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It took them a week. To reach the point they were at, so fly through his story along with the others in it. There had been times where they had thrown the book in anger, when he spoke to the wrong person. He would laugh quietly to himself so the words did not recognise as the ground shook around him. A few leaves catching in his hair that he didn't notice, adding a slight bit of embarrassment to the story.
'There are leaves in your hair silly'
As if he heard them, which he did, he shook them out of his hair and continued through the forrest onto his final battle ground.

His heart was full and he prepared a raincoat this time, this part usually made people cry. He stopped. So did the words, so did the mumbling of their words, they had closed the book for now.

He threw a leg over his horse and thumped to the floor with a sigh. Looking around he pondered for a second, deciding whether to leave a note for this reader or not. Finding himself deep in the forest he let his fingers graze down one of the trees, in it, was all of the readers he had ever had, well, those whose name he managed to hear. He wanted to add this particular one to the tree, there was something about them that made him feel... real.

Without a second thought he closed his eyes, figuratively reaching into the empty space of words, pulling a few and shoving them into the script. This always tired him out. He opened his eyes and let his knees collapse beneath him as he sat, curled on the floor, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

Human life sounded so much fun, so much more fulfilling, people loved and they hated, cried and laughed like they meant it and yet here he was. Alone. His stomach twisted in slight agony as he lifted a hand to his face, touching the slight wetness.

Baffled, he blinked a few times, he wasn't meant to cry, he knew what it was, it soaked him from his readers. He shook it away quickly, not daring to let another drop fall. This was wrong, something was very wrong.

He double checked his words, to make sure they made sense so it didn't seem too out of place. He was to ask the assassin his name, if he knew the reader well enough he assumed they would mumbled their own name when the question was asked.

Meanwhile, they sat with the book in hand, staring at the cover and admiring the patterns. 'Assassin 8' is what it was called. They adored it, the characters, the scenery, the plot. They wished the characters were real, wishing they could hold them close and stop their hurting where it arises. They couldn't read anymore for now, they knew what the next course of events was. Their stomach twisted in slight agony, in sync with the character, although neither of them knew. They didn't want him to die, not when they were already so attached.

To fall in love. Where stories live. Discover now