Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  She looks, and he lets Her. Gives her everything, all the power he’s been holding inside him since before he even knew there was anything there, every bit of Self he kept from the pretender who would call himself “Father” and all those whose hunger and greed made them monsters even against their own wills. He gives it all to Her, and She takes it in, binds it to Her own Self, empties him, and he doesn’t even worry if She’ll fill him back up again.

  Gentle and timeless, forever, and he shows Her all the things he showed Síofra, shows Her yet more. All his secrets, such as they are, all the things he wants and dares to want. He shows Her everything, and if She wants to censure him for it, strip him of this last irrational hope… it still won’t take away what he is, who he is, and that makes it all right. She sees it all, and like the Guardian of Her making, She doesn’t look away.

  “Yes,” She tells him, just that one word, but it’s so full of everything that there’s no need for more, and it fills him with such stunning possibility he almost can’t breathe.

  Yes to every question he’s ever asked.

  Yes to every plea he’s ever made.

  Yes to all things, and all things are possible.

  Yes, he was tricked and used and lied to, and Yes, he can be a person despite it.

  Yes, he can love and be loved, and Yes, he is worthy.

  Yes, She loves him, and Yes, he wants it, and Yes, he loves Her back and is not ashamed.

  “There, now.” She kisses him again, this time over the streak of Dallin’s blood on his cheekbone. “Now you see.”

  He does. She hasn’t left him empty. He poured himself out, offered Her everything, and instead of hating him for it, She has shown him his cage, shown him he owns the keys, and that accepting this one perhaps isn’t something for which he should feel shame.

  Caught and caged.

  No more hostage to it than Dallin is to his. Their cages might ruin or save them, but neither has been truly imprisoned by the other. Not meant, Calder had told him, and perhaps that’s true, but She seems to approve nonetheless. Not all cages are prisons, after all.

  A link breaks in the endless chain that binds Her, and Wil smiles because he understands. One lie put to rest, another’s truth he can disbelieve, and he would no more bind Her than he would allow another to place shackles around his own wrists. Never again.

  Her smile widens, and She takes Her hands from his face, prying open his fingers to reveal a tiny key shining silver in his palm where the link used to be. Without a word, She lifts up Her wrist and holds it out to him.

  The key slides easily into the lock, turns without even slight resistance. A soft click and the iron band is gone, the chains are gone, and with them, tremendous weight lifts from Wil’s chest as though he’s been buried beneath a mountain for so long he’s grown used to it, and someone has come along and moved it for him. He can breathe. He can probably fly. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s weightless and free, filled with grace, and it’s nothing at all like the euphoria of the leaf, nothing at all like even Dallin’s touch of healing. It’s softer but stronger, real and corporeal but ephemeral and fey.

  “Mother” slides from his tongue, soft and asking, and She smiles. She closes Her eyes, tears sliding out from the corners as She reaches out, pulls him against Her, guides his head to Her breast, and strokes his hair. Wil shuts his eyes, clenches his teeth against the tears for as long as he can, then gives in, lets them come, long and harsh and cleansing. Says it again, “Mother,” and folds into the embrace—reaches back.

  HE COULD stay here for always, and he thinks maybe She’d let him. Time doesn’t seem to have anything to do with reality at the moment—reality doesn’t seem to have anything to do with reality—but this is real, it’s really happening. A lifetime of pretending not to wish for it, pretending he didn’t want it, was revolted by the very idea of it, and here he is, living it, and he doesn’t ever want to stop. It’s almost more than his mind can take.

  It’s strange, because he’d never thought of Her as so corporeal, but Her heart beats steadily, Her embrace is warm, Her tears damp in his hair, and She’s real.

  He’s exhausted, spent. He could close his eyes and sleep forever, his cheek pressed against Her breast.

  He used to see children just so, in their mothers’ embraces, and it used to confuse him, make him vaguely uncomfortable and oddly irritated. He thinks now perhaps it had been jealousy, thinks perhaps he’d been wishing for it and didn’t know it. Or knew it and wouldn’t admit it, which is all the same in the end.

  His eyes feel swollen, the lids heavy and gritty, and his nose is so clogged he can’t breathe. He’s reduced to mortifying snuffles. Her robes are just as real as She is, and Wil doesn’t fancy embarrassing himself by leaking all over Her. Where the hell is Dallin with his bloody handkerchiefs now?

  As if he’d spoken aloud, She pushes him back gently and slips Her fingers beneath his chin so he has no choice but to look up into Her soft gaze. She sighs, smiles, and lays another kiss to his brow.

  “There is much still ahead of you. It is time to call for your Guardian now.”

  Wil swallows. He’s afraid, but it doesn’t paralyze him, though he thinks if he weren’t here with Her, it just might.

  “He’s a good man,” he tells Her. Flushes, because of course She’d know that—She’d chosen him, after all. “I should—You—” The warmth at his cheeks burns hotter, and he wants to dip his head, but he can’t, not on this. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I don’t think any other would’ve done, and I… I wish….”

  She brushes his hair from his eyes, tender and dear. “You do not yet know of what you are capable. You do not yet know all of your gifts.” She nods toward Dallin, then peers at Wil closely. “It is his task to guide you, but it is yours to choose.”

  “It isn’t much of a choice,” Wil mutters. Now he does dip his head, because the tears are threatening again, and he’s already shown himself weak before Her.

  “There is a very fine line,” She tells him, tone clear and somewhat amused, “between doing something for another and doing something to another.”

  His head snaps up. A scowl sets his jaw tight. She’s using his own words against him, and this is different. It isn’t fair—one of them has to meet his end, and he knows who it has to be, he’s seen it—

  “Have you, then?” She asks, eyebrow arched. She gives his hair a light tug. “Such a stubborn boy,” She says fondly and pats his cheek. “Tell me, then—what exactly did you see?”

  He frowns, opens his mouth… hesitates. No one’s ever asked him that before, not even Dallin.

  Dark eyes, boring into his, the Mark almost blazing, hurting his eyes. He closes them against it, then… nothing. Nothing and more nothing, the end of everything—just gone, all of him, and… and Síofra told him….

  She’s nodding now, Her mouth curled into a smile that’s too knowing and perhaps even a touch patronizing. “Shall I show you the links to your own chains?” She asks him gently. “The bonds your not-father forged himself?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, almost slips his hands behind his back, but he makes himself stand still. He doesn’t want to see, doesn’t think he could bear to look.

  “You know them for travesties, and yet they nevertheless weigh you down.” Her voice hardens, that touch of command Wil had heard in it before. “I cannot break them for you, for they are not of my making.” Her eyes flick over to Dallin, and Her eyebrow rises again as She turns Her gaze back to Wil. “Your Guardian cannot touch them, for you choose not to show them to him and thus limit the choices for him, as well.”

  Wil clenches his teeth, angering slowly but steadily. “That isn’t fair,” he tells Her boldly. “There are two choices, both of them terrible, and not—”

  “Are there?” She shrugs and nods once again at Dallin. “It is time to call for your Guardian.”

  Wil’s anger rises. “If there are more, why won’t you just tell me?”

  �
��Perhaps because you believe so very stubbornly that there are only two.” She lifts Her hand, the shackle back again, but with only one link dangling from it this time.

  Fury rises at the sight, bald and choking. “You’re not being fair,” Wil grates, not caring anymore that he is addressing a being who could squash him beneath Her foot like an annoying insect.

  Maddeningly, She smiles. “And is fairness a link with which you have ever burdened me?”

  She lifts Her hand and flicks at the lone link; it tinkles musically as it swings. Her smile disappears, Her face going hard, that of the warrior-goddess, and he is reminded that She may love him, but She will also use him, hurt him if She has to, like any other mother who would punish a child “for his own good.”

  “What is your name, Aisling?” She demands.

  For the first time, real fear spikes into Wil’s chest. He takes a small, involuntary step back. “I don’t—”

  “But you do.” A flash of light at Her fingertips, and before Wil can even register what it is, what’s happening, it’s sailing toward him. He doesn’t even have the wit to flinch before Dallin’s knife is thudding into nothing at Wil’s feet, its hilt vibrating with the force of the impact. “Your true design remains hidden until you are ready to see it, and yet you persist in blindness.”

  He’s heard that before, but he can’t remember where or when or from whom. He takes another step back, trying to swallow down the fear and the anger, but he keeps choking on them, and it just pisses him off more.

  “You tore a man from his own mind to have it,” She goes on, ruthless, “and yet when your Guardian tried to hand it to you—”

  “You think I don’t want it!” Wil realizes too late that he’s just interrupted a goddess, but he couldn’t stop himself—it felt too much like accusation, and surely She can’t mean what he did wasn’t justified? “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, but—” His teeth clench, and so do his fists. “If he gets it, if I give it to him—” He can’t finish, and damn it, why should he have to?—She knows.

  “Then perhaps it is best in the hands of one who does not fear it,” She tells him coldly. She seems to grow in front of him, almost threatening, and all kindness has been wiped from Her expression as She merely lifts Her hand and points to Dallin, a wordless directive.

  Ashamed as he hadn’t been before, Wil swallows his fury and his fear, swallows his questions and accusations, and does as She has commanded. He is no equal, he’d almost forgotten that for a moment in his anger, but he’s reminded of it now, and he bends his neck beneath the clear rebuke.

  He steps over to Dallin, takes up his hand, and calls his name. Dallin peers at him closely, all cagey concern.

  “All right?”

  Wil almost laughs, but… it isn’t really funny. He shakes his head instead. “Not really,” he answers honestly. “But better than I’d thought.” He tugs at Dallin’s hand. “C’mon, She wants you.”

  Dallin follows, eyes gone a bit hard, and Wil can’t help but take an odd sort of warmth from it. His Guardian would protect him even from a goddess, and it still boggles Wil that it’s all real.

  They stand before Her together, hands linked. Dallin’s shoulders and back are ramrod straight, like he’s standing at attention, and his eyes meet Hers boldly.

  “Guardian,” She says, Her voice more stern than it had been, Her mien grim and unyielding.

  She waves a hand, and Dallin lets go of Wil’s, steps forward, places his hands at the small of his back, plants his feet apart, and lifts his chin.

  “You have accepted your calling,” She says, blue gaze leveled at Dallin. “The Aisling has acknowledged you as his champion. The land has called to you and heard your answer. You have waded through much adversity to stand here before me, and yet you are not yet through.” She tilts Her head, appraising. “What would you ask of me?”

  Dallin’s shoulders twitch and his head jerks back, the surprise obvious. He frowns, hesitant, then cuts a quick look at Wil, a light flush blooming on his cheeks.

  “I would ask only for the strength to serve the Aisling as he wills it.”

  She shakes Her head, the disappointment obvious. “You forget—your heart is plain in your eyes.”

  Dallin bows his head. “I would ask too many things to count, Mother,” he says more quietly. “More than I’ve a right to ask.” He sucks in a long breath, squares his jaw, and won’t look at Wil. “I would ask that You take this from him. I would ask that You give me the power to bear the burden alone. I would ask that You see to it that he survives.”

  She turns a small, sad smile on Wil. “You would take away his choices?”

  “If I thought it would….” Dallin looks down and shakes his head. “I don’t know.” His voice is too soft, cheeks hinting at shame, and he closes his eyes. “I expect that’s why he’s been given the choice and not I.”

  Wil should be angry at the revelation, but it won’t come. Dallin has been handing Wil choices since the very beginning, and Wil’s given Dallin none. How could Wil possibly find anger for the want of a wish?

  This time She nods, satisfied. She slips her fingers beneath Dallin’s chin and lifts his gaze to Hers as She did to Wil forever ago.

  “You have more than one calling, Guardian.” Her voice is soft this time, compassion that nearly makes Wil’s throat clog.

  “So I’ve been told,” Dallin answers, voice hushed, a quiet defeat inside the tone that Wil has never heard before. “I will do my duty to You and Lind, the Father and the Aisling, as You so will.”

  “So many fates to carry upon your shoulders.” She tsks. “Have you no duty to yourself?”

  Wil can see Dallin’s teeth clench, can see his eyes harden, resentful.

  “Does it matter?”

  She takes Her hand away. “All things matter, in their ways. A single flap of a butterfly’s wing can reshape the world.”

  Wil frowns, and by the way Dallin too obviously holds back a growl, it’s clear he doesn’t understand it any more than Wil does. More bloody riddles. Wil’s had more than he can stand, and he knows Dallin has too.

  “I have more than one calling, and one contradicts the other.” Dallin’s expression is stony, and he meets Her gaze with unveiled anger. “Either way, I will fail You and the Father. Perhaps You’d like to tell me which failure would displease You less.”

  “I will suffer no failure,” She returns, hard and cold. “If your choices are cruel and few, it is your task to find another. You were not made for this, Guardian, but chosen. The fates of those I love above all rest in your hands, and you will not fail me.”

  Wil stares, almost can’t believe this is the same being who held him and rocked him against Her breast only a short while ago, comforted him and made him believe he wasn’t broken. Now She is harsh, pitiless, cruel, and commanding, demanding a hopeless solution to a nonexistent choice, Dallin’s broad shoulders bending beneath the weight of impossibility. Wil has often wondered how the goddess of healing, childbirth, and comfort could also be the goddess of war. Now he knows.

  “We take what the Mother gives us and do our best with it,” Wil answers, though he thinks he really shouldn’t—this is Dallin’s, not his—but he can’t help himself. It’s unfair, all of it, and She doesn’t even seem to care. So many times Dallin has come to Wil’s defense, and Wil owes him at least this. “My Guardian could do no less—it isn’t in him. You can’t ask more.”

  “No?” She doesn’t look at Wil, her hard blue gaze locked on to Dallin. She lifts Her hand, shows him the shackle again with its one lone link, then lifts the other, bare and devoid of any kind of bond. “I am bound by no beliefs, Guardian, for you have none. A man of vast and great magic, yet so little faith. You believe in the power of the land because you have touched it, but it will not be enough to save all you wish to save. You believe in your gods because you have seen them, but we cannot go where you must lead, for we are bound in other ways that are not yours to unfetter.” She steps in close, looms over Dallin
, but Dallin keeps his gaze steady and doesn’t flinch. “What else do you believe, Guardian?”

  An echo of the same question put to Wil before, but Dallin doesn’t bow his head as Wil did, doesn’t look away, his gaze steady and devoid of the pleading Wil suspects had reflected in his own.

  “You ask for blind faith,” Dallin says steadily.

  Wil’s heart sinks, and he has no idea why—whether because he’s sure Dallin won’t give it, or because he’s equally sure She will take his Guardian away from him if Dallin doesn’t. And yet Wil wouldn’t ask Dallin to give something it’s so against his nature to give, even at the risk of losing Dallin’s presence when Wil goes to face the monster.

  “No?” She asks. Wil is surprised and all at once painfully uneasy when he sees that Her gaze has shifted to him. “And yet you have.”

  Answering the question Wil didn’t ask, instead of the one Dallin did.

  Wil flinches, but Dallin frowns, bewildered, and turns a quick asking glance on him. Wil can’t do a single thing but shake his head and take a small step back.

  Her gaze slides once again to Dallin. “I ask for the trust you demand of others. Can you give it?”

  Dallin stares for a long time, hands fisting behind his back, jaw twitching. And then he blinks, his eyes filling just the smallest bit, and he bends his neck.

  “I don’t know, Mother. I love him, and gods must—” He swallows and shuts his eyes tight. “—gods must sometimes be dispassionate, for They see more than we mortals. We are sometimes crushed beneath Your greater purpose, and I would not see him crushed.” He shrugs helplessly, then looks up. “I’m sorry. I love him.”

  Wil’s eyes burn again, and his chest goes tight. A test, and this the cruelest. It nearly breaks his heart to watch Dallin try to be what She demands of him and still be what he is—choosing between the Guardian and Dallin, the man who loves Wil and the Shaman who must ensure the Aisling does not become the next meal for the soul-eater. Dallin shakes beneath it, splitting right down the middle.

  “As do I,” She replies, voice softening. “Love can often hand us the magic of faith, if only we reach for it. I ask for no more than that.” She waves a hand. “What do you see?”