In Which Octavius Tackles a Smaller Problem

July 13, 1178

"Still awake?"

Sparron looked up, blinking his eyes into focus. He must have been about to nod off; given that he'd just become a father, he would have to get used to napping when he could. "I couldn't sleep. You?"

"The babies needed a lullaby. Lettie's too tired and I don't know where Searle is." Cooking up some new misguided scheme, no doubt. Whatever Sparron insisted, Octavius knew perfectly well just who was behind all this... but he'd had to let it slide. Perhaps it was a foolish sentiment, but it had been far too long since he'd seen that selfless, infallibly good side of his son. Poor Sparrow had probably forgotten it existed. "They are cute little things. The boy looks just like you when you were born."

Sparron sighed. "Poor baby. At least he got Lettie's eyes."

"Your grandmother's eyes," Octavius corrected as he joined Sparron on the couch. It was a small detail, no more true or false than the original statement, but the right choice of phrasing was crucial and the sooner it was drilled into everyone's skulls, the better. "Her mother is my first cousin, remember."

His son seemed incapable of little more than staring blankly in front of him, just like his mother in the momentary lapses at the onset of her decline. Octavius might not have been the only one trying to get his attention; perhaps there was some hallucination on Sparron's other side, whispering poor advice into the supposedly free ear. This was why it was so difficult to be angry with Sparron, even if the boy insisted it was all his fault and even if it hadn't been Searle's idea after all. Who was to say which thoughts were truly Sparron's?

"Father?"

He'd snapped out of it, now looking in Octavius's direction, tugging at his collar with a restless finger like he'd done as a child when he'd thought himself in trouble. He needn't have worried. Most days, he was so far gone that any sort of punishment would have made little difference. "Yes?"

"Do you think--?" That was it-a preface of a question and an abrupt fall to silence as Sparron's face faded to a milky white, a clenched fist shaking atop his knee. "Never mind. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

As if that would be possible. "Sparron--"

"Do you still love me?"

WHAT? Octavius was not the sort of man who gaped often, but how else was he supposed to react? What had brought that on? Why would Sparron even consider such a thing? "'Still love you'? Of course I still love you, Sparrow. I'll always love you and you ought to know it. Why would you think I didn't?"

Sparron swallowed. Octavius thought he caught a glimpse of a tear, but before he could look twice, it had been blinked away. His Sparrow. His baby. Why? "I don't know. I'm sorry. It's late."

It was late. That wasn't the problem.

It was a problem, though--and admittedly, the only problem they could deal with just now. "Maybe you'll be ready to talk about it in the morning."

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