Chapter Text
The Thinker slowly looked away from the tall windows.
– Turbines. –
He called his son with a soft voice, finally setting his eyes on him, silently investigating with his gaze details that he seemed to have never noticed before. Had his child's eyes always been this bright purple? Had they always been so attentive?
– Turbines… –
He tried to control the distressing extent of what he was about to communicate.
– Did you call me, father? –
The Thinker remained still in the same place where the child had found him. Motionless outside, motionless inside. He didn't dare look away from him in fear of breaking down. But he had to tell him.
– Your mother... we haven't had any signals from her spaceship for a long time. –
He allowed himself the luxury of an anguished look.
The child kept looking at him, without saying anything. His gaze was now confused, his eyebrows furrowed.
– But… –
– We have tried everything, my son. –
The Thinker's voice broke and dissolved like smoke in the great hall.
- My mother... is dead? – asked the child.
His high-pitched voice seemed to rise as powerful as an accusation, as remote as an echo.
The Thinker lowered his head. His hands rose like a shield over his eyes, silently formulating the answer he was so afraid to give.
The screams and cries of his son would always echo in the Thinker's mind. A loud cry, heartbreaking and painful as the Universe.
They never spoke of that day again, in the time to come, and if there was one thing that the Thinker had never managed to forgive himself, it was his son's violet eyes, now dull.
Some time later, as night fell on the Citadel, he knocked on his bedroom door.
– Turbines? – he called him, softly.
The boy didn't answer. He hadn't answered his calls for a long time.
The Thinker gently pushed the door open and the first thing he saw was the dancing light of the candles. A more careful look around showed him his son intent on reading under the covers.
– Turbines? –
– Hmm? –
- Are you ready? –
The boy finally looked up at his father, trying to focus.
- For what? –
– You know what for. –
His son lowered his head again, determined to finish the last part of the paragraph.
– Yes I am ready, father. –
– Have you prepared your clothes? And your books? –
- Almost. –
– Turbines. –
His tone of voice made him abandon the book again.
– All that's left to pack is this and then I'm ready. –
He said, pointing to the hardback in his hands.
The Thinker snorted slightly, before turning away.
– See you in the morning. –
- Father. –
The Thinker paused for a few moments, before turning to face his son who had stood up.
– I'm sorry, father. –
The Thinker looked down and nodded silently. He didn't know what to say: he'd never found the right words to talk to his son.
– Get some sleep. –
In reality neither of them slept that night. Not at all.
In the morning the Thinker knocked again and, predictably, received no answer. He opened the door slowly for fear of waking his son, but even before it was completely open he noticed his absence. His son wasn't there and neither were his books. For a few moments, he looked around in confusion. Then quickly, a thought popped into his mind. He closed the door and walked towards the tall stairs to his left.
No light had entered that room for a long time. The windows were screened and the door locked; dust now seemed to reign on the large glass table in the center.
Yet that morning a vigorous glimmer of light bathed the almost entirely dark floor and there was his son, with his gaze turned outside the window.
– Turbines? –
The child did not turn around.
– It's not time yet. –
– I know, father, but I couldn't sleep. –
His son turned to look at him from afar.
– Come, there are some things I have to tell you before you leave. –
The child sighed anxiously.
– You will have to be ready, Turbines. –
When they were both outside in the large courtyard, his father spoke with a practical tone.
– Important years await you for your education. At the Academy you will look into the Breach of the Great Schism and you'll be given a name by the Sorter. At the end of your ten years of training, you will be able to apply yourself to serve the High Council. I...I expect great things from you. Your mother...expected great things from you. –
The child held back the urge to look at his father, for fear that his large eyes might betray all the anxiety and sadness that had taken over. He nodded, perhaps a little too hastily.
The Thinker noticed this.
- It will all be fine. You'll be fine. – he murmured with an unusual gruff accent, as if he had to convince himself.
- Father. –
- Yes? –
- Please, reopen that room. –
The Thinker remained looking at him, struck and moved by that prayer. Even that time he didn't have the right words to answer him. He nodded, without saying anything, trying to hold back his emotion.
Turbines took one last look at the large house near the mountain, then took his small trunk in his hands.
He took a few steps.
– I won't disappoint you. –
He said, looking solemnly at his father, his eyes shining a brighter purple.