Text From Last Night - Writing for Fun

   "Jace, do you mind?"

   Looking indignant, my dark elf companion pauses mid-stride in the middle of our office and fixes me with a steely gaze.  It's about eleven o'clock at night, and we're both trying to get some last minute work done before bed: me, with The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith (may he rest in peace and stay resting because, I swear, if he writes any more books on economy...) and Jace, with some tattered dark elven document.

   "Is my pacing really that distracting?" Jace snaps.

   "Not your pacing," I retort, "You murmur unconsciously when you read."

   He cocks an eyebrow defensively and then dangles his manuscript, written in ancient, swooping letters and marked with geometric designs, in front of my face.  "This isn't exactly child's play."

   "Yeah, well, neither is Smith."  I put down a few more notes in my outline and ask, "What are you researching anyway?"

   He laughs briefly.  "What I'm not researching is the better question.  I'm looking up communication methods between elven races, but this book seems to include a lot of other junk: creation of life forms, instilling magic into elements, magic deviations...tedious, mathematical stuff."

   "Hrngph, sounds dull."

   Speak of the devil, I think grimly as the next paragraph in my reading includes a flurry of if-then statements with pronouns without clear antecedents.  Disgusted, I push away from my laptop and turn in my swivel chair to face Jace.  "So what do you need the communication for?"

   "--ahhh, well..." Jace closes the book and sits down in the chair opposite me, a dark hue on his cheeks.  "It has been a few years since I last talked to Araine.  She doesn't know that you've put my essence in a new body yet..."

   I smile grimly and close my laptop.  "You're wasting your time, you know.  Even if you could find a way to talk to her, what good would it do you?  Your legend with her goes unwritten and unsung, not to mention you put her through some pretty intense pain.  Who's to say she'll even care anymore?"

   "Oh, please."  Jace meets my smile with an irrationally dogged seriousness that I've seen burn continually in my own eyes for too long.  "You of all people don't need me to tell you why I want to talk to her again."

   "M'yeah, maybe.  It'd be nice if you could pinpoint specifically why you want what you want, though.  Instinctive desire is dangerous desire."  I get up and stretch.  "Anyway, if you don't discover anything on your own, I'm open to writing you and her together.  I did always enjoy your relationship's dynamic."

   Jace chokes on his laughter.  "No way, darling.  I don't need your so-called help.  If I let you touch my fate again, Araine and I would end up stranded with a bunch of loco killers on a tiger-infested island that catches fire and happens to be the attack point of a massive government infiltration.  No thanks.  I'm good."

   I snort and feign incredulousness.  "Why would you assume such a mean thing about me, Jace?  I'm not that cruel of an author."
   "Hah.  Hah.  You killed me with an undeveloped dead-ringer-poison plot arc and missile shrapnel--"
   "INCORRECT.  The missile shrapnel wasn't my idea, elf.  Get your story correct."
   Jace just pushes his palm against his forehead and sighs loudly.  At his defeat, I crack up and add more kindly, "Anyway, whatever.  Just make sure you piece together your motives before you do anything reckless.  Once you find a way to contact her, it'll be harder for you to think clearly."
   "Sure."  My elf companion glances at the wall clock and mutters, "But I'll do that tomorrow.  It's late, and I'm behind on sleep, no thanks to this thing."  He waves the book and then yawns, getting out of his seat and moving upstairs.

   "Sleep well, Jace."
   "Yeah, 'night."

To be continued...

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Write on!
Clove