Duo.

Chapter Two, introducing Flynn.

Chapter II

Flynn watched the seas carefully, wistfully. His irises somberly scanning the horizon, as if Sir Theodore would suddenly reappear from beyond that vivid tangerine sunset, sailing...returning. He did not; though Flynn was certain they would reunite in a land as ethereal as what he saw before him. So he was soothed there on the docks, by the now fading magenta, if only for the moment.
Flynn heard his biological father calling out his name, and when he turned away from the glory of the coming evening, he saw that he was being beckoned to the car. Flynn obliged, buckling the seatbelt with a click of finality that unnerved him. He had come to the conclusion that suddenly, there was positively no going back. Imminently, he would be faced with the knee-buckling reality of his greatest hero; lying inert in a velvet case, destined for the solitude he so strove for in his final years.
   The iridescent reds and gold encrusted browns of the forest just beyond Flynn’s car window blurred as they zoomed down that great, grand stretch of road before them. He observed to himself that roads were of the very essence of life: a seemingly endless path, winding and full of unexpected turns, if one were in the correct place at the correct time, he or she would be rewarded with lovely, lush scenery…still there was the occasional road kill. The corner of his lips turned up slightly in a soft, content smile of revelation. This was fine then. Sir Theodore would want far better for his favorite pupil. He had always confirmed that no life was to be constantly enjoyed, such hedonism was abominable, and character was only built when one has been forced to endure.
Flynn leaned backwards in his seat; an inky head of thick, swarthy curls lay unruled, resting against it with a most sincere melancholy. Neil Young sang solemnly through the small black radio in the dashboard, about a horse with no name…
Flynn was startled from a painless slumber by three precise knocks on the glass at his ear. He and his father had arrived; albeit late. Still a hasty, unpunctual farewell…well Flynn would rather have such than none at all. He brought himself to a rise from the car; shutting the door behind him absentmindedly, and turning, he was in awe of the sight he was met with. It seemed his father, the Ford Taurus, and himself were one small wave in an ocean of black which went on for miles, closing in on the small but ornate funeral home. Flynn’s mind struggled to make rational sense of this. In all of the last four, profound years he has spent under Mr. Theodore’s guidance, Flynn had been quite certain that…he and his father would be the sole attendants at the wake for the brilliant anchorite in question. In fact, once Mr. Theodore had fallen ill, Flynn had been quite anxious to obtain Mr. Theodore’s address book, in order to secure those long lost, yet precious relatives. It was in his most sincere hopes, that a proper farewell took place for a man who very well could have been world renowned. Having never found said book, Flynn wallowed in the subsequent disappointment, feeling that he had utterly failed whom he respected above all others.

So as Flynn surveyed the distressed who came in droves, he could feel within him the first pangs of that appropriate, breath-taking agony. This mingled with the sudden tremendous reprieve; and although he had not intended to do so quite this early, Flynn masked his eyes with one trembling hand, and wept.