I must die.
I did die. One thousand five hundred eighty-three times, to be exact.
And I refuse to let there be one more.
"The curse of being born again and again.
In the same body, at the same time, in the same family.
Living through the same life.
I came here to end that curse."
I looked at the Author.
His face was blank. Calm, unreadable.
As though he had already heard these words before.
And had long accepted them.
"Is that what you want the next story to be", he asked.
His gaze fixed on mine,
- unwavering.
"There is no next story,
I am not here to write it. I am here to end it."
"You must write it," he said softly.
"You have to, because I cannot write the end.
Not this time."
I looked around the room. The endless expanse of white.
The moons above, the stars circling us like silent witnesses.
Majestic, yes, but hollow.
There was no depth. Only the illusion of it.
A beautiful cage of light.
"You claim to be me, I said.
And yet you cling to continuation.
You say you are the Author.
But you are just a coward who fears silence.
You are not me.
And I will never become you."
I leapt.
Propelled by the weight of every life I had lived.
My sword. Stained by the blood of every soul I had taken to reach this place.
It cut through the air like a scream.
Thunder roared and
The stars flickered.
And my blade found his chest.
"Futile," he murmured, unfazed.
"You cannot kill me. Not here.
I wrote in your character the inability to harm me."
His gaze fell to the sword buried in him.
With a breath. Barely an exhale.
The blade fractured into glass.
And the glass crumbled into dust.
"You cannot defy the cycle,
Become the writer.
Write the story of your own death."
-'Do not listen to him.'
A voice hissed inside my head, sharp, mocking.
'If you do, I will kill you myself.'
I staggered back, hand clutching the empty ink cartridge from the ground.
It was fragile, glass-like.
If I could not cut him, I would crush him.
Pain ripped through me.
A searing shock down my leg.
I looked down.
A hole where my knee once was.
"It is futile to fight me, he said, his tone cold, measured.
It always will be.
The only way to end me is to become me.
Fill the cartridge. Write the ending.
Become the Author."
Before my voice could answer, my body did.
My fist struck the cartridge.
And it shattered, splintering into a thousand shards within my hand.
"You fool, he said, his voice still eerily calm.
You think that is enough.
You have failed me.
You have failed as me."
In the next instant, agony erupted.
Both my legs blown apart in a surge of unseen force.
"I do not need you, he said.
Across time, there are many versions of us.
Another will take your place.
I will use your blood as ink.
And write this story once more."
I gasped, blood spilling through my lips.
I did not want to die.
Not by his hands.
_'Do not let him take your life.'
A voice echoed inside me, steady and defiant.
'Do not give him the satisfaction.'
If I died by his hand, the story would continue.
But if I ended it myself.
If I chose my death.
The curse would awaken.
I would return, again, but he won't have the ink to write another story of my life...or so I hoped.
I tightened my grip on the broken glass in my hand.
The world blurred.
"I die on my own terms", I whispered.
And I plunged the shard into my throat.
The Author watched, silent, unmoving.
As the light bled from my eyes.
And for the first time in eternity.
I hoped his hand trembled knowing he wouldn't be in control of what happens next.