A Father's Fear

 The candle's flickering glow, though simply fragments of light, felt as if the fires of Hades had descended upon his library. He had watched Vincent leave their safe realm, slipping into the shadows without a backward glance. Pain nestled into his heart as the shadows filtered into the night, knowing that his son was beyond his reach. He was going to her.

The China cup he held in his hands felt as if it were a brick, holding him captive to reality. He clutched it tighter in his wizened fingers, praying that the amber tea it held would calm the taut nerves within him. But it did nothing for him.

He leaned his head back, watching the flickering dance around him, the light switching to darkness and back again at the rate of the blink of an eye. His son was taking a risk, he knew it, but what was there to do? Love was a peculiar thing, he noted, closing his eyes to the light. Love was no respecter of persons.

The stillness that invaded the room at his son's departure felt as if a stifling blanket were tossed over his consciousness. He had tried to warn him. He had tried to get Vincent to understand that only pain and loss would come of such a foray into delicate emotions. He knew enough to know this. But there was only so far that he could push Vincent. His son already struggled with insecurities that most men did not have to face. And that alone would make it difficult to reason. But he could agree that there was something that his son saw in the woman from above. It was not like Vincent to be this risky. He was often brave, but this was not bravery.

"Stupidity," he muttered into the shadows, and took another sip of tea. He nearly spit it out, as the cold liquid met his lips. He had sat there for too long. Setting the cup aside, he crossed his arms, closing his eyes once more to the darkness.

He loved Vincent dearly. And it was mostly fears that drove him to attempt to quell his son's foray Above. Fear that Vincent would find himself rejected. Fear that his son would be taken from him. Fear that his son would be killed. But the truth sounded so harsh, so terrifying, that he could not bring himself to simply tell Vincent these fears as a father would speak openly to his son. He was afraid that Vincent would not understand how deep these fears ran, how horribly painful they were in his own imagination. So, he chose the gruff route, the harsh route, and it had failed to make the point. Vincent had left their tunnels in frustration instead of agreement, anger instead of understanding.

He felt as if every time he spoke to Vincent of this woman, this Catherine, he failed to connect emotionally, intellectually, with the son that he knew.

So, he did the only thing he could do successfully as a father for now.

He poured another cup of tea, and he waited in the flickering candlelight for his son to return.

And he prayed his son would return in one piece.