Oct 14, 2001
by BlackRose
The fading light of sunset filtered through the drapes, hazy gold and scarlet lending a warmth to the room that faded and then rose again with the movement of the clouds passing outside. He had drawn his chair closer to the window to take advantage of that last dim light, heedless of the lamp waiting to be lit.
Whatever he was reading had his attention; he never glanced up when I came to the door. The loose locks of his hair fall down around his face when he reads and the light from the window gathered on those strands, setting the crown of his head afire with a faerie glow as he bent over his book.
He cradled the leather bound volume on his knees, the back of one hand gently holding his place as he looked over the pages. I've never seen him tear so much as a single sheet of vellum. He turns the leaves as carefully as he can and as only he can - the fall of his hair shielded most of the motion from my sight but I have witnessed it often enough that I can see, in my mind's eye, the entirety of the gesture. One hand lifts to his lips, fingers curled inward. The tip of his tongue just touches the back of one steel capped knuckle, like the daintiest lick of a particularly dignified cat. The hand is lowered again, turned, and that knuckle is pressed to the sheet of the page, lifting it up and over in a smooth gesture.
Through a whole volume he will do that, one page after another, his eyes devouring the text as he sits in utter stillness but for that one series of motions. Careful, quick, neat.
I only realized that I had watched him do it some handfuls of times when the light faded once more and this time did not return, leaving the room in the dusky half life of encroaching night. My footsteps on the carpet were muffled; he only glanced up when I eased the glass from the lamp with a muted clink, but if the sound startled him he showed no sign.
"Light, Sydney," I chided him. The tiny flame flared on the oil soaked wick and I set the glass back in place, lifting the lamp to bring its circle of golden light closer to him. "It's what the lamps are for."
His lips barely moved in a brief turn upwards, his eyes still distant with whatever far away place or thoughts the words of his book gave to him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I replied, but he had already turned away once more, another page carefully lifted and turned as he lost himself in reading.
