It was early at the tavern. Morning light barely influenced the dim room through the few panes of glass upfront. Eustace rubbed the bridge of his nose, casually scraping sleep from his eyes. He had made his way to the comfort of his designated chair and fought off the urge to nap in its embrace. Forcing himself from bed at the first disruption of the day, he now found himself beyond motivation. Stirring his bones into a stubborn march seemed to have only relocated his ever waning focus for productiveness. The ends of his fingers rolled across his brow, setting to work at his temple. His head ached at the disruptive thoughts clashing in his mind, a heated civil war of surrender and pursuit. Creative hopes imagined as shining heroes threw themselves against a tide of laziness which resisted as an innumerable horde of sluggish foes. Neither side gained ground, and Eustace was left unable to rest or write. He squinted at the empty page as if reading words in the dim lighting of the magical flames. The page was still empty, as it had been for the past four days. The enchanted quill swayed lightly, its magic patiently waiting for him to will it into motion. He stared at it, a spark of unwarranted anger flaring up at it. It only wanted to write for him, and as much as he wanted to give it words he was failing by each passing second. It’s potential was wasted waiting on an old useless whelp to simply think of something to scribble. He sneered, and his head pounded further. He closed his eyes, preventing the light from casting any illumination towards his dark brooding attitude. The chair was not the same level of comfort as his bed when it came to sulking and he wondered if he should just go back home for the day.
The door scraped open, its all too familiar cries of old wood announcing the coming of another early riser. Someone who had risen early to face the day, but who too had retreated into the hidden comfort of the back alley building. The half-elf opened his eyes briefly just to acknowledge and nod to whoever had entered in a means of formal courtesy. He found that the young girl, the one which normally took refuge in the window seat behind him, had paused in front of him. She nervously bit at her bottom lip, a familiar hesitancy to commit to words upon her face. Pride covered his own face quickly, to mask his own troubles and he straightened his posture as he faced the young woman.
“Morning, Miss…”
He searched his memory a moment.
“…Wish. Is there something you needed?”
She now seemed even more unsure of the interaction, even though he had broken the silence for her. She glanced at the stack of books in which she held tightly in front of her. With a final short breath, she slid the bottom book out and presented it towards him. He recognized it at once, knowing what she sought even before her voice finally had begun to ask her question.
“Are you the same Eustace Raleigh who wrote this?”
The old cover had been stained and worn from years of existence, passed from reader to reader. The stamp of the book lender on White Fern Road had been redone a few times on its front cover. It was Eustace’s second novel he had ever sent away to the Scribes of the Nahls to be copied. The story he had filled the pages with had been an optimistic tale, one of prime adventure and exploration of an unknown world. His eyes held back the sadness as he looked upon the days of his past success which contrasted his present situation so much. He nodded, keeping a shallow smile expressed for the benefit of the girl. He must have let too much of his self-disappointment show, as she withdrew the book back into her arms quietly. They both remained silent, and Eustace cursed himself for the senseless awkward moment he had created in wallowing in his own self-pity. He wondered what he needed to say to pass for a reasonable excuse or dismissal, anything to prevent her from learning that he wasn’t such an author anymore.
“I look forward to seeing what you write next,” she said at last.
The girl briefly recoiled no sooner than she had finished the last syllable. Eustace realized he had scowled at her without knowing, his anger at himself showing before he could even dismiss the idea. He shook his head, his hand giving a quivering open-palmed apology.
“I don’t even know what I want to write anymore.” He said, his voice quiet, but all to clear in the empty room. The faint sounds from the kitchen offering no competition. “I don’t think I could create a story like that one again. I’m not sure if I can put together enough thoughts to be worth recording.”
His breath came out unsteady, the weight that had been within, now spoken aloud. Now he was just spreading his problems to another. Someone who just wanted to read a good story, and he was just here to disappoint. He glared at the quill, wanting to toss it away and be rid of its ever waiting presence. All it did was wait on him, and he continued to fail at every moment.
The light of mid-morning had reached the alley space outside and now natural light had begun to influence the shadows at the building’s front. He looked back at the girl who had quietly remained standing beside him. She met his eyes, clearly having been searching for the right words.
“It doesn’t matter what you write. I like your stories for how you write them.” She opened her mouth as if to continue, then closed it, and with a slight motion of retreat, continued over to her regular seat. Eustace listened to her words over and over. He spoke them to himself, and let the idea be presented to every one of his excuses and hesitations. He found no resistance to such plainly spoken truth. He rose from his seat, his knees still in physical denial of being active so early. He turned towards the window seat where the girl sat with her back to him, the books left dismissed in the center of the table currently. He slowly walked over and collected his own novel from its stack, the girl showing concern at his unexpected change of expression and appearance. Taking the book in hand he opened it to the third chapter and laid it on the table.
“This was always one of my favorite scenes. I was inspired by a trip to the City of Forront. They always have the best breakfast vendors along the riverside park.”
Wish smiled and nodded to the seat opposite her, and the old half-elf gently sat and began explaining unwritten details and stories surrounding the old book. Back at his normal seat, the quill twitched. The old author took notice of it out of the edge of his vision and smiled as it began writing once again.