He is old, so old that his bones creak in time with gentle rocking of the chair. His once sharp eyes have grown weak and tired and his once limber hands are now stiff with age. A lifetime of hopes and promises, of regrets and missed chances, weighs down on him until he's ready to drift off into his final rest. He won't go yet though, because he is a Writer and he knows that his story has not yet reached its end.
The young man that stumbles into his shop is tall, and lithe but muscular. The tousled brunette hair and easy smile stand in direct contradiction to the battle-worn strength in his pose and his troubled eyes that have seen far more than anyone should.
"I'm sorry sir, I was just in the shop out front and I…"
The young man's presence causes an almost ripple effect on the very air, and golden aura seems to fill the room. A long-forgotten tingle begins to fill the writer's fingers and he knows that this is what he has been waiting for.
"Sit down." His voice has grown raspy over the years, but hasn't yet lost its commanding tone.
"Yes sir," the young man replies, showing a proper deference for his elders. "What can I do for you?"
"You have a story. Tell it to me." The writer has never been one to mince words while speaking and age has done nothing to soften that.
The young man blanched. "I – Are you sure? I'm afraid it's long, and really complicated."
"I have yet to find the story that isn't."
The young man searches the writers face, and seems to find what he is looking for. "Alright," he says with a nod. "I'll tell you."
The writer has to concede to the young man's point; this is by far the most convoluted narrative he has ever heard. If he were anyone else but a Writer, he would have no hope of following it and as it is he's not sure even the young man himself fully understands what happened. A Writer though, a Writer can see the threads that make up a story, read the warp and the weave as easily as a seamstress can read the cloth in her hands.
"… and so my companions and I left the Princess safe in her own world, and now hop world to world. Hopefully we'll be able to go back one day."
And there it is, the golden thread shot through the narrative, the unraveling ends that the writer needs to attach his story to. He doesn't tell the young man that though, nor does he thank the young man for indulging him. Instead, he sends him off with a gruff, "I hope your story finds the ending it deserves."
The young man answers with a cautious smile and a "Thank you very much. I hope yours does too, sir." Then he rises from the chair and, with a small bow, exits.
The writer sits quietly for a few minutes after the young man leaves. Once he sure he's gone, the writer stands up as well and slowly, laboriously, he crosses the room to a slightly dusty desk standing in the corner. Sitting down in the old wooden chair, the writer opens a drawer and pulls out his tools. The paper is a thick and creamy parchment, old-fashioned even by his standards and the pen is topped with a tattered duck's feather, once a cheery yellow and now dingy with age.
He sits up all night, writing. He writes long past the point that he should be exhausted, but sleep does not touch him as he works on this, his last story. Just as the sky is turning salmon-pink with the dawn, he pens out the last sentence. Carefully drying the ink, he stacks the papers together and perfunctorily binds them. Then he lays his head down and finally, finally gets to rest.
And so the two lovers reunited and a new story, full of hope, has only just begun.