strongheartmaid

It was a haunting melody - one he could only just remember. He remembered the piano, the soft tinkling of keys as a pair of delicate hands danced up and down the ebony and ivory. He remembered the soft lilac perfume that blended with the smell of old paper. [He knew his brothers and sister didn't quite believe him when he said he remembered, he had been far too young to remember, they said.] But he did remember - he /did/. He took several small steps closer, closer to the female at the piano.

Tears streaked down Peak's cheeks and he didn't dare reach up to wipe them away. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was crying at the sight of his mother, a woman he hadn't seen since he was ever so small. "Mother," he whispered, finally saying the one word he never thought he'd ever say again.

Iranda paused, her hands above the keys. No, it couldn't be - it /couldn't/. It had been so long, he hadn't even really started to talk when she left, still in the babbling baby talk stage. She turned slowly, her eyes widening. "Phillip," she whispered. She rose slowly, opening her arms.

"Mother," he repeated, running over and crumpling into those waiting arms.