Colonial

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Summary

A love condemned by empires. A farewell etched in fire. In the dying light of British-occupied Java, a heartsick officer pens his last letter to the only woman who ever truly knew him—Britt Van den den Bogaerde, a Dutch heiress with a rebel’s spirit and a healer’s hands. Their love bloomed in secret, defying colonial lines, until the tides of empire tore them apart. Now, as political betrayal forces him to abandon the island that shaped him, his words become both confession and elegy: a raw testament to stolen moments in spice-scented gardens, to whispered promises drowned out by war, and to the cruel irony of peace built on broken hearts. "Do you still wear jasmine in your hair?" he writes, "I pray it never withers—unlike us." A haunting story of forbidden passion, the weight of conquest, and what it means to love something you were sent to destroy.

Status
Ongoing
Chapters
8
Rating
n/a
Age Rating
18+

Letter from Exile

To Britt Van den Bogaerde,

Here I lie low, gazing at the stars above, wondering about a land where everything in the world seems to exist—but where the people live in fear.

Britt, I feel so sad leaving Java—a place I could truly call heaven. Even Thomas felt the same.

If I could describe the Dutch East Indies as a woman, I don’t know how many ways I could say that I’ve already fallen in love with her.

You are Dutch—a Dutch woman, a colonial. But unlike many other Dutch women I’ve encountered, you are different. So rare. You built your own reputation by standing up for those in need. A truly rare young Dutch lady. I can say that you’re the special one.

Leaving Java was never my choice. But I had to. I didn’t have any other options. England and the Dutch had reached a deal. We had struggled together in Europe and across India. We didn’t want to incite another war—especially not with the Dutch.

This cycle of hatred spreads from Europe to every corner of the world. I don’t know if you see it yet, but we are shaping a civilization that, someday, may rely on us for the rest of its existence. And to me, that is heartbreaking.

Java must become more than what Thomas could ever dream of—more than what I ever could.

On my way home.

17 April 1817