Work Text:
He’s trying so hard, fingers shaking, pen quivering over the page.
Words won’t come, for the first time, and worse, he knows why. This isn’t writer’s block, isn’t a dry spell. The Author knows that he has ideas, that he can write, but he can’t bring himself to put words to the ideas.
There are two voices in his head, two wolves fighting against each other.
One says to write, write until whatever feeling inside him finds its way out.
The other asks, why bother?
And the Author sits with his pen millimeters from the paper, until a blot of ink the size of his pupil sits on the blank page.
He’s drowning, choking, and he knows that all he has to do to make it better is walk away. Leave the wolves to their meat, take a breath, and come back tomorrow.
He can’t bring himself to do it.
The Author doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, staring at blank white paper, the image burning itself into his retinas. His hand has long since cramped, the cabin cold, and he doesn’t think that he could form a letter on the page if he tried.
He has to try.
Words flow out of him like water, but suddenly, the river’s run dry.
And the worst part of it all is that the Author knows exactly where the dam is. He settles in his seat, listening to the wolves again.
“You’ve hit a wall,” the voice whispers, gentle. “And it’s not your fault, my dear.”
“I’ve hit it hard,” the Author laughs, bitter: voice suddenly loud, echoing. He’s not sure if he’s speaking out loud to the confines of his room, or thinking the words loud enough for them to bounce around his head, pennies in a tin can.
“Oh, dear,” the voice responds, and it’s almost a sneer.
The Author is silent again, flipping his pen between his fingers. The wolf isn’t snarling, fighting, anymore, and he distantly thinks that there’s nothing more to fight against.
“It’s not enough to be dumbstruck.” The voice is laughing, and if the Author closes his eyes for a moment, he can feel the words pressing heavy on him. “You can’t fill this silence.”
“I can,” he says, but this time, the Author knows that it’s not out loud. It’s in his own mind, a second wolf snapping back from the dead. “I have words.”
“Not in that head of yours,” and the words hurt, a bullwhip.
“What do you want from me?”
“Want? My dear, I seek only to give.”
“Horseshit.”
“Language,” and a stabbing pain between his temples, behind his eyes.
Of course he has a headache, he’s been sitting here trying to write for who knows how long. The Author makes to stand, stretch, the second wolf overcoming the first, the voice growing quiet.
“Tell me your story,” the voice hisses, as it fades. “break the silence open wide.”
The Author shakes his head, almost laughing at himself. Talking to wolves inside his head? Ridiculous.
The voice is gone, for now.
It comes back.
It keeps coming back.
The Author sits with his head between his hands, cursing over spilled ink. “What am I good for?”
The voice speaks, and it has a name, now, and it begs him to fill the silence.
It’s not enough to be dumbstruck-- he has to see, he has to see everything.
The wolf never goes quiet, these days. At least, the Host thinks, there’s only one of them now.
Which wolf will win?
The one you feed.