Alastair

Artheno impales the wall beside Morgan’s head. And what a flimsy wall it is. Not made of stone or wood. Some sort of white powder drifts to the floor. My uncle once had similar white powder under his nose claiming it was from a doughnut, but I now know it definitely was not from any kind of delectable pastry. Nor is this powder from the wall.

Morgan’s face grows paler. I lean over him, setting aside thoughts of pleasant bakeries to focus on more important matters. Growling between clenched teeth, I steady my voice, “I beg your pardon?”

“Yo-you and Marcius are characters from my stories,” Morgan repeats, tears welling in his eyes.

“You’ve lost your touch, Marcius.”

“I’m not Marcius, I’m Morgan!” He squeaks when I rip Artheno free. “I can prove it!”

“Nothing you say will convince me of your lies. Prepare to die, fiend!” I swing Artheno for the jugular. Morgan screams, wriggling under his desk. My blade rips through another powdered wall. “Stand up and fight me, coward!”

“Yo-you’re confused! So am I! Bu-but I swear I’m nothing more than an emotionally drained, overworked author overcome by existential dread!” Morgan rolls out from under his desk prior to me smashing it in half. The glowing box topples onto the floor. Morgan grabs it, bearing it up to stop me from taking the killing blow.

“Look! Here, it’s your story!” Morgan’s hands shake, thus shaking the magical box.

There’s a vivid painting on the box of… me? At least, he looks similar to me; not as attractive but close enough. A dashing red headed prince with storm grey eyes, he wields Artheno, vibrant red mana swirling around the blade, over a backdrop of the army of the damned. There are words on the painting; The Courageous Tale of Alastair.

“How is a painting meant to convince me of your innocence? This demon box will not fool me.”

“This is the cover of one of my novels,” Morgan explains. When he attempts to pull the demon box away, I grab it. “If-if you scroll down, the story is there! Your story that I wrote.”

“Nonsense. I am no tale from a book! I am real!” And what is this scroll he speaks of? There’s no scroll here. He’s certainly mad! “If you are not Marcius, then you work for him. I should have suspected a spell when I fell in battle. Marcius could never defeat me.”

Morgan chuckles apprehensively, silenced by the heat of my glare.

“Release this spell, and I will let you live.” I haven’t the time to argue with this warlock. My knights and kingdom need me. Marcius and his path of destruction must be stopped! I’ve worked tirelessly to battle back the forces of darkness, protecting my people from chaos. In doing so, I’ve obtained the obsessive admiration of my people, countless gold, a talking cat with a peg-leg, my future place on the throne, and a fine castle by the sea. He will not take that away from me.

“I don’t know magic,” Morgan claims.

“Then take me to one who does.”

“There is no magic in this world.”

“You lie. Magic is—” the words lodge in my throat, for I do not know if they’re true. Magic is everywhere, or it’s meant to be, but I do not feel it here. Artheno is dormant, as are my powers.

Morgan inches towards the doorway, thinking me too lost in thought to notice.

“Remain where you are, or I will remove a very precious limb that I will leave up to your imagination,” I warn.

Morgan squeaks, swiftly kneeling and facing me. His shivers remind me of a dog stuck in the chilly rain. How unfortunate for him that I’ve always been a cat person.

“Won’t you allow me to show you the story? I-I even have physical copies. There!” Morgan points at a full bookshelf across the room from the desk. On the walls beside the bookshelf are two more paintings. The colors are far more vibrant than I’ve ever seen, and both are of me in varying poses with the same words; The Courageous Tale of Alastair.

“I have seven novels in total thus far, and the third season of the comic was just released. Season one is right there!” Morgan continues pointing, guiding me to this “comic” he speaks of.

Carefully, I remove the “comic” from the shelf. It is a picture book the likes of which I’ve ever seen. It starts during my childhood. Everyone I’ve ever known, all the conversations I’ve had, are preserved perfectly within these pages. The battles I’ve fought, princesses I’ve saved, drunken mistakes I’ve tried to forget, friends I’ve made—my entire life put into the picture book.

After I toss the comic aside, I reach for the first novel, flipping through the pages to discover they’re eerily accurate. No, not accurate, simply the truth, as if a god has observed my entire life and written every word.

What sort of devilry is this? Marcius’ magic couldn’t conjure that which he does not know. There are too many tales within these pages only known to myself, like the time I had a very persistent booger that I battled with until successfully flicking it out of my nostril… and right into the glass of a neighboring king. He swallowed it. And yet this private tale, along with many others, resides on a bookshelf belonging to Morgan of House Myres.

“How have you been spying on me?” I seek, hurling the book across the room. Morgan rises when I lurch forward. My fingers dig into his shoulders, rattling his lithe frame. “How do you have all this information?!”

“I told you, you’re a cha-character from my story,” he stammers, heaving a long, shuddering breath. “The Courageous Tale of Alastair is about you, your adventures, and I’m the author.”

That’s preposterous. Absurd. An atrocious lie!

I release Morgan, who stumbles towards the wall for support.

“That cannot be true!” I argue, pacing the room. “I am standing here, am I not?”

Morgan nods.

“How can I be from a story? I was in battle only moments ago. I remember it clear as day. I died!” My eyes widen. The words sink in.

I died.

Did I truly die? Is this the afterlife? Morgan and this currish place are some twisted figments of my imagination. And here I thought my inner mind to be a wonderful place, but I see I’ve created my own personal hell.

“You were meant to die,” Morgan whispers. Lowering his gaze, hair shielding his eyes. “The battle against Marcius was your last, but…”

“But?”

“When I wrote you breathed your final breath, there was this searing light—”

Like the light I saw too.

“I fell out of my chair. When the light dimmed, you were there.” He signals to the center of the room where I came to. “I’m not lying when I say I don’t know how you got here or why. You-you’re not… you’re not real! Or you’re not supposed to be.”

Morgan suddenly throws his hands into his hair, gripping tight. His breathing accelerates, as do his words, “If you’re real then-then everyone in the novel is too, right? Princess Marlina and the Knights of Etria! And everything I’ve written is true so-so Ma-Marcius is real and the army of the damned and, holy shit—”

Shit is not holy, but Morgan doesn’t give me the time to question what sort of holy shit he refers to or what kind of priest would do such an appalling ritual. He scrambles to the demon box, cradling it in one arm. I peer over his shoulder. In a blink, the picture changes!

“Dark magic!” I shout, grasping for the demon box. Morgan veers away.

“It’s the internet,” he says, explaining nothing. “Give me a minute. I need to check—”

He freezes then looks at me wide-eyed to proclaim, “The last chapter… it’s gone.”