Art Block || Fierrochase

Art Block

It wasn't like I wanted to knock on Alex's door. Nope. Totally not that.

Look, when it's three in the morning, you can hardly sleep anyway, and you can hear the raucous sounds of smashing down the hallway of your hotel room, then you do kind of get the urge to slip out of bed in your pyjamas to investigate.

So that's exactly what I did. But not because I wanted to see Alex.

The knock rang out against the quiet walls of the nineteenth floor. I was surprised none of my other hallmates had woken from the noises. TJ should be out here, grumbling like someone's broken an important peace treaty. Halfborn Gunderson would jump into a vigilant stance, wielding his axe, whereas Mallory Keen would literally kick her door down with the brute force of her shins, swearing in Gaelic. Glad I don't know Gaelic.

But today, it was soft. The corridor was dark, but there was a tiny bar of light crawling across the floor from the gap under Alex's door.

The knock caused Alex to go dead quiet (hah. Get it? Dead? ... No? Okay...), before she opened the door.

Also in the Hotel Valhalla issued pyjamas, the green silk embroidered with the HV initials, Alex's hair was a mess. It shadowed her eyes, one turning a darker brown, the other a swirling amber. The brightness that flooded from her room to the corridor was harsh enough to make me squint, but even so, it was a warm, nightly, orange glow, as if she'd only lit candles.

I spied her hands, too. They were caked in dust, and droplets of water dripped from her fingernails. She ran a hand through her hair, apparently absent to the fact that her head now looked like a lawn with a light dusting of snow.

"Magnus," she grumbled. "What do you want?"

I leant to the side. Yep. Her hands were covered in dust because she'd been smashing pots. Shards glittered from the floor and decorated the wall from the impact like the world's most abstract art gallery. Her pottery wheel was also slowing to a stop, so obviously she'd been working as she obliterated pots, too.

I pulled my hands together like they were magnetised. Something churned in my stomach. Nerves? Impossible. Butterflies? Definitely not. Concern? No way. I was only going to Alex's door to tell her to shut up.

But instead of something snarky, I said in a small voice, "Are... you all right?"

She cocked a grin, but it didn't match the tired bags under her eyes. "Magnus Chase? Worried for me? You sure you aren't an imposter?"

I stuck out my tongue. "Yeah, yeah. It's only because your Pot Smash Derby is loud enough to wake all the einherjar in the whole hotel."

Her eyes slanted to the carnage behind her, and her smirk dropped. "Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm fine. I'm..." Her eyes darted back and forth, searching for the right words. "I'm just a bit frustrated, is all." She looked back at me. "You ever heard of art block?"

I wasn't a very arty kid. The most artistic I had ever been was when my mom would bring finger painting sets on our hikes, and together we'd splotch our fingers in the green and pretend our paintings rivalled Monet. Ever since then, the best I'd drawn was the stick men all over my science homework. But I had heard of art block – I did know what that was, but I'd never experienced it.

Alex must have read my expression. "Hmm. Well..." she turned back, staring at her now still pottery wheel. "Art block is when your creative juices stop flowing, and everything you make... just seems cruddy."

I followed her gaze. There was a wedge of white clay on the top of the pottery wheel, and it was obvious a set of hands had worked through it, but it hadn't taken any particular shape yet.