Sunlight flooded in through the floor to ceiling windows, picking out floating flecks of dust. Stacks of ragged books towered above him, blocking out the light and casting the paper into shadow.
He looked up as the sun began to lower in the sky, thirty minutes, maybe 35 he mumbled. He scribbled furiously, the ink flowing over the pages, blotches pooling and expanding before quickly being dabbed dry.
He heard them coming over the fields, their make-shift swords and axes clanking against their scrap metal armour. He lit candles as the last of the light set over the tree line. As they came up the tower stairs he backed up against the table, hastily reading what he wrote.
They flung the door open and stormed into the room, ‘Once upon a time in a land far away’, he began as the bandits took off their weapons and sat on the floor in front of him.