Eustace rubbed the sleep from the corners of his eyes, pushing against the underside of his brow to differ the ache beneath. It had been yet another restless night. There were new bruises on the front of his right hip where he had run into an unseen table that stood awaiting pick-up by a furniture buyer. Normally when his dreams stirred him in his sleep Eustace would roam the halls without incident; for he ran through the memory of his home while his body moved in reality. When things such as the table were out of place, he would often flee without hesitation straight into them. He had a collection of scars on both his body and among his possessions alike to show for these waking nightmares.
The author stared across his living room at the hindersome, stout oak table. Eustace stretched his leg out where he sat, testing the tenderness of his bruised hip. He gave a low groan as the pain flared. It was broad, but not intense. He leaned back and sighed, the exhaustion from lack of decent sleep defeating his motivation to move. His head numbly leaned to one side, coming to rest on the back of his armchair. His eyes focused ahead at a portrait of a happy couple hold hands and staring happily into each other’s eyes. Eustace had aged since that day, his human blood giving time a hold on his body, unlike pure-blooded elves. The woman in the picture was youthful, and Eustace had never known her any other way. She had aged with as fair gracefulness as any other elven Lady. Time had not been given the chance to wear against her complexion slowly over centuries, for she had died swiftly to illness.
Eustace had a sudden longing for her presence again. She had always been there to wake him for so many years. As the shadows infringed upon his dreams and stirred him into a panic, she would wave a hand and summon light to wake him. He would find himself all at once blinking at a little luminescent orb, and all of the terrible dark shades would be nowhere in sight. She would calm him with simple words and ensure him that there was no threat, and he could return to sleep with enough haste to be unbothered come the sunrise. The sight of the portrait blurred and Eustace slid chilled trembling fingers across his eyes to clear away the tears. He was left with his shades once again, alone.
He let out a miserable laugh aimed at himself. There was so little he felt he could do to change how he felt.
His eyes ached as he sat, a glare having aligned with his pupils where he stooped. He shifted his stiff form to twist and find the source. A glowing beam of morning light had found space through in a disheveled curtain, where it leaped off of a polished tabletop into the room. Eustace groaned, unable to slouch back without being assaulted by the brightness. He forced himself up, taking two attempts to right himself from the comfort of his seat. Walking to the window he reached out to seize the curtain and return it to intended alignment. His fingers grasped the material, and he gave it a sound shake.
The curtains, rod and all, came loose from the mounts above. The daylight flooded in, at once banishing the gloomy atmosphere of the interior. Eustace slammed shut his eyes, the change too sudden to bare. But as he closed off his sight, his proximity to the window allowed him to hear the distant laughter of children outside as they ran to the schoolhouse. Workers greeted each other in passing. Birdsong echoed over the constant beat of city bustle. Eustace’s mind stirred with potential possibilities of what each sound could be if written out. He leaned against the sill, finally opening his eyes as he looked into the room. He felt as if he was in an entirely new space. A twinkle of light danced across his face. Eustace looked back to the portrait where a steady beam now fell. Illuminated she was even more beautiful to behold. The aged author stood up, nodded briefly, then went to ready himself to leave the shadowed house and take a stroll in the daylight.