There's Always Tomorrow

A cozy book and a cup of coffee with autumn leaves scattered around.

Elendil scratched his side and yawned, putting the book he had been holding in one hand aside. It was The Most Eccentric Fashions of the Fairy Court, and he had honestly only been skimming through the sketches. The images depicted nature-inspired outfits even a druid would hesitate to don.

From outside came the sound of voices shouting, cheering, and laughing. The elves were going at their daily routine again. Each day the younger elves would meet at the clearing by the lily-pond to flaunt and perfect their skills: training with the bow, climbing the trees, running and jumping like chipmunks, and cheering or teasing each other all the while. Elendil had been fortunate to live close enough to hear the noise.

His backside ached from sitting too long in the same position, urging him to forsake the comfort of his soft armchair and rise. Elendil did so and, without intending it, found himself drawn to the large circular window of the living room, his legs carrying him as if of their own volition, as they did every day.

Perhaps I should join them? the familiar voice wondered in his mind, a touch of hope coloring it. He could never tell which part of himself it was. The athletic one, yearning to test his skills and strengthen his body? The ambitious one, striving for the illusive perfection and the rush of competition? Perhaps the social one, thirsty for the company of others, for the shared joy of achievement and the support of the group?

He kept wondering at that as he got himself ready, honing the gray cloak over his dark tunic and pulling the soft leather boots over his leggings.

A momentary wave of unease gripped him as he opened the door of his little house to reveal the world of wooden ladders stretching between the trees that spread beyond it. He cast a wary glance towards the clearing, wondering if the other elves saw him and would call out to him. He wasn’t sure if he dreaded or anticipated that moment, and had always wondered how he would respond if they did, but the moment never came.

Elendil climbed the stairs that encircled the tree around which his house was entwined and followed the hanging bridges leading into the center of town, the forest floor teeming with life far below him.

While the houses and all manner of private residences clung to the treetops, hidden inside the canopies, the workshops, businesses, and shops huddled below, built around the trunks and roots of the forest floor. Among them was Flouriel’s bakery.

The sweet aroma emanating from the freshly baked bread and the other, more sugary, delicacies beckoned him already from the distance, holding the promise of comfort and the simple joys of life. Inside, he was welcomed by Flouriel’s smile, which was as warm as the steaming loaves of bread she was lovingly arranging in a basket inlaid with a white cloth. Stains dotted her apron, and flour clung to her hands and hair, which sat in a bun atop her head. Her eyes brightened when she saw Elendil at the door.

“Just in time!” she said. “The raisin bread is warm from the oven.”

Elendil returned the smile. The raisin bread did look appealing, even though it was the darker, heavy rye bread that he had been taught to prefer from his days of living under his family’s roof. But he wasn’t living under his family’s roof anymore. He was an adult and had to answer—nor apologize for his culinary choices—to no one.

He walked out with a loaf of freshly baked raisin bread, as well as several cinnamon buns whose brilliant glaze was too beautiful to leave at the bakery, and picked up some honey and butter at the nearby shop. The grocery owner’s gaze wasn’t as warm as that of Flouriel, and he became uncomfortably aware of the softening around his stomach under the scrutiny of her judging eyes.

But the unpleasantness was soon forgotten as he walked back, the fresh forest air mingling with the sweet notes carrying from the basket in his hands.

The clearing by the pond was empty when he neared his house, and he stopped before climbing up the stairs leading to his dwelling, his eyes scanning the expanse of green. It’s an opportunity, he thought, a rush of excitement awakening in him, a sign. He could go to the clearing and begin practicing, without anyone to watch or judge. He could start slow: stretch, perform a few push-ups, perhaps even take out the bow and quiver that had been gathering dust on his bedroom shelf and see if he could still hit a target.

A sense of excitement coursed through him, and a vision materialized before his mind’s eye. He saw himself among the other young elves, running and jumping, training and showing off his skills. He could hear their cheers and imagine them teasing him jokingly. It could be the birth of a new and improved Elendil, he thought. I’ll just go into the house and put the basket down a firm voice spoke in his mind, and then it’s out to the training field and into my new life.

He managed to ignore the smell rising from the basket where his desserts awaited as he walked into the house, deciding they would be his reward for after the training. He was about to close the door behind him when he caught sight of the armchair.

It was green and soft, with a checkered blanket in blue and green thrown over it, ready to envelop him in its warm embrace. His cup of tea was still half full on the small table beside it, along with the book he had been leafing through, and a new image appeared in Elendil’s mind. It was an image of comfort and warmth, and he found himself thinking of how nicely the tea would complement the cinnamon buns, and how pleasant it would be to listen to the rustle of leaves outside as he indulged in the simple pleasure the contents of his basket offered.

There’s always tomorrow, he thought as he got the kettle going, preparing a fresh cup of tea to go with the pastries. And it was late in the afternoon in any case, he told himself, which meant it would soon be too late to train outside.

“I’ll wake up early and train first thing in the morning,” he said out loud, hoping that by uttering the words he was making them more real, then settled into the armchair.

The sun’s golden rays washed over him with the drowsy warmth of the afternoon hours, and he smiled to himself, taking a bite of the cinnamon bun. It melted in his mouth in a rush of flavor.

There was always tomorrow.