And Still the Moment Passes

The book was covered in dust where he had left it. The oil painting above the desk looked down at him, and Quirin felt almost that his wife's eyes moved to fix him with a look that he saw often in his son's features. He scrubbed a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the cold chill that the amber had left behind. Not looking at the painting, he sat down at the desk and brushed away the layer of dust that had gathered there in his... absence.

The book was old, given to him as a wedding present from Adira. She had handed it over to him as if it had been an afterthought on her part. Knowing Adira, it probably had been, but he had kept it, not knowing how important it would become to him. His fingers traced the symbol drawn on the cover, a circle with three lines intersecting it. The back of his hand burned with phantom pain, and he hastily opened the book to a random page.

The handwriting was his, and it filled all the space on the page with notes in his lilting script. He had stated writing in this book when Ulla had been lost, and he had grateful that he had. The earliest pages were mostly disconnected thoughts, strung together in a garbled train by the scratching of his quill. He tried his best not to open the book to those pages anymore, and if one day he would give the book to anybody, those pages would have to be torn out first. But now, alone at his desk late at night, Quirin flipped back to the beginning.

The writing here was faded and messy, and the date had been smudged by something, probably his hand. But he didn't need to read the date to know when it was. Thirteen years ago, exactly.

He turned the first page, not reading the rest of the words. So followed the second, and then the third.

It was when he turned the fifth page that he began to read again. It was mostly descriptions of the state of the farm. He turned another page and read.

Edmund sent a letter, it seems the news has reached him now. I suppose I have been waiting for him to know. After all, his situation was very similar to my own. I guess I was fortunate, in a way. He lost everything to that opal, whereas I still have Varian. If anything were to happen to him, I don't know what I would do.

Quirin turned another few pages. Here, the journal-like narration ended, and the notes began. The first few focused mostly on food preferences. Things like; "eats vegetables only when watched, if back is turned they end up on the floor." and "very suspicious of soft foods, will not be spoon-fed"

He had to chuckle a little at a few of the notes, such as:

28, Varian will eat meat. Any kind of meat, and a lot of it. Reminds me of Hector, and not in a good way.

Through the notes he saw Varian's early years; how he slept, when he slept, what he ate, the different sounds he made, and their general meanings. The paged turned easily under his hands, making little crisp whooshing sounds as they were moved. When Quirin looked closely, he saw that he had dropped the numbering system, and the notes became more and more like notes and less like a list.

-He tends to get easily upset during the colder months, autumn especially.

The candle sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness. The only light came from outside, and that light was faint and cold. Quirin lit a new candle.

-Refuses to sleep without a story first, enjoys the Flynn Rider books. Maybe a phase?

The pages turned almost of their own volition, and certain notes jumped out at him as he skimmed through the scrawls.

-Far too short for his age, worry?

-Doesn't spend much time with the other children, only friend is a raccoon. Should I force more outside time?

-Raccoon goes out at night and may be bringing back fleas. As long as this happens, daily checks through hair are needed.

-Has set up a lab in the back room, CONSTANT SUPERVISION is needed.

-Tends to spill chemicals when startled, always knock before entering.

Quirin looked back at that last with tired eyes that blurred the words together. If only he had been more careful. So much pain could have been avoided, so much damage would never have come to pass. He leaned forward and supported his face in his hands, elbows on the hard surface of the desk. After more than a year of feeling nothing, the pain was a comfort.

The candle burned brightly in the dark room, spilling melted max down it's side to harden into fantastical formations of hundreds of individual droplets. The shadows cast by the candle flickered and danced like the flame, though their casters remained frozen by design or by remembrance.

Ulla smiled down from her portrait, not seeing. The brushstrokes of her cheek glowing slightly in the candle's light. The laughing baby in her arms was as frozen as the room, captured by time to remain visible for eternity.

The house held its breath.

***

Quirin closed the book. The candle was burning low, and the moon was no longer visible from the single window. His chair scraped on the floor as he pushed it back, and the floor creaked as he walked out of the room. Down the quiet hall he went, carrying the candle and walking softly to not disturb the sleeper in the second room. The door was left slightly open, as it always was, and he slipped inside in silence. It had been many years since he had sat vigil here, and yet the chair by the door was still there, and clear of the clutter that filled the rest of the boy's room. It had been preserved, like he had. A testimony to before, when life had been kinder to both of them. He almost dared not sit down. Dared not break whatever remembrance Varian had placed upon it. But the flesh is weary, and he was not as young as he had been, so he sat.

Varian slept on, his face pressed into the pillow so that only his ears showed beneath his mass of unkempt hair. One arm dangled down to the floor, and his fingers hovered above the rug. His tattered blanket hardly covered all of him anymore, and in covering his feet, Varian had left his shoulders exposed. His goggles hung beside his bed, like a strange kind of sentinel. As usual, his nightclothes were balled up next to the bed, and he had fallen asleep in his clothes. In the stillness, Quirin could hear the slight snuffling that accompanied each breath.

Quirin began to feel drowsy himself, and slowly eased into a standing position. Putting down the candle, he picked his way past the mess of books and papers on the floor to crouch at his son's side. Gently, he lifted the drooping limb from the floor and tucked it back by Varian's head. At this change, Varian shifted, rolling onto his side. His blanket slipped further down his skinny frame, and his mouth hung slightly open. Tenderly, Quirin pulled the blanket back up, tucking his son in again like he used to, years ago. Then, even more gently, he brushed the black hair off Varian's forehead, and pressed a kiss onto the small wrinkles that appeared there.

He left silently, leaving the room as he had found it, with naught but a memory to mark the moment's passing.