Work Text:
Ave Maria, gratia plena.
Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in muliaribus
Et benedictis fructis ventris tui, Iesus.
Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis, pecatoribus
Nunc et in hora mortis nostris. Amen.
The smooth glass beads dripped steadily through her hands just as the salty tears made their way down her face. The soft murmur of prayer was the only sound besides the harsh struggle for breath from the boy half resting in her lap. She had lost count of her rosary, had early on prayed the rounds for the Sorrowful, Joyful, and Glorious Mysteries, and now prayed with the steadiness of the incoming tide, pouring the fear, the sorrow, the anger at losing her son into the words.
And still there was no answer, still his every breath grated through pale lips, heaving the frail chest, tearing through the mortal flesh as though to remind her that this one too would soon be gone. Tipping her face to the ceiling, she demanded, low and rough with anguish, “Father, Mother, husband. Weren’t they enough? Couldn’t you spare me my son? Father of All, remember what it is to be a parent and spare me my son’s life.”
The only answer was another harsh wheeze from the body she held, another weak cough. “Mother Mary, take pity on me and intercede for the life of my son. He is my joy, my hope for the dawn. Remember what it was to see your Son killed and give me mine. Saints, join your prayers to hers, Brigid, healer and Luke, physician.” Even the coughs had grown rare, too much trouble for the fighting body to spare, and nothing more came, no sudden clearness, no break to the horrible sound.
The hand which had clutched the rosary tight suddenly opened, spilling the gemlike beads to pool on the floor. In frustration, she turned her gaze again to the ceiling. “Then if Mary and the Saints will not avail to change Your Mind, perhaps my gran was right and we ought not to have lost the Old Ways. If any of the Old Ones will hear my plea, spare me my son.” The last words were barely a whisper, curled over the unconscious boy.
A soft footstep pulled her attention up to the man standing now beside the bed. He did not look as she had expected, rather looking like an attorney just leaving his tailor’s shop on Fifth Avenue. A young face, full of the youth that trouble and overwork had drained from her own features, but with old, sorrowful eyes. His voice was gentle and melodious, a deep comfort imbuing every word. “My help does not come without cost. It never has.”
Swiftly yet softly, she arranged the boy on the narrow bed, giving what loft she could achieve with practiced hands to the flat pillows, smoothing the heavy wool blanket as best she could, before falling to her knees before the One who had deigned to hear her sorrow when others would not. “Take me, then. If you must take life for life, take mine and spare him his.”
The back of a long hand traced the bones of her face as she knelt. “There is more. He would live and you would die, but even so, this trade always has a further cost. One saved in such a way will ever be marked by the sacrifice made for him, by the interference of a god. He will be changed by this, by my hand and by your gift. Will you take this bargain, even so?”
Tears still fell, these no longer of anger and frustration, but of a terrible, haunting hope. Any price would she pay, rather than watch her child claimed by the darkness. “Yes. I will do as you say, but only let him live, my Steven.”
“Rise, then, Daughter of Midgard, and seal our compact with a kiss.” He pulled her to him, claiming her lips with his own, his touch cool and soft. With a shaky sigh, she raised her hands to his shoulders, breathed her last into his mouth, and did not feel him lower her once more to the bed. He turned now to the boy and said to him, “Breathe deep your mother’s courage, and my mark of cleverness and suffering.” And with that, kissed the boy’s lips until the soft pink of youth returned to them, though the child remained frail and small.