"Every writer is a writer of his own death."
– Gustave Flaubert
To create is to play god, but gods are fallible; their creations are flawed, and sometimes those creations rise, seeking the one who dared to give them life.
I created her. I wrote her, shaped her every feature, and yet she twisted my fate to this hell. Eloven. Goddess Eloven. She was as real as any character—no, more real.
Her face was the first thing I saw each time I died. Eyes hidden beneath a shimmering golden veil, but her lips—ah, they always curled into a smile.
She deeply cared for each living being in this world, I knew it, because I wrote it. Perhaps I was tortured because I didn't belong here.
"Is the carriage prepared miss Celia?"
"Yes, Your Holiness," she replied, her voice a quiet melody. "It will be a short one-hour journey. Provisions are in the back if you should feel hungry."
Celia was the female lead of the novel, the main love interest, but nothing more. She was a young priestess, in her early twenties.
Her icy hair, unlike how cold they remained to the view, her warm voice made up for it. Eyelids as light as paper but eyes just enough blue to blend in with the sky. At night should you see her, she glowed.
Today, I was bound to the imperial palace. The emperor had summoned me in his letter. It was my duty to visit my precious respected ruler, it had been a lifetime that I had seen him—quite literally.
Two priests tagged along, they did these things in this world. Over dependance on servants. In my case, holy servants.
I recognized their faces, might've killed them in one of my lives.
Would've preferred Celia as a better company, but I knew I'd see her at the palace regardless.
I climbed the carriage, the coachman sitting upfront snapped the reins with a quick flick. As horses urged forward, we took off for the palace.
After a whole hour long journey we reached, which according to our female lead was a 'short' one. She was right, its me, l wasn't used to shaking carriages even after 14 lives. They hurled my stomach until the last thing I ate resurfaced on my throat and eventually put out.
I could sell my soul for a metro.
The carriage stopped at the massive gate, surrounded by gardens and the scent of dried grass. Stone pillars polished with gold lined the way.
The colossal golden-red castle was the world's grandest monument.
The guards greeted me, their heads bowed.
A man in a pristine white suit walked over. His boots on the soft grass made no sound. He was there to escort us, though I knew every nook and cranny of this palace.
"Blessings upon you, Your Holiness. May the light of the Goddess guide us through your devotion." He looked up.
"I shall escort you to his majesty, allow me to guide you."
He talked too much.
"Of course." I said.
The palace had enough space to stand a hundred thousand people and yet, have a couple meters of space remain between them. No wonder the throne was so desired.
We arrived at the audience chamber. The Emperor remained seated even as I stepped inside.
Although a saint was not below an emperor, I was not permitted pride as a child of the Goddess. But he was as a ruler.
It wasn't the first time Lucian met him, before I possessed his body, Lucian had met emperor several times before. However no interaction of significance ever took place between them.
The emperor, Victor Drakonhart, ruler of the empire and father to our protagonist, seemed ageless, his face free of wrinkles.
Despite his appearance, his health was failing. In my sixth life, we became best friends, and I'd carried a soft spot for him since.
Now, eight lives later, I awaited his words, eager to hear them again—the offer, I rejected in each regression.
"Blessings upon Your Imperial Majesty, the strength of our kingdom and shield of our people."
"I apologize for such sudden request Your Holiness.'' As he stood halfway, only to be seated again.
''Please address me casually Your Majesty.''
''Mr. Westwood…?'' A small grin across his face.
''Just… Lucian, is fine your majesty.''
He knew precisely which scars to reopen to deepen the pain. Luckily for me, I wasn't Lucian. Had it been him, his eyes would've flicked just upon the mention.
Lucian despised his brother's killer, his father. Duke of Westwoods. Thus his last name only ever revoked the trauma.
"Have you been in good health Your Majesty? I asked, as a formality. I knew his health had been in shambles.
He waved off the question with a chuckle.
"I have a request to make of you… sit."
He looked to the ground, deep in thought.
After dismissing the priests who followed me, he opened his mouth.
Disregarding the need for any warm chat, he cut to the chase.
"You wish for his fall, do you not?" He stared into my eyes.
"Your majesty…?" I faked my shock, because me as a saint, how could I ever wish for somebody's downfall.
"Walter Westwood," he continued, leaning in. "Your father. You do not try to hide your malice towards him."
He had noticed, of course. He always did.
Had it been Lucian, like in the original story he would've dropped to the floor, balling.
Lucian grew up neglected, his father focused on mentoring his brother for inheritance. After his brother's death, Lucian became heir, but was punished for failing to meet the impossible standards.
The truth of his brother's death, caused by their father, left deep scars.
Lucian's desire to inherit became a need to seize everything his father held dear.
Curse the writer of his fate, he was chosen by the goddess as the saint. Forced to give up on revenge, Lucian lived in the temple repenting for the joy he felt after his brother's passing, and spent his life grieving him.
"Your majesty, how would that…"
"Your needn't worry, for in exchange I ask of you only one thing." He looked away.
"What?" I tried to look curious.
I knew what that thing would be, and our protagonist wouldn't like it very much.