The Angler in the Lake of Darkness
The light in the study was dim. A pile of old and ill-kept books sat in a messy heap beside the bed. The room had slowly evolved out of being Shelley's study and into Elan's bedroom. Clothes hung in one corner, and books lay everywhere, evidence of Elan's only real hobby. In a small drawer which housed the socks that he had borrowed from Shelley, a rose beginning to blossom lay hidden.
Elan lay sleeping on the bed, slumped against the back of the folded out sofa with a book perched on his chest. Nearly every night, he fell asleep reading. Very little changed here.
Rain.
It was raining and had been for weeks. The grass was wet and water dripped down his cheeks. A thick mist enshrouded most of the land around him. Flowing water. An ocean, no, a river. Flowing softly and gently.
Fishing.
He was sitting on the banks of the river with the plain behind him, fishing. Everything was set in order. His cheeks were wet, dripping wet. His hair and clothes clung to him. It was rather embarrassing.
Elan lay sleeping on the bed, slumped against the back of the folded out sofa with a book perched on his chest. Nearly every night, he fell asleep reading. Very little changed here.
Rain.
It was raining and had been for weeks. The grass was wet and water dripped down his cheeks. A thick mist enshrouded most of the land around him. Flowing water. An ocean, no, a river. Flowing softly and gently.
Fishing.
He was sitting on the banks of the river with the plain behind him, fishing. Everything was set in order. His cheeks were wet, dripping wet. His hair and clothes clung to him. It was rather embarrassing.