The moment the three of us burst into Rebecca's room a wave of terror ran over my body halting me in my tracks. Rebecca's thrashing was utterly terrifying as if a demon had possessed her body and was attempting to provide an adequate exit.

"She is having a seizure." Marisol said as she hurried on to provide assistance.

K was by her side aiding her to administer the remedy while I stood like a dunce, unable to utter a word let alone provide my assistance. All the events were too much for me to bear especially having in mind the guilt over Rebecca's state that threatened to consume me.

After a few more moments of agony, Rebecca's body relaxed and she fell into what appeared to be peaceful slumber. At least I fervently hoped that was what it was.

"Is she..." I started to ask with a trembling voice.

"She is fine. However, that seizure came out of nowhere. I would have to do additional tests to see if we missed something." Marisol said thoughtful.

"How may I be of assistance?" I asked.

"Actually, Shawn I think that you need to go and rest. It seems like this has been a bit too much excitement for you, you are shaking." Marisol said noting my hands which trembled far worse than my voice.

Though I was offended by the assumption that I could not handle what was going on, I decided to yield to their assumption. I resolved to let them see the feeble old man for the time being since it occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to go and make sure that the power of the pen had in no way caused Rebecca's seizures.

"Very well. However, if anything else happens, please do not tarry in informing me." I said.

"Deal. No worries man, my girl will be fine but if anything goes wrong will holler at you." K said.

I assumed what K had said was affirming that they would indeed inform me of any changes in Rebecca's state and hurried off to my abode. Though it should be a place of peace and tranquility these days it is more a place of struggle and pain but I hurry towards its cold embrace, nevertheless.

It was of essence to know if the pen had caused Rebecca's state to deteriorate and to find a possible remedy for her ailment. Furthermore, I needed reassurances that moving forward such incidents would not occur again.

The moment I entered my apartment I hurried to my working station grabbing the pen with much more force that was strictly necessary and providing it with fresh paper.

"Am I the cause of Rebecca's misfortune?" I asked.

"The bard has to be more precise since the answer to this question is both yes and no," The pen wrote.

I was agitated by the answer but as any writer understands and as I once so eloquently said: "Many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither." As follows, I put aside my vexation and contemplate on making a more precise inquire.

"What is the cause or Rebecca's current condition?" I asked.

"Current health condition has occurred as a consequence of an overload," the pen said.

"Could you elaborate?" I asked.

"Mortal lives are traditionally set to a leisurely pace that allows them to acquire novel notions, experiences and emotion without their hearts being overcome by too many new sensations. In writing your story, you have not taken into consideration those limitations," the pen wrote.

"Thus, it is the consequence of my errors?" I inquired as my heart was breaking for the unintentional evil I had bestowed on my friend.

"Partly. She had neglected her emotional life for an extended period of time thus her general frame is more sensitive than it should be in a human her age," the pen wrote.

"What does that signify?" I asked, unable to comprehend the full extent of the problem.

"Her seizures are a consequence of her heart being unprepared for the amount of love that has awakened in it. The speed with which the awakening occurred coupled with her emotional weakness is causing these side effects in the shape of seizures," the pen wrote.

Though I did not fully comprehend the pen, I managed to deduce the main points. Her heart was inadequately prepared for the number of emotions that suddenly grew from it, and the suddenness of those emotions was my fault. Thus, her whole condition could be blamed on me.

"In which manner can those consequences be remedied?" I inquired.

"The set of events that has been set in motion cannot be altered. It is like a water hurling down the waterfall. If she is strong enough, she will experience the calm the water has when it reaches the bottom of the water if not she will perish," the pen wrote.

"Why was I not prewarned of these possibilities?" I demanded harshly of the pen.

"For two obvious reasons. To begin with, we were unaware of all the possible outcomes of our interference since we are not omnipotent.Secondly, the great bard did not inform us that he wished to be aware of such inconsistencies in the storyline he created," the pen wrote.

Enraged I was uncertain whom I despised more in that moment, myself or the pen that refused to accept guilt for the havoc that its power wrecked. Part of that guilt might be mine, but it appeared to me as if the pen was unaware and unwilling to accept its share of guilt.

"Is it possible for both of the stories I crafted to have a satisfactory ending or is only one of them able to strive for happiness?" I asked the question that troubled me the most.

"It is possible. However, we are uncertain how probable it is. We did all that was in our power. The rest remains dependent on the subjects strength and circumstance," the pen wrote.

"I was under the impression that anything I write about was to become reality." I said.

"Yes, to a certain degree. The pen you hold is imbued with our essence and has more power than this world has ever seen. Nevertheless, it is not enough to have full power over all the details written into the story. If we were set free, however, we would be able to repair any possible damage with ease," the pen wrote.

"What do you mean? Released from where?" I asked for the first time utterly lost in my notion of what the pen was.

"The pen is just a conduit of our voice and our power. Our beings are trapped in a place far from your world, we are unable to leave. The only communication we maintain with the external world is through this pen. As you can imagine, exerting that much energy across such a vast distance can be exhausting," the pen wrote.

"What prompts you to do so, then?" I asked.

"We wish to help to those who cannot help themselves since we are unable to help ourselves. However, the great bard can aid us. We can help each other," the pen wrote.

"How could I, an insignificant human, ever release you? What would you undertake once freed?" I asked the two most important questions that occurred to me.

"By writing us out of this place, of course. Only the great bard possesses enough power, rich enough vocabulary to do so," the pen wrote.

When it came to answering the second question the pen seemed to hesitate which I did not find encouraging. Nonetheless, I was reassured by the following written sentence, even if for a short time.

"We've tired ourselves out. The great bard must excuse us. We need resting. Once rested we will provide the bard with all the answers he needs," the pen wrote.

For a brief moment I was relieved that tiredness seemed to be the only reason for the delay in their response. However, soon enough I grew suspicious of the beings residing in the pen. I couldn't help but wonder if I made a mistake in relying on them.

My questions were responded far sooner then I anticipated.