Imprimatur Rubious

Von opens the box from Ceru.

Von locked the door to his quarters and walked over to the floor length and ceiling high window, an accoutrement deeply appreciated in each quarter on Bravo. Standing with hands held tersely behind his back, he watched the last glimmer of Hyneria slip from sight as one might watch the sun dip below the horizon; always, it seemed, with a sense of shock at how quickly it occured. With effort, Von took a breath and reflected, his chest feeling as if caught in a slowly tightening vice, his mind muddy with a thousand compromises. The sun would rise again, but he would never again see Hyneria. His eyes looked down without looking as the unspoken thought hovered just beyond acceptance—and neither would he ever again see Ceru.

On his desk it stood, the box. Von quietly walked over, pulled out a chair and with eyes locked on the parcel as if at any moment it might disappear as a mirage on Silus, sat down. The box looked rather ordinary in its coarse brown cloth wrapping, but the dang thing was heavy. Von ran his weathered finger along the edges, leaned over with eyes closed and breathed in. For an instant, Ceru appeared in his mind as clear as if he were standing in the room. Von closed his trembling eyes tighter and running his regal nose along the package, breathed in the scent of his son again, and, for just a moment, father and son were together. Von smiled as the simple and absurd thought entered his head that if he never opened his eyes he would never have to face the separation that was searing the veins of his heart from the inside out. Even old Hynerians need their fantasies, he thought, or perhaps just fathers.

Untying the cord that bound, Von opened the box and a rubious glow filled the room, warming his smooth face: the Imprimatur of Letters, a sacred seal given rarely by the Order to works deemed extraordinary, as in not ordinary, as in, how the hellocks did he not know his son had written such a work, had had this work officially recognized by the Tao. Zeke knew. No imprimatur was recognized without his approval; yet, the sombeech had said nothing. Von felt lightheaded.

Inside the box were more than a thousand letters, neatly bound, all written in longhand, apparently one every day for just over three years. On the cover were two words and two dates separated with a dash. Von froze. The dates were his dates, his dates of captivity, of torture, of solitary confinement, of neural traces. The dates matched perfectly. Above the dates, just two words, My Father. Inside, a note, hastily scribed:

Dad,

I could say I love you with all my heart a thousand times and still I would feel the words were inadequate to the expression. You always taught me to trust the act and stand weary of the word. And so, in this work, I give you both, not as two, but as one. As you read these words, remember the letter, but know the deed.

I love you dad. Do your duty and I will do mine. And when the time comes, we will meet again with heads held high and I will greet you with arms open and heart warm and you will see a smile like you have never seen. You have been everything to me and with every breath that I have remaining, I will honor your memory with aid and succor to those in need and they will know, I am the son of Von.

Love,

Ceru

Reviews

[AutumnStorm]

To have mattered, to feel connected, to have loved and to be loved, imagine, imagine one's child, one's only child appearing to reciprocate the indescribable love and pride, that not only does the Book of Letters exist, but that the note states 'in his name'. This is love, this chapter. And a rare case of form, pointable, pickupable, defining. That's what this is, this story. Like the look shared that can be seen, the embrace that can be felt, like the emotion that can be felt, here among the pages, petals on sheets, embraces from behind heart upon heart, talk to me baby, I hear grand calling, circles that close, mothers that are carried, an 8th glass, the elderly Hynerian cradled, dozens of others, pointable, here and here and here and here, this is love. Love this chapter completely. Love the love.

X=Y
The amount of babble (X) is directly proportional in most cases to the amount of love for a chapter (Y). :-D

Y, xxx