Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  Wil looks down at his boots for a few long—too long—moments before he straightens. Bracing.

  “All right.”

  Wil holds out his hand, wraps his fingers hard around Dallin’s when he takes it. Dallin can feel the tremors running though Wil but only squeezes Wil’s hand tighter in answer.

  “All right,” Wil repeats. “I’m ready.”

  Dallin smiles, as encouraging as he can be, takes a long breath, and sends out his call.

  5

  A PLACE of his own choosing, because it’s as close to safety as Wil has ever known. Before he even was Wil, Father would come to him in this place, speak to him like he was real and worth something more than what he could do, what was in him. He couldn’t always understand the things Father said to him, but he’s known since he could know anything that the warmth he felt inside the words was love. The eventual comparison was what made him understand that what came from Síofra—captor, gaoler, tormenter—was nothing more than a cheap, transparent mockery. A perversion. Father taught Wil how to love, even though Wil hadn’t recognized it for that for far too long, and that helped him to see it in his Guardian’s eyes, recognize it, and for that… for that, even if there were nothing else, Wil would still love Father.

  So many more reasons, though, and he wishes he hadn’t so stubbornly failed to see them. He’s wasted so much time on anger.

  But this place, Father had given to him—a place to be still, a place to be quiet, a place to dream dreams that were his own and no one else’s, where he could pick apart the insanity and fit it into shapes that turned it sane. Smiles he’d always thought sleepy and dreamy but that he now knows to have been weary and drained. Handing him the language of the stars and letting him listen, letting him join his small voice to their songs, letting him wrap himself inside it all until the next time he was wrenched from dream and into nightmare.

  No idiotic smiles here, no leaf seeps through the cracks of his mind. He is something other than what is confined to his body on the other side. There he is vulnerable, small, weak. People can trick him and have done, can overpower him and have done, can bind him to their own courses, and he can struggle and kick and bite, but he doesn’t always win. Not here. A place of safety inside his own mind, and it’s more Father’s than his, but that’s never really mattered. Here he is strong. Here he is sane. Here he is himself, or as close to it as he ever can be.

  Here he can meet Her on his own terms.

  She loves Father. Wil’s not sure he ever believed that before, but he does now, just as much as he believes his Guardian’s stalwart assertions that She hadn’t forgotten Wil, hadn’t left him alone and in pain because She’d chosen it. She loves Him just as Wil does, She wants to help Him, and if nothing else, it gives Wil a common ground on which to rest hope.

  He’s calmer than he thought he’d be. Ready as he never would have believed, but he’s got his Guardian—more, he’s got Dallin—and Dallin won’t let this go wrong.

  Strangely, Wil’s more anxious about this than he is about what must come after.

  His Guardian will be the end of him, he’s known it for always, and it used to fill him with fear and loathing and dread. Now it’s a comfort, though he’s sorry to put the burden on Dallin. Still, knowing it was coming has more or less prepared Wil for it, and he mourns uselessly, because he does love life, what he’s come to know as life, but Dallin will make the end as painless as he can, because he loves Wil. That used to be quite terrifying, but now… now it gives Wil an odd sort of fatalistic hope.

  He’s hated Her forever. With every breath, every beat of his heart, he’s hated Her, resented Her, feared Her, and hated himself because he still loved Her. Abandoned, used, tormented, and broken, time and again, and yet he’s never been able to make himself scream for Her, never let himself reach out. The fear of real, tangible rejection has always loomed larger than the pain of knowing himself to be the nameless hostage of a man he once loved with a little boy’s naïve, trusting heart. The fear of crying out, asking, and hearing only “No” in return, or worse, silence.

  He understands Calder’s pain; he always has done, because it’s been his own fear for time without end—reaching out, searching, grasping, and your hand comes back with the knuckles bloodied. Or empty. It horrifies him, and still it’s a risk. His Guardian insists it won’t happen, can’t happen, but Wil knows the heart of the Divine can be fickle and hard, and he knows gods are not infallible.

  Still, he has to know. Finally. And even if She refuses him….

  No, he won’t fool himself—it will crush him. But it won’t defeat him. Perhaps that’s why he can do this now. Dallin has taught him it’s all right to reach out; you won’t always draw back a stump, and if you do, well… there’s always the other hand.

  “All right?” Dallin is staring at him, anxiety and concern in those dark eyes, and he gives Wil’s hand a squeeze.

  Wil swallows and drops a slow nod, though part of him still wants to back away, tell Dallin this is a mistake, he’s not ready. But that hard bit of steel in Wil’s backbone won’t let him.

  “All right.” Wil says it too softly, but he lifts his chin.

  Dallin smiles, gives Wil’s hand another squeeze, then leans in and kisses him, soft and warm. He takes Wil’s hand, slips his fingers over the crystal on its silver chain that wasn’t hanging around Wil’s neck only a second ago.

  “I’m right here,” he whispers, draws back, and shuts his eyes.

  Wil can hear the call—not with his ears but with something inside him, a low vibration that winds up through his hand linked with Dallin’s and into Wil’s chest, stuttering through the crystal in his palm. Like the healing, but only peripherally. This isn’t for Wil, doesn’t move through him, doesn’t seek his core and touch it. This is for Her, and Wil merely stands inside the echo of it. Waiting.

  The response is immediate and nearly overwhelming. A strange euphoria moves through Wil, but it isn’t nonsensical and frightening like the leaf. It’s heat like a thousand suns, but it doesn’t burn; it’s strength ensconcing him in a relentless embrace, but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a devastating presence inside his mind, his heart, his soul, but it doesn’t invade, merely asks.

  Dallin has gone still, head bowed, eyes closed, and his grip on Wil’s hand is loose but there. This is yours, Dallin tells Wil, except his mouth doesn’t move and he doesn’t stir. I’m here, I won’t leave you alone, but this is yours.

  Wil takes a long breath, closes his eyes, and withdraws his hand. Dallin steps back, retreating but not, here if Wil wants him, and oh, Wil loves him for it. Wil straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin. He grips the crystal tighter.

  “Mother” is all he says.

  And She’s there. Blue eyes kind and calm but filled with tears, and it’s strange because it never occurred to Wil that a goddess might weep, which is stupid because he’s seen the tears on Father’s cheeks more than once.

  She’s beautiful—strangely plain, almost ordinary, but every ordinary feature combines with every other and comes together into something extraordinary and beyond any beauty he’s ever seen but encompassing it all too. He sees echoes of Miri, of Mistress Sunny, of Thistle and Andette, and though none of them look like Her, they all have Her within. He sees Dallin and Ramsford, and even Wisena, the Old Ones, and if Wil looks hard enough, he might even see Síofra, so he doesn’t.

  She only looks at him, steady and expectant. Wil can’t help feeling measured, and he wants to look back, keep his head up, meet the blue gaze with confidence and perhaps even defiance, accusation. He dips his head instead and looks down, unable to do anything but stare at the toes of his battered boots.

  Overfaced and overmatched.

  What had he been thinking? How could he have ever thought this was anything but a new opportunity for disappointment and humiliation, pain and disillusionment? How could he have ever believed he might, just might, be good enough?

  “It is not in my eyes you
must seek your measure,” She says softly, Her voice kinder and more musical than Wil had imagined, “nor in your Guardian’s.” He knows it’s the First Tongue, Her own language, but in dreams he can always understand.

  Wil shakes his head, says, “No,” and his voice cracks, so he clears his throat. “Not in my Guardian’s,” he agrees, because his Guardian has never judged him, sees only the good in him, though Wil can’t make himself believe the same could be true of Her. Isn’t it Her place, after all?

  A small metallic chink catches his ear, and he shunts his glance toward it, watching as a link is added to the chain dangling from the shackle around Her wrist that he knows wasn’t there a moment ago. The sight startles him, sliding a sick lump into his chest, nauseating, and he can’t help how his gaze skims to the scar on his own wrist, hangs there.

  “Servant to faith,” She tells him, “hostage to belief. Bound by the certainties of others.” She holds Her hand out, palm up. “Would you strengthen my bonds?”

  Wil shakes his head and takes a step back, horrified. “No, I—” He looks to Dallin for help, but Dallin is the Watcher now, head bowed, eyes shut, waiting and Watching. Leaving this to Wil, because this is his.

  Wil shudders and turns back to the Mother. It’s absurd, he doesn’t even really know what he did, but he wants to throw himself down and beg forgiveness for it.

  “I would never” is all he can manage to whisper.

  “No?”

  She smiles, gently takes up his hand, and strokes the lumpy scar on his wrist. Wil allows it, trying not to let his knees loosen at the soft sensations winding through him with Her touch. She guides his fingers over the chain one link at a time.

  “These are those times when your keepers told you you’d been forsaken and you believed them.” The links slide over Wil’s palm, too many to count, and so heavy. “These are those times when you were in pain and called out your curses.” More links, more weight, and Wil can’t hold it up.

  “No.” He tries to pull his hand from Hers, tries to back away, but She won’t let him go.

  “I have no mother, and yours is dead!” His own voice, but it comes out of Her mouth, and more links pile into Wil’s hand.

  “Dallin.” Wil sends a desperate glance over his shoulder, and Dallin is there, still Watching, waiting, but he doesn’t react to Wil’s plea.

  “Why can’t he hear me?” Wil can’t help how his tone bends accusing.

  “He can always hear you” is the soft reply. “When you want him to.” She tilts Her head, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you want him to?”

  “I don’t….” He can’t finish. Because he really doesn’t know.

  She nods as though She’d expected it. “He is more than Watcher, indeed more than Guardian. He is Witness, he is Historian. He will sing the Aisling’s dirge, add it to the songs of his country, wound through with his tears and cries of loss. He will carry on and teach because you have asked it of him. He will wait, alone, for the call of the next, and when he has fulfilled the duties of the Guardian, he will die, still alone, still reaching for you in dreams he won’t allow himself to know he dreams, still feeling his finger on the trigger and trying to call back the bullet with his last breath.”

  Wil flinches, shakes his head, but She doesn’t give him time to respond, even if he could.

  “Is that not what you wanted?” She asks him softly. “Is that not what you have demanded of him?”

  It’s soft but razor-edged, dangerous, and Wil is once again reminded of Calder, of the Old Ones—real caring, real concern and compassion, but placing purpose above all else. She loves him—all right, he can believe that—but She’ll sacrifice him if She has to, She’ll sacrifice Dallin, She’ll hurt to help, and strangely, Wil can’t find it in him to blame Her.

  “I want to live,” he argues without even thinking about it, without even knowing it was coming. “I never… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to cause him pain, but I want—”

  “But you want him to live more, and that is well. It is, after all, what he wants for you.” She steps in close, pulling Wil’s hand in, the chains weighing it down clinking gently. “Tell me, Aisling—Wil That Was and Redeemed That Would Be—when will your pain be enough? What will be enough to purge your imagined sins?” She dips down, whispers, “You or him. Have you already made your choice?”

  It’s unfair and terribly cruel.

  “Is there one?” he rasps back, the question choking him, aching in his throat.

  “You have all the pieces of your puzzle,” She tells him, Her voice harder now, commanding. “You possess all your keys. Accept your gifts. Wield them. All of them.” Her eyes flick over to Dallin, still waiting in the dark, removed and excluded. “Hand him your keys, if you dare, for he knows the locks all too well. There are more choices than either of you can know.”

  Riddles, more riddles, and She doesn’t even have the excuse of malady and weakness as the Father does. Puzzle pieces and questions to answer questions, and only more questions to follow, and Wil is bloody weary of it all.

  “What does that mean?” he barks. “Why can’t you just say it?” He’s unheeding of his blaspheming tone, the bit of a glare he can’t help.

  “Ah.” A satisfied smile curls maddeningly at Her mouth. “You ask me to take away your choices, then?”

  He can’t answer. Because he thinks maybe the answer would be “yes,” and he couldn’t stand the shame if it tripped off his tongue.

  Playing with him, testing him, and he’s failing and doesn’t even know how, couldn’t help it if he did. Perhaps, if he’d not allowed himself to be so tricked, She wouldn’t mock him so. Perhaps, if he’d been stronger, let down his walls and allowed that other Watcher in, he wouldn’t need redemption, wouldn’t be begging for it now from one who has every reason to withhold it. Perhaps, if he’d never refused Her….

  He was right to fear Her, right to be afraid of reaching out, right to fear that he’d angered Her, and right to bow his head in shame for what he’s done. She’s kind, surely, but wise and too knowing. She can be ruthless and relentless to a supplicant who has been fool enough to want so badly. Warrior-goddess with a great, tender heart armored in adamant, and it’s his own fault for allowing hope when he knew better.

  “This is right now,” She tells him gently, holding up a single oval link between Her fingers. It catches the not-light and glints sharp into his eyes. “This is shame and doubt and fear of one who loves you above all others.” For a moment Wil starts to protest, thinks She means Dallin, and he doesn’t fear Dallin, not anymore, the accusation is unfair…. But then She places the link in his palm, closes his fingers over it. “You fight shackles like a wild animal,” Dallin’s words but Her voice, “but you accept a cage like you belong in one.” She squeezes his fingers around the link. “Would you expect less from me?”

  “Cage,” he whispers and shakes his head, because he should understand, but he doesn’t.

  “We build our own cages. And we make our own keys. Sometimes, if we’re very lucky, there is another who will hold that key for us until we’re ready to unlock the door and step out into the light. And sometimes that other will, unknowingly and with all love and good intent—or even with hatred at perceived betrayal—add links to the chains that bind us.”

  She’s talking about Wil, though it makes no sense, no sense at all.

  Wil tries to speak several times before he finally manages. “I’ve made you—”

  “Weak” is the word that hovers on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to speak it. Surely someone as small as he could not have the implied effect on one like Her?

  “So much stronger than you think you are.” She kisses his brow, a soft, warm tingle striating out from the touch and into his chest. “So willing to lock yourself inside your cage of self-doubt, self-rebuke, when there is another that would free and not confine.” She draws back and places Her hands to his cheeks, holding his gaze to Hers. “I am what I am, you cannot unmake that.
I am bound only by what you believe of me, the links you add to the chains, and that, even I cannot unmake.” She peers at him closely, a soft smile curling at Her mouth. “What do you believe, beautiful Gift?”

  He shakes his head against Her palms, shuts his eyes, and bows his head, tears burning behind his brow, searing at the backs of his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, dismayed and revolted when he hears the unmistakable sound of another link being added to the chain at Her wrist. He snaps his head up and stares into Her eyes.

  “No. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did, but—” He swallows, clenches his teeth, and tries to collect himself, calm himself. “Please. I don’t know what to… how I should….” Damn it, why can’t he twist the confusion ramming around his head into something that at least sounds like sense? And why can’t She just look inside and see it so he doesn’t have to? “I would never bind another,” he tells Her, earnest and open. “I would never bind You. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve been lied to for so long, I can’t… please, can’t You see, can’t You—?”

  He stops there because he has no idea what to ask for, or if he even should ask. She’s still looking at him with that soft smile, Her hands still warm against his cheeks, wet with the tears he hadn’t realized were falling, but he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of them. Invitation, he’s just handed it to Her, and he’s not sorry for it, he meant it, and he knows if he lets Her, She’ll take it.

  You must empty yourself to the Mother and accept what She gives back to you.

  Empty himself. Bare himself. Let go of who he is and let Her see it, let Her measure and judge it, and bend his neck while She does it.

  He’s wondered before if it would be liberating to confess his secrets to all those in Lind, pour out what he is and accept their respect or rebuke with no regrets. What would it be to do the same with Her? Would She cleanse his soul, or would She flay it?

  He’s amazed that he wants it, amazed that She’d care to see, so he does it—opens himself wide and lets Her in.