Chapter Text
Quietness was what defined the first couple years of River’s life. The quietness of the English countryside, the quietness of the small villages and towns he and his mother would stay at briefly before moving. But most of all, the quietness of his mother is what he remembered the most from the very few years he spent with her. Until the age of three River had overheard more from listening to the people in the villages than he had heard words from his mother’s mouth. The occasional ‘goodnight’ and ‘quiet down’ and of course, ‘river’, his name. His mother was quiet, not cold, but not warm and doting as some mothers were. Being so young himself, barely older than a toddler, River certainly didn't mind.
However, there were moments, in early spring mornings or late autumn afternoons, when his mother would paint. Anything from patterns and swirls to bushes and foxes, and when she painted she came alive. She would place River securely next to her and talk him through each painting, each colour and each line. It wasn't much of a conversation, given that River could barely talk himself, but she didn’t need him to respond, just to listen.
This morning they’d just left another village. It had been a particularly small one, just houses and a singular shop, no pub or market. They had not stayed long, just a couple of nights before they were on the move again. Isobel had him strapped across her chest in a makeshift carrier made from an old scarf she’d found a couple months back. Usually if they stayed in a village for a couple weeks Isobel was able to pick up an odd job here or there that gave them money for food or clothing. Unfortunately because of how small the village had been there’d been no such opportunity available, hence the early departure.
It was a crisp morning, a cold breeze ruffled River’s soft hair and leaves crunched under Isobel’s feet. She paused for a moment, taking in their surroundings halfway down the dirt path. According to the sign post a couple turns back they should reach the nearest town in a couple miles, and they would certainly do so before midday, so they were in no rush. Something had clearly caught his mother’s attention as she started to trod slowly off the side of the path. River shifted slightly to lift his head to look at his mother’s face. Her eyes were fixed on something in the undergrowth and there was a sparkle in her eye that he’d not seen in a good while.
After walking a short while into the woods Isobel paused and moved her hands to lift River from herself and onto the ground. Silent and without questioning, River gave the small spot they were in a look around before plopping down comfortably on a clear spot of grass. There was no clearing or anything particular about the spot, just a patch in between a couple of the trees. Looking back to his mother he followed her gaze to what’d caught her eyes. A small tuffet of flowers decorated the base of the trees and the ground between them. Isobel sat down next to River and removed the pack from her back, placing it in front of her and reaching inside to pull out an old set of paints and a raggedy notepad. River was used to the sight of the notepad, red on the cover and brown on the back. He knew it was filled with many of his mother’s paintings that she’d shown him.
She opened the paint set and took out the brush, filling the empty jam jar she used as a paint pot with some of the water from the water bottle. Without missing a beat she dipped the brush into the water and then into the paints, wetting the dried paints and transferring them as lines onto the paper. At the same time she opened her mouth and began to talk more than River had heard in weeks.
‘See these are Dahlias’ she murmured as she painted, not taking her eyes off the flowers for a second. ‘They are common in this area around this time of year’ she paused for a moment, looking over at River before smiling softly, ‘this pale yellow colour is not as common though, we’re lucky to find these River’.
It was quite a thing to see his mother smile, she did so even less than she talked and there was a melancholy feel to it that a three-year-old couldn't quite pick up on but those around them did.
‘In the 1800s Dahlias were so sought-after that some people even traded diamonds for them’, his mother chuckled sharply, ‘what idiots.’ She wiped the pale yellow colour from her brush and started to mix a deeper yellow-orange colour. ‘Apparently they called it, “Dahlia-mania”, I’m not sure if I believe it but then again some rich people do crazy things…’.
Isobel’s smile sharpened into a tight grin before dropping into a slight frown, the mood shifted and River wasn't quite sure what had happened but knew that he liked these moments when his mother told him stories about flowers and whatnot and didn’t want the quietness to return. He was about to open his mouth to ask her to tell him more when she suddenly turned to him, causing him to falter and forget whatever he was going to say.
‘Do you want to try River?’ she asked as she pushed the notepad with her half-done painting on towards him. River blinked a couple times slowly, he’d never gotten to try painting before and his mother made it look so fun…
He nodded slowly and Isobel smiled, placing her paintbrush in his hand and clasping his fingers shut around the handle. She shuffled over to be closer next to him and holding his hand in hers guided the brush over the paper, showing him how to create lines and curves on the paper as she did. When they finished the flowers were noticeably wobblier than her other painting but to River they were the best ones, ones they’d painted together.
River grinned brightly at their finished work and Isobel smiled, with no trace of sadness, in return. Looking back maybe he should’ve wondered as to why she’d suddenly wanted to paint with him after months of painting by herself. But he was only little. How was he to know that that was the last time he would ever see her paint? That by that time next week he would be in a large house with family members he’d never met before and his mother’s notepad and paints the only evidence of his time with her.