, perhaps the cue to foolishly betray me. I should known he was up to something when the sailors began whooping “wa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pow.”