Chapter Text
“Blow out the candles, Pierce!”
It’s finally November 3rd. My 32nd birthday. I’ve been living with Warden for 23 years now, so this celebrates two events, I suppose. I consider what I really want.
“Hmm..,” I wonder aloud.
Finally knowing what I want, I blow out the candles. Warden’s family, who arrived to celebrate, claps as they hand me my presents.
“Aww.... you didn’t have to get me anything!”
They smile. “Of course we did.”
I thank them, then gently open the box set in front of me. It’s a new quill and cup of ink. I’ve been wanting this for quite a while now but had never said anything. Warden must have known, bless his kind heart. The quill will be perfect for months to come with my job.
I’ve been working with my mentor, Mason Hartman, for eight years now. Three of them have been spent as an apprentice. We worked well together, and he hired me after the apprenticeship had ended as a full-time tabloid writer.
The celebration is over almost as quickly as it began. After an awkward goodbye to Warden’s family from Warden, as their past is... not always satisfactory, they depart, leaving Warden and I alone.
“Is there anything special you’d like to do tonight?” Warden asks.
“Not particularly. I do have something to finish for Mr. Hartman tonight, and that will consume most of my evening activities.”
I walk to my room, light a candle on my desk, and pick up a quill. Not the one I just received, mind you, it’s too precious to be used yet.
The article isn’t particularly interesting, only giving updates about Mexico’s ongoing struggle for independence from Spain. They seem to be losing, but I can only print facts, not my own opinions. There isn’t much more to finish, so I could afford some leisure. But I know what my employer would say: “Work first, always.” I sigh. He’s right. I must finish the article. I dip my quill into the ink once more, and words appear as my hand flows across the page.
I feel a heavy presence over my shoulder.
It’s Warden. “Hey.”
“Gah! Don’t... do that.”
His smile falters. “Sorry...”
I smile, then chuckle. “You’re far too apologetic. You didn’t ruin my writing at all, so we’re good, okay?” I playfully nudge his shoulder.
“Okay. What are you working on, anyway?”
“Boring politics. Mexico’s trying to get independence from Spain, and they seem to be losing.”
“It seems you’re almost done, though. How about we go for dinner after you’ve finished?”
I consider. “I’ll be ready in five.”
“I’ll get changed.”
He leaves the room. I pick up the quill. The words come easily now, I only have to write the conclusion.
Five minutes pass. When Warden doesn’t come, and I knew he wouldn’t, I knock on his door. He doesn’t respond, he never does. Obviously too busy painting birds again.
I gently open the door.
“The bird’s pretty detailed.”
He doesn’t look back. “Thanks.”
“You ready?”
He sets down the brush. “I’ve been ready,” he says, smiling.
We put on our coats and walk to the nearby restaurant, The Shining Buffalo. A host spots us.
“Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Good evening yourself,” Warden replies, well-mannered as always.
“Table for two? Or are you expecting someone?”
“Just the two of us.”
He leads us to a table. We take our seats, and the host leaves to seat others. Shortly after, a waiter arrives.
“Good evening.” He sounds more southern, maybe Georgian. “Could I start you two with a drink? An ale, perhaps?”
“No thanks, I’ll just have water.”
“I’ll also take water, thank you.”
“Excellent. I will be back in a moment with your waters.”
He departs, and I begin a conversation with Warden.
“I’ve seen you paint more and more frequently now. How is your most recent painting?”
“The hummingbird gains more and more detail every day. Today I finished one of his wings.”
“You’ve been working for several weeks, it’s taken you that long?”
“Pierce, you should know these paintings take a while.”
“Ah.”
“But I have seen you write more and more frequently. Is it all projects for work? Or a side project?”
“Warden, you know I’m an aspiring author. I write whenever I can.”
“Right, sorry.”
The waiter returns with our water. “Have you decided on a menu item?”
Warden nods. “I’ll take turkey, thank you.”
The waiter turns to me. “And for you?”
“I’ll take tomato soup, please.”
“Excellent choices. I’ll be back as soon as it’s ready.”
The waiter leaves, and Warden excuses himself to the restroom. I look around. The restaurant isn’t particularly busy, so I expect the food will arrive soon. I find myself thinking about my family. I wonder how Alice and Charlie are doing. I’ve written them occasionally, but we haven’t met in person for about 20 years. I wish I could see them again.
It is at that moment that Warden returns. He notices my expression.
“Your family?”
I nod.
The tension is broken as the waiter returns with my soup and Warden’s turkey. We thank him. I take a sip of water and begin my soup.
Before I know it, dinner is over. The waiter hands us the bill, 84¢. Warden tosses him a $1 coin, tells him to “Keep the change,” and we leave.
At home, Warden resumes painting, while I prepare for bed.
“Goodnight, Warden.”
“Goodnight.”