A/N: This short snippet of a story was written to fit at the very end of the novel, after Marlow had spoken with Kurtz's "Intended" (all in all, this is a story of a girl... who cried a river and drowned the whole world... hehe, ignore my insanity).

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My Dear Intended

Her fingers gripped the bundle of papers tightly, knuckles white. Staring at the seal, her other hand hovered just above it, but she couldn't get her trembling hand to open the letter.

Aware, painfully aware, that the room was empty, she spoke aloud to herself, "He loved me. Who knew him better? No one. Except me. And his last words—those dear words—when that man spoke them to me… it is proof." The woman took a shaky breath, "Proof of his feelings, all I needed, so why can I not open this letter? What do I have to be afraid of?" A small, short burst of laughter escaped her lips, "Nothing, absolutely nothing! He's dead! Nothing at all… Dead, dead…" She was laughing hysterically and sobbing all at once, unable to make sense of anything. In a sudden swift motion, she ripped open the letter. She held the paper close as tears blurred the words swimming across her vision.

My dear Intended,

If this letter has reached you I am dead, or as good as. Either way, no more shall you see of my face. I have chosen, not unwillingly, to stay. These savages, they worship me. Here, I am God, and at my side is the queen or queens. Though she is inferior, it does not make her any less worthy. She leads the people with such beauty and grace, and she cares for my every need. I have succumbed to an illness of late, and she has made sacrifices to my health. Have you ever heard of such a thing? It is marvelous the lengths these people will go for me. I have to wonder if God feels this way, watching people waste away their lives for him. Ha! All one has to do is rise above and become His equal! I am afraid I must end this correspondence for the men of the village are gathering. This is the last you will hear from me.

Regards,

Kurtz

Her grip, which had tightened until her nails cut through the paper into the palms on the other side, dropped. It seemed all the muscles in her body had suddenly melted and she could no longer support herself. She swayed for a moment before crumpling onto the ground. Her tears no longer fell, her body sapped of the strength for even that.

It seemed years, decades, centuries had passed before a maid discovered her. The young maid's shrill cries brought everyone to the parlor. Questions came at her from all sides. Asking if she were all right; asking if her guest, that man who had left so suddenly, had hurt her; asking if she could stand and would like a cuppa. She merely nodded yes, she was fine; no of course he had not touched her; and yes, chamomile would be lovely.

No one noticed the papers she held under the folds of her skirt, nor the letter crumpled in her fist. They helped her to the couch and sat with her, twittering about. She heard nothing of what they said, to each other or to her. Her body, her very soul, was numb. Completely feeling-less, detached. All save her heart, which was pounding so hard in her chest as if trying to beat itself to death. It had to be a cruel joke, but her heart would not believe it. How could it be true? How could it not? The letter was written in his hand. His wonderful, strong hand.

Absently, she accepted a small cup of hot tea. Her hands still shook slightly, and a few drops of the brown liquid slashed out. She stared as the wet spots on her skirt, watching them spread out then withdraw back to the center as it dried. Claiming that the chamomile had done wonders, she retired to her room and turned the lock. She rested against the door for a moment, taking a deep breath before moving to the window seat. It was a small, modest niche with a more secluded view of the river.

She stared blankly at the Thames before glancing at the other papers in the bundle. She resisted the urge to throw the whole bundle into the fire, but they were from him. Written by him. Held by him. She hugged the papers close, trying to breathe him into her. A lone teardrop rolled down her cheek, carving a river down her pale skin as she mourned for her lost love.

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