#alves

It was getting late in the day. The sun was setting, painting the sky in crimson hues. The Villagers, having finished their work, were returning to homes. They were eager for dinner and rest. The voices were fading, and the footsteps were becoming less frequent. Only the laughter of children calling out to each other could be heard in the distance. The village was sinking into the silence of the approaching night.

However, the library was still bustling with activity. Candlelight filtered through the windows, revealing two figures hunched over a table.

Alves stood next to Vardy. He rested one hand on the edge of the table, and with the other he pointed to a page covered in ancient runes. His back was straight, despite his age, but his shoulders were tired from the day's work.

"You've messed up again," he said patiently, tracing a line with his finger. "The base of this rune starts here, then curves smoothly, and ends with this stroke. It should be smooth and continuous."

Vardy was sitting at the table with his head down. His glasses had slipped down onto the tip of his nose, and his fingers, clutching the pen, were stained with ink. There was a piece of paper in front of him, excised by unsuccessful attempts. Every time he drew a rune, it turned out to be either too angular, or blurred, or just plain wrong.

"Here..? Or is it?" he muttered, making another attempt.

Vardy ran his pen over the paper, but it came out too abruptly. The ink spread out in an ugly blotch, destroying all his efforts. He closed his eyes for a moment, then removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do it," he whispered. "Why can't I make it work? I'm trying so hard..."

Alves smiled softly. He also knew that feeling when your soul is burning with the desire to do something important, and your own helplessness is letting you down.

"You're overexerting yourself. Enchantment is not a skill that can be mastered in a month. Some give it years, and even whole decades. Right now, your arm is tense, you're shackled."

He pushed the damaged sheet aside and placed a new, clean one in front of Vardy.

"Try again. But now don't think about failures. Don't be afraid to make mistakes — that's also part of ways."

Vardy chuckled bitterly.

"I don't want to let you down. You've put your faith in me, entrusted me with the library, given me this job, and I..."

Alves sighed and reached out to place his hand on his son's shoulder. But Vardy pulled away. Not rudely or resentfully, but with a sense of shame.

"Hush, son. I understand how difficult it is to learn. I once spent hours repeating runes until late at night. And I was wrong too. You still have time."

Frost sat nearby, in the shade of the bookcases.

He tried not to draw attention to himself. He sat on the edge of a window bench, holding an open book about herbs in front of him. An hour had passed, or maybe more, but he hadn't read a single word. Instead, he listened to Alves' voice, his patient explanations, Vardy's short breaths, and the rustling of paper as the pen fell from his hand.

Outside the window, the sun had almost set. Alves looked up, from the darkening sky to his son's tense shoulders, and removed the quill from his fingers.

"That's enough for today. You're tired, son. Every mistake seems like a disaster right now, but it's not, Vardy. You're an excellent librarian. Enchantment is just a small part of your work. Don't let it overshadow everything else."

Vardy opened his mouth, ready to object, but Alves just shook his head.

"Tomorrow. We'll try again. With a clean slate and a fresh head. Go now. Get some rest."

Vardy exhaled, feeling his anxiety go away. He wanted to insist on his own, to say that he had to, that he was capable. But the fatigue was unbearable.

The former Librarian gathered up the scrolls, picked up a heavy book, and placed them on a shelf. Then, straightening his collar, he headed for the door, but at the threshold, he turned around.

"See you tomorrow, Vardy. Just don't stay up too late, okay?"

Vardy nodded mechanically, not even looking up. His father's words fell on deaf ears as he returned his gaze to the sheet of paper, where a chaotic mess of curved lines awaited him.

The door clicked shut, and Alves was gone. The library fell silent, with only the crackling of the candle to be heard.

Vardy couldn't fight like Frost. He couldn't heal like Maron. He couldn't build like Lumi. But the worst part was that he couldn't even do the thing he'd become a librarian for.

"Maybe," he said softly, more to the ceiling than to anyone alive, "maybe it's just not my thing."

The words hung in the air. Frost looked up from the book he hadn't even read. He knew that Vardy was waiting for an answer. But words were never easy for him. However, now he saw how much his friend needed support and could not stay in place. Frost got up and approached the table, bending over the sheet of paper

"You want to benefit the village, but you're already doing so. Every day. You're keeping the records. You're helping people find answers. I know your father is proud of you. He said you'd try again tomorrow. Father didn't give up, and neither should you."

Vardy blinked. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he held them back.

"Thank you," he said, and adjusted his glasses.

Frost nodded and stepped back.

"I'll be going. It's already late at night. You need to rest. Good night."

The door closed behind him.

A cool breeze blew into the room. Vardy took a deep breath and relaxed.