"We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever." 

– Carl Sagan

One thing about being a holy figure, birth and death alike come served in a silver platter.

What dead don't live to tell you about is, death indeed hurts a lot. The pain is felt even before the guillotine is dropped. Pounding of your heart is heard louder than the cheers of people. 

The very same people who had stood in line to receive a quarter of my blessing, today celebrated in my demise.

Before being pulled here,

they dressed me in a silk white robe. In this life I was a criminal to the empire, the only difference; my shackles were made of jewels.

My blind believers screamed in agony as they saw me bow down. Bowed down to none other than a blade swinging on a rope awaiting to get cut. 

Head inside a guillotine, on a stage made of rock and wood. A million people cheering while a thousand cried. The imperial guards along with priests stood in a line, in this very moment what thought would cross your mind?

"I wish I could have one more chance at life."

Right?

I wished I would get no more chances, if she granted me another one, I would destroy the very existence of every single person that ever lived along side me in this world.

The world that I unfortunately wouldn't call Earth. 

Yet again for the 15th time, I was given; one. More. Chance., any of which I never asked for.

…

This sapphire engraved mirror never ceased to amaze me, once again I was stood in the very room I magically appeared every time I died, or rather got killed. 

Goddess always returned me right in front of the mirror, as a reminder of who I had become, or what she had made me into.

Perhaps to convince me the person I see in the mirror is me. I never once accepted it of course. 

A couple minutes more and noise of steps would fill the hallways outside my room, echoing through the empty pillars of this temple, With a worried sick expression on her face, holding her long skirt in her damp hands.

Sweat around her forehead, she would once again barge in my room and yell—

"YOUR HOLINESS! YOU'VE RECEIVED A LE—

"A letter from his majesty? Right Sophie?"

I had witnessed this same scene I wrote myself, 14 times before.

"A letter from his majesty HIMSELF! Your holiness. You anticipated this?"

Her eyes looking down in confusion. Perhaps she was wondering why I said her name, as for her I never said It so before today.

Or she was wondering why do I not carry any curiosity on my face. At last even 14 lives fall short when it comes to reading somebody's mind.

This world welcomed me for the 15th try at something I had no idea about. I started to doubt if there was any purpose to my constant reincarnations at all.'.

I wrote this world, I wrote the people, the misery, the sorrow, the joy, the royalty, the constitution to all the way "the end". I wrote it all as a teen, I made it to the publications, I made it to the people, the media, the news, the top ten most read stories of all time. 

My years of effort, pain, sleepless nights on the side of cigarette butts and unwashed ramen bowls left on the table with pens without caps and empty paper bags of food deliveries that never made it to the bin, manifested into my obsession. 

"Sins of the crown"—After the world read my masterpiece I finally found the reason to open the bottle of champagne my father purchased in his prime, kept right beside his cigarettes.

Unfortunate I must say, I was killed, neither I nor my father ever got the chance to drink it.

For the first time when I opened my eyes to this world, in the body of Lucian, the holy saint of the temple. it was a dream I wished should never end. 

I had been blessed to be inside my own book, the book I spilled years writing, the book that gave me, a nobody, a name. One that made me confidently call my signature; an autograph. 

Lived the life and died how I should have, as per the story I wrote myself. My desire to live was not greater than keeping the story how I wrote it. Even if it meant I would have to die.

Expected nothingness after closing my eyes but all I saw was my face, which wasn't even mine. 

Yet again I was standing, looking into the same mirror. It still didn't feel as bad until it happened 12 more times.

After each death I was thrown here again, no matter what I did I knew I would be killed by the end. 

Each life taught me something, by 7th life I was prepared to spend my life worshipping the goddess I created myself, like a god. In hopes I would escape this prison cell of a world.

I wasn't gifted with death of course. Nothing lasts forever, dad spent his life reminding me that again and again. Be it the failures or wins, those three words stood with me; Nothing. Lasts. Forever.

Until it did. With each life I felt more desperate. Took multiple paths, from slapping the emperor to resigning as a saint. Both without a question had me killed. But never dead.

And this woman I met first, every time I reincarnated in this very scene, was my personal maid.

…

She handed me the letter with her icy hands, I pulled her towards the fireplace. 

"Looks like the wood has burned off" 

"I'll add some wood right away your holiness"

As the wood caught the fire, I threw the letter in as the imperial seal on it remained unopened.

Within a matter of minutes the words written by the most powerful person in the empire, had turned to ash and smoke.

Without looking towards her face I could tell she made the deepest yet the most quiet gasp of her life.

The smoke I kept from entering my lungs, this time would be inhaled by me.

This time, it would be different. 

The same letters, words, handwriting, the same offer given by the emperor, I rejected in my every single life. For what little care I had left for this world. It was no more.

The offer I rejected fourteen times in a row, would be accepted by me this fifteenth time. 

I wouldn't be back here again if there was no world left to come back to. 

I'm Dante, NOT Lucian and this, is my story.