A/N: I couldn't wait. This was supposed to go up tomorrow. I have zero self control. Clearly. Besides, I want to get to the BixLu one! And RoLu. And CoLu. (Good lord, you guys are going to hate the CoLu one.)

This is a very different style than I normally write in. Tell me what you think?

Words.

That girl had always been surrounded by words. She was a writer, after all, so it was only natural she would be wordy. She and the Shrimp would bounce words off of each other, asking, have you heard this one? What about that one? I love this one. She could take an idea and a handful of words and spin it into a story that captivated the heart. It seemed so natural. The words seemed to leap off her pen onto the page, bringing characters and places to life. Her published novels had won critical acclaim, after all.

But he knew the truth.

He was there, every slow step of the way. He rubbed her shoulders, made her tea, listened to countless drafts and redrafts, let her lay with her golden head in his lap as she plotted out her next novel, and offered the occasional idea in her brainstorming sessions.

(If he was inordinately proud when one of his suggestions made it into the final draft, well, that was his business.)

He knew how she struggled with the writing sometimes. There were good times, when she would sit and write four or even eight or ten chapters all in one sitting, fueled on strong black coffee and Erza's strawberry cake.

(When Erza came looking for that cake, he had taken the blame. After all, it wouldn't do to interrupt his mate's writing with something so petty, now would it?)

And then there were the bad times.

Unfortunately for his sanity and eardrums, such sudden cessations of inspiration and motivation would strike six to twenty times during the writing of a novel. Sending his mate into a swift downward spiral, straight to rock bottom. Writer's block, she called it. That, and a handful of other, stronger, and much more unsavory names.

Bane of her existence.

A writer's nightmare.

The worst thing to ever happen.

Thrice-be-cursed monstrosity.

That, spat with as much loathing and venom as could be put into one word.

She would curse, and throw paper, and storm around the house, and scream into her pillow because of a character that simply wouldn't obey her. Swearing up and down she would never write another word, not even if her life depended on it. And her publisher could take his bloody deadlines and chuck them out the window, because there was no way on this earth she would ever be able to get the next chapter(s) churned out at his say so.

She wasn't a machine, she had raved one morning, when the writer's block had set her on edge. (Well, more on edge than usual.) She had stomped about, waving her hands and getting worked up into a furious red-faced lather. He had been seated on the couch, Pantherlily next to him, watching her in silence. He had learned very quickly it was best to just let her blow off some steam before offering an idea. Last time he had bypassed that step, she had kicked him into next week. She had other responsibilities, like to the guild and to her friends and to him. If her publisher couldn't understand that and get off her back, then she would just stop writing and not finish her novel!

It wasn't true. It never was. She could no more stop writing than she could stop breathing.

Sure enough, after a couple of days, twenty pots of tea, seven cups of coffee, an entire house cleaning and reorganization, innumerable bubble baths (why did she have to take so many, he had once asked. She had primly informed him that it 'helped with the creative flow'.), and at least two more curse-laden rampages, (she really could string those words together in rants that were impressively creative) she would be right back at her little desk. Scribbling away, happy as a clam.

He never tried to stop her. Writing made her happy and far be it for him to stand in the way of his mate's happiness.

Though he did wonder why it was necessary for her to steal his shirts to wear while she wrote…

He had noticed that over time, however, her writing output had slowed. He had begun to grow very worried when she would lay down her pen early in the evening. She would set her writing aside, oftentimes looking too tired to continue. After a few times, he insisted that she go talk to Wendy. She argued, saying when she finished this last chapter and sent off her finished manuscript, she would go. He allowed it, but she tried to stall him again with another silly excuse. When he refused to budge on the matter, she had thrown her hands up and agreed.

The news from Wendy was bad.

Very bad.

Six months, she had told them, tears welling up in her eyes. She only has six months left.

They were silent on the way home. Normally bubbling with life and words, talking his ear off at a mile a minute, she was frighteningly quiet. It actually scared him.

As soon as she stepped over the threshold, she vanished into their room. He longed to go after his bride, but knew that she needed her space. He hadn't expected her to reappear not even ten minutes later, holding a ream of paper and looked determined.

I'm going to write a novel in the last six months I have, she told him firmly. I'm not going to waste my time. It'll be my magnum opus. My greatest work.

And she did it. Neither would admit it, but both kept an eye on the calendar. The days went by terrifyingly fast. They had told the guild, because how could they keep something so big from their family? There had been tears, of course. Tears, flat out denial that this would happen, and promises of help came from all sides. Fairy Tail banded together and took care of everything. Rent paid, food purchased, everything that needed to be done was done so he could stay home with her and look after her. Both were so overwhelmed, they cried in front of everyone. Even him.

For five months, she kept going strong. She would write steadily for a few hours, take a break, and come back to write more. She didn't let him look at it, though. Eyes unusually sober, she had told him that he wasn't allowed to read it until either it was done, or she was gone. Though she did hope she would finish it before the end came.

In the sixth month, everything seemed to go downhill at once. One night she was fine, writing away. She had told him that she only had one chapter left, plus the epilogue before it would be finished. He was so pleased. He knew she would be able to do it, he whispered in her hair as they lay in bed that night. He knew she still had enough strength to see this to the very end. But he wasn't to know that this had been the last gasp of her now-fading vigor.

The next morning, she couldn't even lift the pen.

Oh, how they both cried. They weren't crying because she couldn't finish her novel.

No, their hearts wept for the end of hope. Hope that she would recover, hope that she would be strong and beat this disease.

But even now, in her hospital bed, so very weak, she still refused to let him read her writing.

If I can't finish it with my own hand, then it's over.

He urged her not to give up. She had just smiled, patting his hand softly.

I'm not giving up, my love, I'm just facing facts.

As he watched his wife fade away, he hoped that someday when it came time for him to die, he would be as brave and calm as she.

On that last night, it was as if they both knew the end was coming. She had curled up in his big arms, her tiny body dwarfed by the man she loved.

Promise me something, she whispered.

Anything, he whispered back.

Finish the novel. Write the last chapter. Publish it.

And write your own story.

It was her last request. How could anyone hesitate to agree? He didn't.

Yes. I'll do it.

Even though he had never been a man of words, he would do it for her. Just this last time.

Her funeral was a sober, tear-filled affair, but the tears were tinged with joy. The joy came in remembrance of the light and happiness she had carried with her, in good times and in bad, every single day of her life. She had truly been the Light of Fairy Tail.

That night, he went home alone to their silent house. He picked up her novel and began to read. To say that it was her best work yet was a gross understatement.

In tears, he wrote the last chapter of his wife's greatest work.

Two months later, Heart's Truth was published posthumously.

He knew, and she knew, and that was all that mattered in the end.

Now it was time to write his own story. With a faint smile, he picked up a pen and wrote:

Loving Lucy Heartfilia

By Gajeel Redfox

A/N: Another 1-2 am one-shot for ya. Not as angsty or tragic as it might've been, but still. Ouch. I do love the thought of Gajeel helping Lucy with her writing, whether it's actually helping with storylines or just giving a listening ear. I'll probably explore the plot bunny trail in another story or one-shot. Leave a review if I made you cry at all.