Table/Prompt: Table B/13. Freak Out
Character/Pairing: Rowena Mox-Xanathos, Eoin Xanathos
Word Count: 448
Summary: In which dear old Gran-Gran has a minor freak out.
Authors Notes/Disclaimer: Mine!
“Where ARE they?” Rowena demanded, her voice rising in a shrill shriek. The lights flickered ominously, causing those members of her family who lived in the family homestead to wince and seriously consider moving elsewhere, at least until the magus had run through puberty and was considerably more stable. It was Eoin, known more for his curiosity that wisdom, who dared to brave the attic and see what was distressing his ancestress. Normally, the attic was kept relatively neat and organized, so things would be easy to find. Apparently, this wasn’t the case that day. Books were piled in haphazard stacks, tilting and falling with only the slightest provocation.
“Gran-Gran?” Eoin called, stepping deeper into the chaos. The lights flickered again, and the shadows moved unnaturally. “Um. Are you alright?”
Rowena popped up from behind a shelf like a demented jack-in-the-box, black hair, flying loose from her braid, dark eyes shining. “Ah, you.” She had a habit of referring to her descendants as ‘you’. It caused some resentment, but Eoin just chalked it up to one of his great-great-grandmother’s many eccentricities. “Where are my photo albums?”
Rowena growled, lips skinning back from her teeth before disappearing back behind the shelves. “They’re gone, my photos! They should be here!” She reappeared from behind the self, a stack of books piled in her arms. “Help me look.”
“What… am I looking for?” Eoin asked cautiously, reaching out to steady the books.
“Photo. Album.” Rowena repeated, dropping the books on the floor. “Book full of pictures. Old ones. Black and white.”
Wisely, Eoin didn’t say anything like Who keeps floppies of photos anymore? Gran-Gran was old and eccentric and liked to hold on to things. Instead, he knelt beside her, dutifully flipping through the books of photographs. He recognized the people in them only vaguely; most had been dead long before he was born, but he recognized the features that cropped up in his family again and again and again. Occasionally, Rowena would linger over a photo, share the names of the people preserved within, maybe a bit about them. It meant little to Eoin; he wore the name Xanathos as a courtesy, like many of his relatives. His only tie was to the immortal next to him.
“Who are we looking for?” Eoin asked, talking more to himself than Rowena.
“Byron.” The naked longing in Rowena’s voice was almost painful to hear. “I can’t remember what he looked like.”