Page 94 of Fate Fiction

The existentialism was beginning to give me a headache.

The physical objects were fortunately incredibly easy to shed, Andrea and I managed that in less than an hour.

In order to sever the tie between myself and Cl0ud3dR0se with a clear finality I’d need to compose a send off. Deleting my fanfiction website accounts and its associated content felt like a cop out. I wanted to compose an apology for my absence before leaving for good. My work would exist in the archives only.

It sucked, truthfully. Writing fanfiction was by far my favorite creative endeavor.

I logged into my account one final time to write what would be my last ever post on the site. The cursor sat on the white screen, blinking at me with expectation. I had written hundreds of thousands of words for these websites and for my final contribution, nothing worthwhile had come to mind.

Birds chirped around me on the patio, and there was the familiar hum of casual hangouts, dates, and study sessions all around me. Right now what I needed to compose was brutal honesty. Words I’d previously tucked away in the caverns of my heart slowly poured across the screen.

Writing the post was akin to a eulogy. Cl0ud3dR0se was an extension of myself, and though I remained anonymous, this username was a core part of my character.

Although “Ice on the Turret” was a story centered around Sir Erwyn, and ultimately, a heroic rescue of Lady Premble, it wasn’t only a romance fanfic. It never could have been. Because I didn’t want to write the story of someone who only existed to save someone else, I wanted to build upon the story of the savior who may have needed to be saved himself.

I wasn’t writing the story of Sir Erwyn, I was writing the story of Dani Grant. Someone who was self assured, a lone wolf, difficult to crack, but below the armored surface a complete mushy mess. Now, I had to kill off the character and by extension, the piece of myself that I’d just begun to understand.

Goodbye.

In fantasy, heroes and villains are often clear cut. Moral lines are drawn, and the heroes never cross them. Real life is never as simple, and yet people still attempt to assign the role of protagonist or antagonist to the cast of characters that occupy their narrative, and almost always paint themselves to be the hero.

Morality isn’t black or white, and even heroes aren’t perfect. Ghosts aren’t real, but someone can still be haunted.

If love stories existed in fantasy as they did in real life, the hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written over the years would not exist, and for that, I am incredibly grateful to the Sword of Thorndown for creating this world for me to reside in for a bit.

To all those who came here to escape your real life alongside me, thank you. Your endless support has always meant the world to me. But all things beautiful must end and I have determined it is time to sunset Cl0ud3dR0se. Please understand that this was a painful decision for me and I hate to pull myself from this community, but my life has evolved beyond the point where staying here can be healthy and sustainable. I’m sorry “Ice on the Turret” will remain unfinished, but perhaps it is best that we all can go forth and create the endings to our own stories.

Cl0ud3dR0se

I closed the tab and removed the website from my favorites.

What now?

There was a new story to write. I pulled my notebook from my bag and flipped through the pages to the notes I took at camp. The descriptors of the scenery. The folklore that Sue shared with me. My jumbled feelings about Evan. Sue and Randy’s love story. The pieces were all here, and I’d do what I could to thread them together.

I’d turn all the things that had haunted me into a ghost story that felt like me, and not like Thorndown. I opened a new document, and for the first time in a while the blank page looked like an opportunity, not a threat.

There’s a camp hidden away in the woods. No paved roads lead to it, and you’ll never be able to find it on a map…

eighteen

. . .

Saturday, Late August

I slid the laptop across the table to Andrea after she finished her croissant. The crumbs hadn’t even been cleared from the table yet.

“I finished it,” I said sheepishly. The pastries were nothing more than a bribe to get her here, and give me time to muster up the courage to let her read my manuscript.

She squealed in delight, “please tell me you’re going to let me read it. I have nothing on the calendar today, I’ll clear my schedule⁠—”

“Before you get too excited, it’s not the fic. It’s not even remotely related to Thorndown or any existing intellectual property. I couldn’t make it work when it was so closely tied to the original story. And it didn’t feel right considering…”

She lifted a pink manicured hand up. “Let me read it before you spiral.”

Her eyes scanned across the screen as I watched along anxiously. Every pause, every scroll was another hit of stress.

It could be complete shit. It probably was.