Chapter 6: Epilogue
After that, I do not recall very much.
Perhaps it was due to the fact that I might have gone mad. Then again, I would still have to feel emotion in order to find insanity, would I not? Do you not just love contradictions? I know that I am a master of them.
I destroyed, I killed, I manipulated, I betrayed, I tortured, and I laughed at it all. I suppose that I did it all for art. Art, you ask? How can I justify my atrocities as art? It is very simple. You see, I realized something about my people—both Scrybes and non-wryters alike. All people, despite their intentions or appearances, are motivated by darkness. When I say darkness, I mean the baser aspects of human condition—lust, violence, greed, hatred ... the list goes on.
The Light that I had been brought up to worship had been an illusion—an illusion fed by false promises and centuries of lies to be large and bloated so that no one would see the truth behind it. But I saw past the immanent bulk that clogged the metaphysical arteries of men. For, behind the Light was an even larger darkness, and in it I saw the truth that I somehow knew all along. Where there is light, there is always shadow. From seeing the Light's secret cloak, I learned the true intentions and ends of humanity.
Don't you understand? Religion is metaphor, and metaphor is expression, and expression is art, and art can be an interpretation of truth—a representation of a fundamental concept in the mortal plane. The reason that my art was unique was that, after a while, it had no need to hide behind masks of sick pretentiousness of 'righteousness' and 'holiness'. I nurtured a place where one no longer had to play-act the noble or holy man. After all, how can one do such things when one is dead? Everyone is equal in ashes. At least I admit that I am a monster ... and I used to wallow in the fact―before it ceased to mean anything to me. I no longer laugh anymore.
And it burns. The Rune that had protected me from myself for thousands of years is now waning, and it burns. All of it, all of what I feel burns in the dark ... the dark that has blinded me from long term exposure. The dark blinded me.
The purpose behind this story was as twofold as the clichéd fork in the road that all people must eventually make choices upon. However, my path—the path of power—was fourfold. As far as I could see, I had many choices in my life. Do not misunderstand; I do not blame what I have done on anyone or anything other than myself.
My testament is my life's story ... and my waning is the Last Page. I worked to make the Last Page, only to fail to do the most important thing. When making an end to a story, one must end it. Last Page of my life-tome, the waning years of my existence, never end. It continues on, poisoning the enthusiasm of the reader, and wryter, until both are hollow inside from disinterest and waste of time. If the ancient Guardians had not been killed as retaliation against the Guild for trying to invade my Great Realm, they would have taken my work and displayed it all for its complexity and creativity―and ultimately show how hollow and empty it really is.
If you are reading this, my successor, then you have destroyed me and taken the power that was mine. Perhaps you too will build a tower that will pierce the very celestial heavens, or create an empire, or a following that will devour whole worlds ... and minds. Maybe you will discover new knowledge and enrich your mind with powers in ways I cannot even imagine. Or perhaps you will create something long lasting in value like creating your own race to play god over—a legacy of denizens who will suffer for their origins in your sins that will continue long after your successor comes and ends your burdens.
Rejoice, my destroyer. You have the lore that you have been looking for, and now you can begin to implement your dream of how the world, how the Story, should be. Enjoy the process of building your New Realm, of destroying your foes, and celebrating your achievements. And once again; rejoice. Rejoice for the end that is your right. Pray for the end to come to your Story so that it too can be added to the shelves of volumes behind this throne of those who came before you. Or build another shelf for all I care. It matters not to me now.
But if your end does not come, or if you destroy it ... then cry, my friend. Cry for the sacrifices you made, the friends you lost, the family you abandoned, the lovers you betrayed ... all in vain, my friend—all in vain. Have you ever written yourself into a corner? Let me explain what it is like. It is a personal, perpetual, dark hell of your own making—the wasteful redundancy that you will find both yourself and your creations wallowing in if you do not end the latter before your inspiration burns itself out. Cry if you destroy the one who will be your undoing before he or she is done. That was why the one before me let me live—to serve as the instrument of her demise. And that was why I, too, had the foresight of mind to let you live. Cry, if your Story becomes trite and numbing to reader and wryter like fast acting poison.
Cry, when you feel the waste of all that potential you once had. Cry when you no longer love the things you make. Cry when you become the living waste that you have begun to embody.
And so I leave you now. Another Grandmaster of the Dark-wryter sect passes, my Story ended―and your hell only begun.
May your Last Page end well.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
RFierce
RFierce I hope you enjoyed this story! It's available as an audio book on Audible if you'd like to listen to it as well. Thank you for reading!
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