It had begun with something simple—Albedo, without looking up from his work, had remarked; “If you ever find yourself idle, perhaps give writing a go. Pursing art is a simple way to keep your brain thinking.” A quiet suggestion, offered so casually it almost felt like an afterthought.

Durin thought it was an excellent idea. He always did, where Albedo was concerned. But the thought alone had stirred something tight in his chest. Writing was not just a simple pastime to him; it was the very reason he existed at all. His mother had created him with ink and imagination, guiding his earliest days with stories soft enough to lull him to sleep.

He still remembered her voice—faint, warm, threaded through memory like fading sunlight. She was long gone, yet the world still held her words as if they were treasures. And that, more than anything, made him hesitate. Could he ever craft something worthy of the woman who had shaped him?

Still, he tried. His brother's calm encouragement was enough to push his worries aside, and once he began, he learned that he truly loved it. His favourite hours became the ones spent in Albedo’s office at the Knights of Favonius headquarters: sunlight falling across stacks of notes, the steady scratch of Albedo’s pencil beside him, and the thrum of alchemical equipment running in the background. Durin would sit for hours, quill in hand, his brows drawn together in quiet concentration.

The mechanics of writing like grammar, structure, vocabulary—all the clean little things, came easily. He had inherited his mother’s instinct for language, after all. But the parts that mattered most...the breath, the warmth, the soul. Those were harder for him to grasp.

He was still learning what it meant to inhabit a body not formed and contained in a mere story. Albedo’s alchemy had given him form, but not certainty. Not yet, at least. The idea of a soul felt…far away, something he needed to reach for but couldn’t quite touch.

And yet, when the Knights read his first short story, just a small fantasy draft he’d written for himself, they found something bright in it. Something alive, they'd said. He didn’t fully understand why, but he accepted their praise with shy surprise.

When they suggested he find an editor, someone who could guide him if he ever wished to publish his work, he simply nodded. He seldom questioned the choices others made on his behalf, and this felt no different...though the thought of meeting someone new made him uneasy in a way he couldn’t name.

But he was earnest, always. And though social nuances escaped him, his desire to connect tended to eclipse his awkwardness. Which was why meeting you felt…fortunate. Your guidance was steady, your understanding gentle, and working beside you never felt like an obligation. He found himself relying on your presence more than he meant to, but never in a way that felt burdensome—only natural.

So when he wasn’t with Albedo, he was by your side, his parchment spread out next to yours.

“I wanted this section to feel…desolate. " He explained quietly one afternoon, tapping a gloved finger to the paragraph in question. The sharp arch of his horns peeked above his lilac hair as he leaned closer. “It’s the moment the protagonist returns to what remains of his home. Everything familiar is gone.”

His orchid purple eyes flicked to yours, not searching for approval, but something looking for something gentler. Guidance, maybe?

He had begun speaking more freely around you in recent weeks, trusting you with his thoughts before fully trusting himself with them. Little by little, conversation came easier.

“But…” He hesitated, rolling a thought in his head like a pebble between his fingers. “There should be something else there too, shouldn’t there? Not just grief. Maybe a small…bittersweet warmth?” His voice softened, as though he feared presuming too much.

“Could you help me understand how to bring that out better?”