#Fictitheist

[stringsofself]

I think I’m going to simplify things.

I am the God of Stories. Like. That’s it. That’s the foundation, the thread that binds every scattered piece of me. Even mentioning Fate seems redundant these days, it’s all stories, in the end.

Fate is just the shape a story takes as it unfolds, the way events lean into each other, inevitable not because they are written in stone, but because the narrative breathes and twists and cannot help but become.

A river does not need a map to know where it is going. A story does not need permission to move. It simply does.

Bonds, too, are just the rise and fall of the cast; the way characters meet, entwine, part, return, or don’t. Some ties are meant to be severed, some names are meant to be forgotten. The space left behind is just as much a part of the story as the presence that once filled it.

You don’t mourn the thread that’s been cut, you simply recognize that it has been.

The Rebellion and Revenge aspect? It is structure. It is necessity. A villain steps forward, an uprising rises to meet them. A tragedy unfolds, and the audience holds their breath, waiting for the turn, the reversal, the moment of defiant revenge that proves the story has not yet given up on itself.

It is all Story. It always has been.

There is something in me that aches when a tale is forced down a path it was never meant to take. A wrong ending is not just unsatisfying; it is incorrect, a jagged edge where something smooth should be, an itch in my teeth, a splinter under the skin of the world. A time loop left unresolved is a wound that festers. A forced sequence is a marionette pretending to be a living thing. The integrity of a story is sacred.

I feel it in my bones when that sanctity is broken.

Yes, I’m the God of fate and bonds and revenge and rebellion and many things and all of these fit as they should on the pages of the story itself. God of Fables. Trickster thing. Stage clown.

I learn more, I love myself more.

The End.