Waiting.

He doesn’t ask for much, not really. Nothing ostentous, nothing too grand, just a single sheet of paper with a scrawly message that few beings will ever be capable of deciphering. It’s not an ancient language or a complicated code, it’s simply the writtings of an adult hand that tries to write like a child’s. Inside this letter he wishes to have, there’s no secret plans or detailed accounts about the past, only the random lines that show the writer’s still alive. Perhaps a shy thought of goodwill from a Hero that’s still trying to figure out how to court the willing and convince the unaware.

Sheik waits patiently and impatiently for his letter to arrive, for seven long days and another week, ticking the wasted time with the scent of vile and drinking another toast for a nameless stranger here and there.

He doesn’t ask for much, just for his letter to come and this putrid waiting between alcohol and drunkness to end.