“Holly coughed and it seemed to echo around the entire forest telling all the animals and plants of their whereabouts. “
The scratching sound of a quill on paper continued as an old hand and thin, worn fingers continued to write with a delicate skill that spoke of decades of practice.
“Her eyes scanned the area, watching for signs of anything which shouldn't be there.”
Removing the quill from the page, he let it rest in the ink jar to his right. He sat back for a moment in his wooden chair, letting the tension in his shoulders and back slip away.
The crickets could be heard through the window, the sun had already set, and night lay peacefully on the world.
The old writer arose from his work, and blowing out the candle, climbed the steps to his room where he would retire for the night, to dream once again of the magic and wonder that he had never lived. But after sleep had overtaken him, and his heavy eyes had fallen, no dreams came to greet him that night, and no bed came to greet him next morning.
The old man had dreamed his last dream, and breathed his last breath. Two brothers would never see what greatness awaited them. A young healer would never know the dark turn his life had yet to take. A green troll would never know a full life of friendship. A dark man would never achieve the limitless power that he desired to greatly, and a young, impulsive girl, would never realize that it was not the sword and shield that held power, but the heart.
As the old man slipped silently into his final slumber, his work, sat still on the desk downstairs, never to be completed, forever unfinished, but never forgotten.
-Requiem to an Unfinished Dream