Chapter 11 : Until lions learn to write, the hunter will always be the hero of the story.
I pursed my lips looking around, trying to dislodged the feeling disconnectedness of Leticia's memories, and my feelings, which was rather hard given that I was literally her, but at the same time I was painfully me.
From nearby, I searched for a item that could help me write, and found an equally untouched fountain pen from one of the containers on top of the study table.
I pulled a chair and dusted the surface of the table, fountain pen in hand and notebook neatly spread in front of me, I sat there for what seems like the first time in my entire life.
With little to no hesitance, I pulled the notebook closer and started recalled the earliest chapters of the book. From scenes, to arcs, to dialogues, I did not hold back on writing each and every word that I could remember.
And even though I had learned the language of this world via Leticia's memories, I wasn't stupid enough to use it for writing on this notebook.
Some irrational part of me told me that it wouldn't be so much of a good idea, if someone somehow stumbled upon my notebook, and thought that it would be a good idea to show it to the world so that they can finally have a good reason to banish the good for nothing daughter of the duke with a legitimate reason.
In this era I'm in, I'm sure it wouldn't be a problem to attach the word witch unto my name and sum up all my wrong doings of my life along with it.
I halted my actions, hands were sore from all the writing that I have done. "I only took about half of the notebook, but my hands are already this sore." I massaged my knuckles, hissing at how it only made the pain worse.
Leticia hasn't done a single chore in her life to earn calluses on her hands, so it was probably normal that my hands are aching despite writing just a few pages.
"I forgot that I can get cramps from my hands just by writing." I sorely muttered underneath my breath. There was a numb and painful feeling that crept up to my hands, making me halt writing.
Because of my job as a secretary, very rarely do I get cramps from writing a few stacks of papers back to back. But I'm now in a body of a spoiled, probably European, child, who's hands never touched a broom in her entire life.
I set my fountain pen aside. Words leaving my head— in the end, my frustration leaked and I swept a stray hair out of my face. My gaze landed heavily on the notebook on the table, I looked as if it would help me recall all of the contents of the books with my stare alone.
"Ah..." a small sound left my lips, my brows furrowing. "I forgot to write about all the characters in the story and their personalities." I pursed my lips. "I should've done that in the first place...."
Sighing, I puckered my lips, stretched my hands and once again, tried to steer my thoughts and memories back to the characters in the story.
Fighting the urge to lose my composure, I tried to rub the ink stains on my hands— trying and and failing to get rid of said ink stains, before finally giving up and moving on.
I flipped another page and started again.
I wrote again, from the Heroine, to the names of her love interests, to the royal family, to the hierarchy of the novel that inkjabber strictly follows, heck, just to be more detailed I even included my name, along the names of my mother, father, and just about all of the characters that I could name and remember.
I wrote it all down, their characteristics, personalities, traits, tell-tale signs— I wrote it down with a desperation of a woman who has nothing to lose.
Ignoring how my hands begged for a break, I did not dare stop. Fearing that if I did stop, all the information in my head would just disappear before I could write it down. My irrational fear reared its head in moments like this, and sometimes I find it hard not to be thankful of it.
Fear makes things easier in times of inability after all.
I didn't care if my handwriting looked like it was chicken scratches by the end, or if the notebook looked so cramped with words that one wrong touch it would tear.
So long as all the information left the tips of my pen, I was satisfied.
"And then... there's him." My hands paused. Pen hovering on top of the paper.
When I wrote all of the characters in the story, hidden characters were of course, somehow, included. Hidden characters as in, people inside the novel that helped moved the plot forward.
And unlike the leads who has direct contact with the plot, and therefore ultimately moving the plot forward by triggering events unconsciously, I characterized these hidden character as people who trigger the plot without actually touching the plot.
Characters that inkjabber horrendously, tenaciously, meticulously covered with so much foreshadowing that it was almost like a slap in the face when all the dots connect and gathers into this one inconspicuous character that was merely mentioned in a line or two.
Hidden characters.
And put of all the hidden characters in the story, be it major or minor. There's only one person that I categorized in the catastrophic criteria.
A literal dark horse that he needed to have his own category in all of the hidden characters.
"Dominique Admonte del Salvatoré." I let my hands flow and wrote down the person that was probably last on the list of the day.
Tap
Tap
Tap
I rapt my knuckles on the hardwood table, my eyes were surely revealing a complicated look, to match my equally complicated feelings.