I do not know how long I stood there, frozen in that vast white expanse.
The shelves of endless books lood over like silent witnesses, each one a world, a life, a mory... and among them, mine lay open—mocking with every word written in its pages.
The God of the Underworld.
That title, once a symbol of my dominion, now feels like a cruel jest carved by unseen hands.
Every triumph, every wound, every choice I thought was mine—it was all re imagination.
Imagination of possibly a bored being wanting to see sothing exciting.
Nothing more.
I thought I was a god. I thought I had defied fate when I grew stronger than my brothers and any other Primordials, when I broke the limits and achieved transcendence, when I stood against the Outer One and tore eternity itself asunder.
But now... now I know I was never a god. Not even a spirit nor a mortal.
I was a puppet with delusions of freedom, dancing in the hollow light of a story that was never mine to tell.
The being, the writer, or V.E, it called itself, stood before , its form flickering between numbers and symbols, like reality itself struggling to define its shape.
It is a mockery of my existence, reminding that I was never real. It stood there, calmly, silently, as if It didn’t just reveal sothing so mind-blowing.
It said it wrote . That every thought that ever passed through my mind, every rage, every sorrow, every love, they were rely words it placed upon , like chains that remained unseen.
What am I, then? A word? A phrase? A Chapter?
My hands tremble as I look at them. These hands that once commanded armies of shades and gods alike, did they ever belong to ? Or were they rely drawn, scripted, described in neat little sentences for the amusent of sothing beyond comprehension?
Despair... it creeps to my being slowly.
Not like fire or blade, but like silence after the last scream. The kind that sinks into your soul when you realize there is nothing left that truly belongs to you, not even your thoughts.
How many tis have I believed I have defied fate?
When I defeated Uranus? When I finally achieved Transcendence? When I defeated that fragnt that inavded our universe?
But... Did I ever want to do those things, or did the Writer want them for ?
Did I ever love? Did I ever hate? My feelings, my mories, my powers, were they all mine? Or were they given to and just made think they were mine?
If everything was written... then even this despair I feel now, it isn’t real, is it?
Just another line, another paragraph, another "mont of realization" before the end of the story.
I can almost hear the words forming sowhere above , invisible but inevitable: ’Hades falls to his knees, his mind breaking beneath the weight of the truth.’
And I do.
Because what else can I do?
The Writer said it was bored. That it wanted to end the story. That it wanted to kill .
And I realize, with horrifying clarity, that I cannot stop it. No sword, no godly might, no will of defiance can harm what exists beyond existence.
It could erase with a word, or worse, forget to write at all.
I thought I had ruled over death. That I know death the most as I am its ruler. But now, it seems like I knew nothing about death.
The true death is this—knowing that I was never alive.
For a ti, I did nothing. I simly stared at the being who was looking at .
Was I breathing? Was I thinking? Am I myself still?
I don’t know.
I was in a daze, with only the ringing silence of truth, echoing endlessly in my skull telling —you are not real.
The words dug deep, like claws scraping the soul. I could feel my mind unraveling, thread by thread, my identity dissolving into white emptiness.
The shelves around blurred into aningless light. Even the trembling of my hands felt artificial, like the twitch of a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Since I am supposed to die...then I...
Wait...
At that mont, my mind suddenly felt like it was rang like a bell. I realized sothing, sothing that, in my mont of despair, I completely failed to grasp.
And that was...
I was supposed to die.
I was ’supposed’ to die.
’Supposed’!
Then how am I alive?
I saw it clearly, the book was written to the end, describing my death, yet I’m still alive.
And that writer... It ntioned that it was surprised.
Doesn’t this an, that no matter how small, there is a possibility to break through the confines of the story? To reach beyond the veil of the book?
To beco...
...real?
Yes. The writer might’ve written the book, but does that an they can’t be real?
At that mont, I thought of them, my wives.
Aphrodite.
The way she laughed when I spoke awkwardly of affection, her beauty not of perfection but of warmth.
The way her eyes curved when she teased for being too serious.
That smile... it was real. It had to be real.
Then ca another mory—Hecate’s soft voice, her calm presence when the shadows of my realm grew too loud.
She would brew tea in silence, a gesture so human it soothed even the dead.
And then Hera... her hand on my cheek, her love burning with quiet defiance against the heavens themselves.
Even Nyx, the way she constantly co to playfully bother , the way she would act spoiled and annoy .
My children; Nekyria, Ilithyia, Mageus, Eros.
Those mories—those monts—they were mine, and they were real to .
As I thought of those, for the first ti since the Writer spoke, I felt sothing stir inside .
It was not defiance, it was not rage... but enlightennt.
I looked down at my shaking hands.
"If they were rely words that were written," I murmured, "then who is it that rembers them now?"
My voice echoed faintly, swallowed by the white horizon. "If every thought is crafted, then who is it that doubts? Who is it that feels this ache?"
The Writer said it wrote my every decision. My entire existence. Yet, if I could question its words, if I could feel sorrow, fear, and love—then maybe there was sothing within that existed beyond the script.
I thought of Aphrodite’s laughter again.
Of Hecate’s patience.
Of Hera’s unwavering loyalty.
Each image brought warmth to my chest, fragile but alive.
For the writer, they were rely words written on a book.
For , they were real. Their love for is a proof of their existence.
It doesn’t matter if the writer believes they are re words.
I think they are real, therefore, they are.
I think I am real, therefore, I am.
The phrase erged unbidden, simple yet profound.
I whispered it, and the sound of my voice no longer felt hollow. I repeated it again, louder this ti, as though clinging to a truth that had always been mine.
"I think... therefore, I am."
I do not deduce my existence from thought by ans of a syllogism, but recognizes it as sothing self-evident by a simple intuition of the mind.
’I am a thinking, conscious thing, that is, a being who doubts, affirms, denies, knows a few objects, and is ignorant of many, who loves, hates, wills, refuses, who imagines likewise, and perceives.’
How ridiculous. I thought to myself, feeling amused.
Just now, I have convinced myself that there is absolutely nothing that exists in the world, no sky, no earth, no minds, no bodies, and even that I, too, do not exist.
But thinking about it, If I convinced myself of sothing, or thought anything at all, then I certainly existed.
There is just a deceiver of supre power and cunning who deliberately and constantly deceives .
But in that case, doesn’t that also prove that, I, too, undoubtedly exist? If It deceives ; and let It deceive as much as It can, It will never bring it about that I am nothing, so long as I think that I am sothing.
I exist, I know I am.
Just then, the shelves trembled faintly. The air itself seed to ripple. I could feel the faint hum of energy gathering within —sothing raw, unshaped, but undeniably mine.
Perhaps I am a character, perhaps a fragnt of thought given shape by another.
But if I can feel, if I can dream, if I can choose to love even knowing it might not be real—then that, in itself, is existence.
I am not the Writer’s god. I am my own being.
Even if I am made of words, I will give those words aning.
Even if my life was written, I will live it as truth.
I looked up, eting the flickering form of the Writer once more. My fear had not vanished, but it no longer ruled .
"I think that I exist," I said quietly, "and that is enough to prove my existence."
Reviews
All reviews (0)