when bl/ind is over, korse studies up on killjoys: their heroes, the zones, their myths. he learns about the phoenix witch and tracks down the letters to the dead mailbox. he sends his lover that bl/ind killed a letter, apologizing and declaring his love that he’s regretted not showing before his lover was killed. he sets up a little camp by the mailbox for comfort and one day when he wakes up there’s a letter on his blanket. he opens it and it’s written by his deceased boyfriend and delivered by the phoenix witch. she had transcribed the letter for him, because technically the dimensions of the living and the dead can’t interact, but their love is so pure the witch made an exception. there’s the cliche ‘i need you to stay alive,’ but then he asks if korse wants him to apologize to anyone. korse replies that he can apologize himself, but it’s brought to his attention that they’re /dead/, and they’re dead because of him. he has a breakdown, spends a week crying over what bl/ind brainwashed him into doing, and almost drinks himself to death. in what would have been his final moments, the Girl appears to him like the phoenix witch did to her. she had been killed in an alley by a surviving bl/ind higher-up that had somehow not been wiped out, and she tells korse that they’ve forgiven him. she doesn’t have to say who.
So…this was a response to my “Please stop assuming Marie Antoinette cheated on/didn’t love her husband just because you saw it in a movie” post (the one from like two years ago)….
Apparently claiming that someone was faithful to their spouse and that they loved and were happy with said spouse is “making them a saint” and is eye-roll worthy these days.
edit: there are definitely historical figures that people attempt to sanctifiy and sanitize and whose faults get ignored/excused at all costs…but Marie Antoinette is definitely not one in my experience?? I mean, most people still assume she was a bitchy, air-headed snob who said that starving peasants should eat cake since they couldn’t afford bread–despite that being debunked about a thousand times?!
edit x2: and I really don’t know how letters can “prove” that two people two-hundred years dead were “most likely” lovers unless they somehow talk about doing it in said letters, which I very much doubt Antoinette would’ve been dumb enough to do in any case
Inquisitor: *picks up a piece of paper* Oh look … a letter telling one lover to meet another lover somewhere far off and obscure. Should we go to their meeting spot?
Dorian: Another one?Why do we bother? They always end up being dead. In fact, if I recall correctly, the last pair had been eaten by a giant spider.
Inquisitor: You never know … maybe they’ll be alive this time.
Dorian: *sighs* If you insist on ignoring the last seven love letters we’ve come across, and the last seven dead lovers … then sure, why not. Maybe this time it will be a giant nug that ate them all. That’ll give us some variety, at least.
I have seen the cold rustle bones until they ached like the way leaves quiver when autumn tells them to say goodbye to the honeydew shell casings of how they used to be. I have heard your novels inside of silent libraries until they sounded more like when lovers could sit across from one another never losing sight of what will always be pure, I’m dying to feel a connection to something, to anything. I have wrote some poems that still cries the blues of college ruled paper and the blood stained red pen never rights my wrongs, but if I could be the one to write my poems–
Let me die a sinner one more time and I swear it, I swear I’ll make it home and let a poet one day pick up my words and go…
I have seen some poets die in the name of love, but when he wrote poetry down her spine, he broke his to give me mine and I can’t be poetry if the world is nothing but a heart that forgets to beat when it wants more and I can’t be poetry if the universe fought for something that can make us feel this dead and alive…
I have seen the heat waves of summer cook lips inside out and I have seen lust eat out hearts of dead lovers, we seal them inside of love letters, but returning to a time of peace meant that we had to go through war and if my poetry was at ease with my emotions…
I guess the tragedy here is that I have much to learn and too little time, I guess the disaster here became my eyes that stopped crying…