[Other Original] in tempore momenti

Rated [M] for [m]oronic no just kidding it's more like [T]​

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moments in time.

01. Fabulae

The first clear memory Raelynn has of her father is when she is five years old, though she now only has a dim recollection of that important event. She remembers opening the doors to the librarium and finding inside someone whom she had never seen before. When she asks him what his name is, she receives only a single word in response: "Kyprien".

Being the young child that she is, she accepts this in a matter-of-fact way, not questioning where he has come from or why a stranger happens to be in her home at all. The man winks at her conspiratorially when she asks, innocently, whether he might read her a book, the former's lips creasing into a half-smile. She stares at him expectantly, wide-eyed, and stays like that for a few seconds before he finally waves a hand, causing a leather-bound tome to rise out from the wall, a cloud of dust following in its wake. Surprised by the suddenness of the gesture, Raelynn inhales a lungful of the dusty air, and sneezes twice in rapid succession; slightly miffed, she sniffs delicately, and looks with some curiosity at both the man and the book.

"… I've never seen that book before."

"Haven't you, now?"

Kyprien's smile widens a little. With another motion of his hands, a silver tea set appears on the table next to them, and he reaches towards the handle of the teapot before hesitating.

"How would you like to take your tea, Raelynn? Er, not that it has to be tea, of course."

His expression is at once pleased and awkward; he has no idea how to handle children – or, if he once knew, he has entirely forgotten. On a whim, he reaches out to pat her head in a friendly (though very careful) manner. He hopes, by now, that she has recalled his identity; he has not been a very good parent in the last few years.

She laughs; the sound is pure and ethereal, filled with a felicity and purity that children alone possess.

"Good afternoon, father."

02. Cantus

"Please try to pay more attention, Raelynn. Just because you close your eyes doesn't mean I can't see you, you know."

The seven-year-old girl to whom the statement is addressed sighs, and looks up at her instructor with ponderous eyes.

"I don't like playing music."

Cecily Cresson smiles softly in response, tilting her head to the side to consider the complaint for a moment. She decides, after a few seconds, to avoid it altogether.

"Don't you think that the world would be a much drearier place without music?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose …" Raelynn frowns a little, and pouts. "Practicing is boring, though; there are so many positions and notes I have to remember! And I'm tired, 'kay?" I'd rather do something else, as well, she thinks to herself, but does not voice it aloud.

"Mm; that's not a bad reason, I guess." Cecily smiles beatifically, as if she knows exactly what the girl's thoughts are at the moment. "Why don't you take a break, then?" Without waiting for a reply, she reaches out a hand into the air in front of her, as if grasping at something; a few seconds later, a darkly-varnished violin materializes, and she examines its profile carefully before nodding in satisfaction and placing it under her chin.

An indescribably brilliant cascade of notes flows from the instrument as Cecily begins to perform; the music is almost magical in a way, invoking images of light and warmth. As the harmony shifts, the very essence of the world seems to stir and change.

The piece ends, and Cecily lightly caresses her daughter's head.

"Do you understand, Raelynn? This is the gift that I want to give you."