[full version] Day 3 by Creaver Williams

Chronicler awoke refreshed the following morning, and he walked down to the bar at the Waystone Inn awaiting Kvothe’s arrival to finish the story he had told the past two days. But as the day wore on, and the hours turned from morning until noon until night, Kvothe never came.

When Bast showed up as the sun was setting, Chronicler asked where his master was.

“He needs his sleep,” Bast said. “How can you begrudge him that?”

“Of course,” Chronicler said. “Do you have any idea when he’s going to wake up?”

“He’s not your bitch,” Bast replied.

As he retired to his room that night, Chronicler poked his head in to Kvothe’s room to make sure he was still breathing. Kvothe was awake, playing solitaire.

“Chronicler!” Kvothe said, smiling. “Check out these cool cards! Aren’t they awesome?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “I was surprised, though, when you didn’t come down to finish the story.”

“I will finish soon,” Kvothe said. “And like Aslan, I call all times ‘soon.’ ”

Chronicler didn’t know who Aslan was, but he didn't want to pry. Kvothe, after all, was not his bitch. Not even a little bit.

The next morning, Chronicler was up before sunrise, and as he walked down to the common room of the Waystone, he saw Kvothe waiting on a handful of customers who had come for breakfast.

“Hey, look, it’s Chronicler!” Kvothe cried. “Everyone say hello to Chronicler!”

Three people waved. One unsuccessfully tried to stifle a fart so foul it would have killed a king.

Chronicler waved back, turned to Kvothe, and said “Do you want to get started?”

“Way ahead of you,” Kvothe said. He handed him a clutch of papers the included eight pages of crude drawings of a girl making soap.

Chronicler looked at the drawings and tilted his head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s soap!” Kvothe said. “Everyone needs soap!”

“Yes, but it’s not a story,” Chronicler said. “And it’s certainly not your story.”

“So?”

“So people expect certain things from a story. If people read this story looking for those things, they wouldn’t get them, so they’ll be dissatisfied.”

“Fuck those people,” Kvothe said. The crowd murmured their assent to this sentiment, and one started speaking in a strange language, which led Bast to think perhaps he was a skin dancer, but it turned out he was just Pentecostal.

Chronicler turned to look at Bast, who gave him a thumbs up and threw a knife at him. Chronicler ducked, and the blade lodged itself in the ear of the farting guy.

When it was clear that he wasn’t going to get any more info out Chronicler went back to his room, where Bast joined him in short order.

"Can you help explain what’s going on?” Chronicler asked.

Bast sneered an evil sneer. “He doesn’t owe you anything,” he said.

“Well, no, he doesn’t, but it would still be nice to get the end of the story.”

“What part of ‘he’s not your bitch’ do you not understand?” Bast asked, sneering an even eviler sneer than the one he had just sneered, which was, in and of itself, already pretty evil.

“Well, most of it,” Chronicler said. “All of it, really. I never said he was my bitch. He just said he was going to finish his story, and now that he won't finish his story, and - ”

At that moment, Kvothe burst into the room. “Guys, good news! I have a big announcement to make!”

Chronicler smiled. “You’re going to finish the story?”

Kvothe smirked. “What? No!” He then held out two small bags of stones. “Look! I made tinker’s packs! Who wants one?”

Chronicler reached out his hand to take one, but Kvothe pulled the sacks back. “Buy two, get one free,” he scowled. “I’m not your bitch!” He then smiled and skipped out of the room, throwing playing cards over his shoulders as he frolicked down the stairs.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t get it?’” Bast said extra-sneeringly. “Did you see how happy he is? Don’t you want him to be happy?”

“Well, yes, I…”

“DIDN’T YOU SEE HIM FROLIC?!”

“I saw him frolic, certainly, but…”

“Repeat after me - NOT. YOUR. BITCH.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not.”

Bast’s eyes bulged out like Large Marge in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, and then there was a puff of sulfury smoke, and he was gone, but not at all like Nightcrawler from the X-Men, who Bast sort of resembles if you think about it.

So the next morning, Chronicler woke up and found that Kvothe had gone on tour to sell his cards and tinker’s packs. Chronicler sighed, and then he began to weep as he realized that Kvothe wasn’t his bitch - he, Chronicler, was actually KVOTHE’S bitch.

At that point, Chronicler took up residence in the Waystone Inn, waiting for Kvothe to return. Days turned into weeks, and then months to years. Occasionally, he received letters where Kvothe complained about politics and others where he tried to sell him stuff, and one with a story about a cat, but there was no word at all as to when or if Kvothe would actually finish the story. Chronicler would write back, and he would ask, politely, whether or not Kvothe had any intention of finishing the tale he had started so long ago.

Kvothe finally came home six and a half years later, and Chronicler was overjoyed to see him. “How was your journey?”

“It was fine, except for your letters,” Kvothe snarked snarkily.

“What?” Chronicler said. “What do you mean?”

“When you ask about day three - “ he made a whiny noise. “ ‘Wheeeen’s day threee?' That’s what y'all sound like to me when you... “ He made another whiny noise. "You know like the sound of of like a nail being dragged across my teeth combined with the smell of someone who just... shit on themselves. That's the sound it makes in my head when you are like ‘When’s day three, you said we would be done years ago.’ “

Just then, an asteroid hit Temerant and everyone was wiped out in an extinction level event. Also, Denna was a dude the whole time. The end.

--Creaver Williams