In Which Lonriad Is Exposed to the Adult Illness

January 10, 1167

"Hello, Uncle Ovrean!" Lonriad greeted his uncle. "Did you bring me a present?"

His uncle laughed; he laughed a lot. Lonriad sometimes wondered if it was a reflex. "It's a little late for Christmas presents, don't you think?"

Lonriad rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet--grown-ups! "But what about my birthday? I'm going to be eight!"

"That you are--in July," his uncle chuckled, "and don't tell me I didn't get you anything for your seventh, because we both know I did."

Lonriad pouted. "You're no fun! I wager you brought Viridis a present!"

Uncle Ovrean raised an eyebrow. "Now, why would you think that? Her birthday's even further off than yours."

"You brought her one last week!"

The man sighed, the sole of his boot dragging awkwardly along the grain of the hardwood. "Your sister was ill last week, son. I don't have a present for any of you today, I'm afraid; I'm only here for a word with your mother."

Lonriad felt a sly grin pull at the corners of his mouth; he knew exactly how to make this work to his advantage. "Well, in that case, you'll just have to come back in July."

His uncle pursed his lips, whistling a note of a pitch so low that Lonriad could only dream of parroting it. "I see. She's booked solid until then?"

"No," Lonriad assured him, "but she has a new rule. From now on, she only talks to people if they give me a present first."

"Is that so?" his uncle inquired, gnawing on his lower lip.

Worked like a charm. Lonriad nodded. "Uh-huh. She also said that anyone who gives presents to my brothers will have their talking privileges revoked."

"Oh really? And when, pray tell, did I say this?"

It was his mother, making her way into the room from the corridor. Lonriad sent her an annoyed glare. "Aww! He was falling for it, too!"

His mother sniffed. "I'm sure."

"It's true," he insisted, bouncing up and down in agitation; why did she never believe him? "Isn't that right, Uncle Ovrean? Tell her you believed me!"

His uncle smirked. "If I do, does that count as your present?"

"Aww, I wanted a horse!"

"You keep wanting, then," his mother told him as she made her way toward her brother. "Now, Ovrean, what is it you want to talk to me about?"

Uncle Ovrean's face took on a serious expression that Lonriad would have never guessed it capable of; his uncle was a grown-up, but Lonriad had always thought him the only one who had escaped the adult illness of maturity. Well, except maybe Florian, but he was a different case entirely. "I need your opinion on something."

"Well, you're not going to get it if you don't ask me, silly!"

Ovrean inhaled; discomforted by the room's sudden sobriety, Lonriad looked away. "Alina, as a married woman..."

Married. It was a discussion about love. The situation had just gone from bad to worse; the shift in his mother's posture told Lonriad that she agreed. "Yes?"

"Well... suppose one's beloved spouse happens to," he began, pausing as if struggling to settle on the sentence's infinitive, "pass. If such a tragedy befalls a person, then... how to put this? Well--how soon is too soon before one marries again?"

Now Lonriad saw the need for the seriousness; Uncle Ovrean was a laughing man, but his hypothetical situation was no laughing matter. His mother took her time with the question, the corners of her mouth curling downward. A minute or so passed before she finally answered, "Well, Ovrean... I have to say it's never too soon."

Ovrean's eyes bulged; Lonriad figured his own weren't much smaller. "Sorry?"

"Not to be heartless or anything," she sighed, tilting her head as a thoughtful glaze crossed her eyes. "It would take time to move on, I'm sure, but really... the world isn't kind to widows. I know it sounds a little hypocritical considering how I came to be married in the first place, but there's a point where one has to consider practicality over romance; there's plenty of time for love after one's basic needs are satisfied. And if one happens to have children, then the need to remarry is even more pressing--I wouldn't want my children growing up without a father if anything were to happen to my husband, and I'm sure Severin wouldn't want them growing up without a mother if anything were to happen to me."

Unsure of this, Lonriad glanced up at his uncle; he didn't look too convinced either, but he nodded all the same. "That makes sense, I suppose. Thank you, Alina."

Lonriad's mother closed her eyes. "I'm sorry if that wasn't the answer you were expecting."

"In truth, I'm not sure what I was expecting," Uncle Ovrean admitted as he fiddled with a stray thread from his sleeve. "In any case, thank you for the opinion."

She brushed past her brother and lowered herself to Lonriad's height, planting a kiss on his forehead; scowling, he wiped it off. "You're welcome, Ovrean. Now, you be good for your uncle, all right?"

"All right, all right! Just stop kissing me!"

Laughing softly to herself, she ran her fingers through his hair, then made her way back down the hallway from which she had entered. Lonriad waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps, then found he couldn't hold it in any longer; he launched himself into his uncle's arms and began to bawl.

"Why d-did you ask my mama that?" he sobbed, all resolve to start referring to his parents as 'Mother' and 'Father' abandoned. "Is my papa d-dying? Is he d-dead? He is, isn't he? You found his c-corpse, didn't you? That's why you asked my mama that!"

"What?" his uncle gasped as his hug tightened. "No! Lonriad, your father is not dead! The question had nothing to do with your parents--"

Lonriad clenched the side of his uncle's surcoat in his fist, the cold leather a shock to his sweaty palm. "I want my papa!"

Uncle Ovrean sighed. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have asked your mother to speak privately..."

"Where's my papa?"

"Relax, Lonriad, I'm right here."

He looked up to see his father standing in the doorway, brimming with a grin that Lonriad had feared for a moment he would never see again. "Having fun with your uncle, son?"

Breaking free of Uncle Ovrean's grasp, Lonriad dashed across the room and clung to his father tightly. "Papa! You're alive!"

"Of course I'm alive," his father insisted, placing a hand on Lonriad's shoulder as soon as his grasp eased. "What on earth would lead you to believe otherwise?"

Uncle Ovrean made his way towards them, his long stride covering the distance in only a handful of steps. "It's my fault, Severin. Alina and I had a conversation that Lonriad probably shouldn't have heard."

His father's eyes narrowed. "About my imminent and inevitable death?"

"No," Uncle Ovrean answered. "At least, not yours specifically. It was a... hypothetical question."

Lonriad noticed his father's fingers twitch. "What sort of question?"

His uncle's eyes briefly flickered to the ceiling, then back to the other man's face. "Actually, Alina's opinion was a little extreme, so it might not hurt to get yours as well. Severin... after the death of a beloved spouse, when does it cease to be too soon to remarry?"

The miasmic presence in the room strengthened. Lonriad watched his father's features; like his mother's, they remained motionless for an uncomfortable moment. Then, he muttered in response, "It's always too soon."

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