Sitting down, you wonder what to write about.

The blanket of fresh, pearl-white snow outside?

The feeling of satisfaction you have when you read your old stories and see how far you’ve come?

The very thought that you really should be writing something?

How about those school assignments you still need to get done?

No, none of that. You’re tired of writing the real world. For the past three days, all you’ve wanted to do is escape. Yet the realms within your mind are not as clear as they used to be. You try to go on an adventure with Glorfindel, but he is distant and uninterested. You try to talk to Loki about a mischievous scheme, but he is like Glorfindel. Too far-off, vague and out-of-focus.

“All right,” you think, “What about my own characters?”

Well, you’ve been writing about Emindor for the past three days. How about giving him a shot?

He is a very broken character.

Yes, you know that. But aren’t you broken too? Not like him, of course. His life is much harder than yours. Perhaps he would like someone to talk to?

Let’s see.

“Emindor,” you whisper into your own mind, “Are you there?”

“I am.” His resonant voice replies, and in your thought there materializes his image. Fully clad in shining golden armor, accented by black and emerald green, he is your world’s version of Loki, but different. In your fantasy world, he only plays the part of a twisted, mischievous, chaos-minded god. In truth, he is nothing like that. The only similarities between him and his Mantle (for that is what the gladiators of Stol-rethas call their personas) is that they are both brooding, thoughtful persons.

“How are you today, Emindor?” You ask.

“Weary.”

“Why?”

He looks away, and with a short sigh, sits cross-legged on the ground. You come to sit before him, also cross-legged.

“Before you returned to telling my tale,” he begins, “I could remain in whatever time of it that I wished. So it was that I tarried almost always in either the company of my father, or those friends of mine who survived the rebellion. Now I am caged in the past which I regret and abhor.”

He meets your gaze, and you can see the pain in his eyes.

“This is not where I wish to be,” he says, “Yet until you finish telling, here I must remain. It is hard.”

You nod slowly, “I know, I know it’s hard. It hurts me too, because all I want is to see you borne aloft on the wings of eagles. I want to see you at home, happy with Tiffor and Nixa, Dogo and Lintes. But you cannot have dawn before the midnight,” you lean forward and cover his scarred hand with yours, “You’re not alone. We will finish this story – together.”

A glad, but weary smile, softens his drawn features, “You are different. You purpose not for great tales or appealing stories, but focus on the good of those who’s lives rest in your hand. We depend on you, and yet are glad to do so, for we know we are safe and that our voices will be heard. You care,” and he lays his other hand over yours, “Do not change that.”

“I won’t,” you reply, “You are real to me. I hope, someday, everyone else may see you as real too.”

He nods. Then, as if on agreement, you both stand, looking deep into each others’ eyes.

“Until you write again,” he says with a faint salute, and fades into the misty shadows around you.

“Until we write again,” you reply.

Turning, you walk through the swirling fogs of thought and return to the realm of real-life.

You smile as you write: Not every story need be about you. You are here to recount others’ lives.

What a privilege it is to be counted their friend.