The photo was old and well-worn. There was a white, feathered crease down the middle and most of its shine had faded or flaked off entirely. Surprisingly well kept for something so many… what… decades old? Honestly, it looked so much older. The clothes the subjects were wearing alone gave enough of a hint to that.
Logic, though. If these were really Ardyn’s parents – and they looked like Ardyn’s parents – then the photo could only be… what? Forty to fifty years old, tops?
He should probably throw it out, but he’d been holding on to it for nearly three weeks. Since the last time they and the Chancellor had crossed paths. He’d picked it up and pocketed it almost on reflex when he’d seen it, without a second thought for what the hell he planned to do. There was something sad about it, though. Just a feeling he got. He knew how much power a single picture could wield, and he’d always, always believed the old adage about cameras being able to capture a part of the soul.
On quiet nights, when he’d exhausted his usual emotional avenues, he would sometimes look at it. Tonight, silent and starry-skied, he found himself sitting on the bench by the Crow’s Nest doing just that
The lady in the picture had the same tousled hair and the same pale eyes as Ardyn, but he felt no unease looking at her. He had no reason to. He got nothing but a sense of quiet comfort as his eyes searched out details and clues, and the harder he looked, the harder it became to distance himself from it.
These were Ardyn’s parents.
He wondered if the guy had even noticed they were missing.
A noise from behind shook him from his thoughts, and he folded the photo closed and stood, slipping it back into his pocket.
