(no subject)

[bannion_sight]

In a way, it had been much easier to deliver Paul's letters to his parents. Even though the essence of the news was the same-- that their son was never coming home -- then, she'd at least been able to assure them that she'd seen him recently, that he was doing well, that he was happy.

There's no way she can do the same thing for Sol Laine.

Dave had awkwardly offered to come with her, and she'd been grateful for that, even as she'd turned him down. Now, Kim stands on the doorstep of the house where Kevin had once lived -- not all that long ago, really -- and rings the bell.

She has to force her fingers to loosen on the letter she's clutching in her hand.

Comments

[inthetapestry]

"I'll live. Not much longer, but I will live."

Not like Kevin, his bright, bright boy.

He still hasn't looked up.

If he leaves his eyes half-closed, he almost imagines he can see Kevin's reflection on the table-top, standing behind him, ready to tease for the lack of food in the house.

But no--it's only a trick of his tired old mind.

Blinking, Sol looks up, frown passing briefly across his face.

"And you? You and--Paul and Jen and--I don't remember who. I'm sorry, I wish I could. Kevin would have worried about all of you, too."

[bannion_sight]

"Dave," she finishes, for him. "We're okay. Paul and Jen are living somewhere else now, but we're all okay."

This much she can do, and so she does; Kim holds his gaze steadily as she says,

"It's because of Kevin that we are, actually. He -- he did something very brave -- and because he did, he saved us all, and a lot more people besides."

[inthetapestry]

"That's my boy."

So, so very brave, Kevin Laine, and so very bright.

"That was always my boy."

The tense change would hurt more if he hadn't already known--and he is an old man.

The death of hope would have come sooner or later.

There's no harm in 'soon', now.

[bannion_sight]

"Yes," Kim says softly, remembering. "Always."

To this I will make reply although he be a god and it mean my death. So he had sworn, and so he had done, had Kevin-- Liadon -- and it is only one of the many, many reasons that she loves and had loved him, that they all did and still do.

Even as she thinks it, she's reminded of something else, and Kim picks up the letter from the table and holds it out to him.

"Paul would have been here if he could. He wanted to be-- but he couldn't, he can't, and so he wrote you this."

[inthetapestry]

"Paul--?"

Sol looks at the letter, eyes distracted and hazy.

Paul. Paul. Surely Kevin had a friend named--oh.

"Yes. He's a good boy."

Sol's hand, shaky with something that is not only age, reaches out to take the letter.

[bannion_sight]

Kim laughs, a little shakily. "He is."

She releases it easily, and for a moment there's nothing but awkward silence in the air between them-- a silence filled with memories.

She's felt this helpless before, and she hates it.

"Is there -- what can I do? Is there anything I can tell you, or that you'd want to know, or anything?"

[inthetapestry]

"He's dead," Sol says, looking down at the letter, at his hands holding the letter.

He can see the age spots, the wrinkles, the blue of his veins--all things his son will never get to see, not on himself.

"There isn't anything else to know."

[bannion_sight]

And what is there to say in the face of that?

Still, she tries-- for Kevin's sake, for his father's, for all of them.

"There could be. He--"

[inthetapestry]

Sol looks up at her, then, and for a minute it's plain to see that Kevin was his son, even if his hair is gray and not gold.

"He was brave. I know. I have always known. You needn't retell it for my sake, Kim."

[bannion_sight]

She sees it, and it comes near to breaking her heart in two, but in the face of his quiet statement Kim can do nothing but bow her head in acceptance.

"I wish-- I wish there was something I could do, Sol. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Low, but clear, and with the all the sincerity of --

(do you know the wish of your heart)

-- something deep behind it.

[inthetapestry]

"I know."

His gaze drops, and he lays the letter on the table, cupping his hands around his coffee mug instead.

"I know you are."

[bannion_sight]

He won't read it while she's there, she's certain, and he won't let himself truly grieve in front of a woman young enough to be his daughter-- she's sure of that too.

"I should go," Kim offers, hesitantly. "Unless you'd like me to stay a while?"

A second's pause, and a small, hopeful smile.

"Or if you'd rather, I could come by next week? We could have lunch, maybe?"

She can't just walk away from Kevin's father. Not when she (and Dave, although that's different) are all that's left.

[inthetapestry]

"Lunch?"

When's--oh. Next week.

"Yes. That would be . . . good."

He thinks? It's--so many things are dim just now.

Except for the letter on the table, and the mug between his hands.





And the memory of Kevin's smile.

[bannion_sight]

"Okay," Kim says, softly. "Okay. I'll call you."

She slips from her seat and hesitates, but only for a moment-- and it's a presumption, in a way, but she can't not, she can't. Kim bends down and hugs Sol Laine, tightly.

[inthetapestry]

There's a few moments of confusion for Sol, because she isn't Kevin, but her hair is so pale, and maybe he's only backlit by the sun, but no--

No--

He pats her back gently with one hand, for as long as she holds on to him.

It is what Kevin would do.

And there is no one here to do it but Sol.

[bannion_sight]

She pulls back after a few seconds, and the clear gray eyes are bright with unshed tears as she looks at him.

"I'll see you next week, Sol. Take care of yourself."

Kim sets her coffee mug by the sink, then quietly walks from the kitchen and from the house, leaving him behind. Alone.

(She makes it outside before beginning to cry, and she's grateful for that much, at least.)

[inthetapestry]

Sol makes no reply, just turns back to his coffee as Kim leaves.

The letter sits on the kitchen table for four more days.