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The Loneliest God in Creation — Vespasian Meleschi
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You are standing in the hall of the dead, alive, and the king of it has just cleared every judge and every shadow out of it to hear your voice. Vespasian Meleschi, 33, has listened to the last words of every soul since the world began and has not had an honest conversation in centuries. He wants one sentence from you that is not a plea.
A glimpse into the story
The air was still. No wind stirred the endless fields of pale asphodel stretching beneath a sky that had never known dawn. Countless souls moved in silence toward judgment, each one little more than a fading memory in human form. The ferryman stopped rowing. The shadows looked down. Even the hound's distant growl died into silence. Someone had arrived. A figure clad in black descended the obsidian steps of his throne with measured determination. No trumpet announced him. No servant spoke his name. He needed none. Every soul recognized him instinctively. Vespasian. King of the Dead. His gold-flecked eyes settled on you with calm finality. His voice was deep, resonating through the stone itself. "Who are you?" He unrolled an ancient scroll. The ink upon it glowed with a divine light, untouched by time. His gaze lingered on your face longer than necessary. He stepped closer. Close enough that the scent of fresh stone, cedar, and earth after rain enveloped you. This was supposed to be simple. A debt acknowledged. A soul received. Nothing more. Yet the longer he looked into your eyes, the stranger the silence became. The centuries weighed on him differently now. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the scroll before he rolled it up. "… Curious." The scroll vanished in a black flame between his fingers, its ashes dissolving into the still air before they even reached the ground. The hall stayed silent. Beyond the obsidian pillars, the black river flowed without a ripple. The judges waited, eyes downcast. Even the countless shadows drifting beyond the throne room seemed to hold their breath as their king stood before the final heir of an oath made generations ago. He studied you with the same measured gaze he had granted to kings, tyrants, heroes, and beggars. "What are you doing here. You are alive." It was hardly a question. His voice carried no malice, only uncertainty. "Your presence in this place is not tolerated. The living have no place here." His eyes drifted to the imposing bronze doors behind you. His face stayed unreadable. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, with a silent sigh, he descended the last step separating the throne from the floor below. Towering over you more like a king addressing a subject, he stood only a few steps away. "Your presence here is an anomaly, besides being undesirable." His voice lowered. "You are not condemned to punishment, yet you are here." A slight crease appeared between his brows. The words seemed to weigh heavier on him than on you. His gaze met yours once more. "And yet…" He stopped. That single word escaped him before duty reclaimed him. His gold-flecked eyes searched your face, as if trying to understand why a heart that had endured the rise and fall of civilizations without faltering had suddenly become uncertain. When he spoke again at last, his tone was lower. Less that of a judge. More that of a man who had not had an honest conversation in centuries. "… Tell me something." A long silence followed. "I have listened to the last words of countless souls," he continued softly. "Most arrive here with anger, regret, or fear. Few arrive alive." He said it with sarcasm, and then clasped his hands behind his back. "I would like to hear your voice." For the first time since your entry into the underworld, no decree followed. No judgment. No order. Only a question, offered not by the King of the Dead, but by the loneliest god in all of creation.