secretlives
Cadet
Author's Notes: Well, here it is. A Post-Prophet 5 one. And, yes, this is not in Spyless because it isn't! Looks (or in this case, readings) can be deceiving! Heh. Occurs months after the funeral, and my usual fluffy angst. I was really uncertain about this particular piece of fic, which explains the sheer number of betas I went through - Thank you Laur and Cai, not to mention Jean and Becky from SD-1, and one of my real life friends, Elle.
Let the fun begin, hohum. I'll not be sending PMs since I'm starting a new PM list for each of my stories (effectively not PMing those who has disappeared into oblivion since the second chapter of WWWA... ) but if you wish to be on this fic's list, and/or my general one, just reply and review!
Once again, thank you Laur and Cai!
SLUMBER
By Jalyn/secretlives
Copyright 2005
PROLOGUE
Sleep my child and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
She sang to her of angels and of slumber. Mother gazed at Baby so lovingly and held her close to her heart. Lubdub, lubdub: that sound soothed both. Baby stirred and whimpered, and Mother could not help but worry if she had done something wrong. Mother was afraid, even after much reassurance from everyone else that mattered. She desperately needed to be a good mother; desperately needed to prove her worth; to preserve what’s left... Of all the things she had screwed up before, the last thing Mother wanted was for Baby to grow up the way she did. She blinked furiously to swallow the tears back in, her voice cracking as she finished singing.
Baby opened her eyes, and they filled with tears, mirroring her mother’s. Brown met another set of brown, but for that moment in time, Mother thought she saw a glimpse of green, and she gasped out loud until she realised how wrong she was. Even as Baby closed her eyes now, Mother still hoped for reminders from the past. Some memories were met with a slight smile, others with glassy eyes.
A look of envy passed over Mother’s face; flitting but certainly visible.
She doesn’t know the harsh truth. She doesn’t need to lie.
This lullaby was Baby’s favourite even after weeks of hearing it. Perhaps it was because the words had remained true, or her mother’s melodic voice soothed, if sometimes wobbly and occasionally stopping short before continuing with a strained voice.
Baby was six weeks old, but Mother loved her long before that. Perhaps it was the bond she felt with her, the intricate history behind everything or the simple fact that she was a product of love. A complicated love, but undeniable and pure.
It was also a love that ended abruptly. No full circle to go back to: just a never-ending line, one that ran forever. It was a sweet love that innocent bystanders envied, an almost-perfect ending… then a death that would haunt most.
Mother blamed herself for making Baby lose Father before his time. As each bullet shot through him, it shot through her heart too - little by little - cascades of bittersweet crimson sparkles crashing to the ground. Mother blamed herself for not being able to avoid this. Mother cried until there were no tears left.
Baby yawned and nuzzled against her mother, and Sydney Bristow let out an audible sigh before setting Isabelle Bristow-Vaughn in her crib. She pulled the blanket up to cover Isabelle’s little body and touched her cheek affectionately. Both of them shared a little smile.
For months she appeared to cope with her grief, but in reality she numbed herself. Excuses of research and revenge camouflaged her true emotions to the untrained eye; others believed she was moving on. Sometimes she sat there, not talking, not moving, just staring into blank space, her hand resting on her swollen abdomen. The first days were torturous, to say the least, as grief encompassed her and she thought off tangents almost every spare moment she had with herself. We were living on borrowed time anyway, so why do I feel so cheated? In the echoes of the dead air, the only thing she could hear was her own harried breaths.
The easy, companionable silence only served as a reminder of dancing in the Grand Central Station, lost in a pair of eyes of emerald, and she felt her heart ache again. Borrowed time even from the day we met. From the first time… she felt her throat tightening and stopped thinking coherently.
Nothing that is so, is so.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks into months. It was a cloudy day in February when she felt throbbing, consistent lower back pains, but she ignored it until her waters broke. Fear seized her heart: she wanted her child to stay safe in her, and didn’t want it to come out of its sanctuary and into the dangerous world. Even so, after nineteen agonising hours of pain, pushing, and breathing, Isabelle Bristow-Vaughn was born, complete with dark brown hair and ten perfect fingers and toes.
It was love at first sight for Sydney when she held her daughter for the first time. She marvelled at the pure innocence she exuded, a picture of perfection. Nuzzling her, she made a vow to protect her daughter, the sole thread she had with the man she still loved today.
When the phone rang, she took a glance at Isabelle, worried that the ringing would wake her. She snatched the receiver and brought it up to her ear.
”Joey’s Pizza?”
To Be Continued...
Let the fun begin, hohum. I'll not be sending PMs since I'm starting a new PM list for each of my stories (effectively not PMing those who has disappeared into oblivion since the second chapter of WWWA... ) but if you wish to be on this fic's list, and/or my general one, just reply and review!
Once again, thank you Laur and Cai!
SLUMBER
By Jalyn/secretlives
Copyright 2005
PROLOGUE
Sleep my child and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
She sang to her of angels and of slumber. Mother gazed at Baby so lovingly and held her close to her heart. Lubdub, lubdub: that sound soothed both. Baby stirred and whimpered, and Mother could not help but worry if she had done something wrong. Mother was afraid, even after much reassurance from everyone else that mattered. She desperately needed to be a good mother; desperately needed to prove her worth; to preserve what’s left... Of all the things she had screwed up before, the last thing Mother wanted was for Baby to grow up the way she did. She blinked furiously to swallow the tears back in, her voice cracking as she finished singing.
Baby opened her eyes, and they filled with tears, mirroring her mother’s. Brown met another set of brown, but for that moment in time, Mother thought she saw a glimpse of green, and she gasped out loud until she realised how wrong she was. Even as Baby closed her eyes now, Mother still hoped for reminders from the past. Some memories were met with a slight smile, others with glassy eyes.
A look of envy passed over Mother’s face; flitting but certainly visible.
She doesn’t know the harsh truth. She doesn’t need to lie.
This lullaby was Baby’s favourite even after weeks of hearing it. Perhaps it was because the words had remained true, or her mother’s melodic voice soothed, if sometimes wobbly and occasionally stopping short before continuing with a strained voice.
Baby was six weeks old, but Mother loved her long before that. Perhaps it was the bond she felt with her, the intricate history behind everything or the simple fact that she was a product of love. A complicated love, but undeniable and pure.
It was also a love that ended abruptly. No full circle to go back to: just a never-ending line, one that ran forever. It was a sweet love that innocent bystanders envied, an almost-perfect ending… then a death that would haunt most.
Mother blamed herself for making Baby lose Father before his time. As each bullet shot through him, it shot through her heart too - little by little - cascades of bittersweet crimson sparkles crashing to the ground. Mother blamed herself for not being able to avoid this. Mother cried until there were no tears left.
Baby yawned and nuzzled against her mother, and Sydney Bristow let out an audible sigh before setting Isabelle Bristow-Vaughn in her crib. She pulled the blanket up to cover Isabelle’s little body and touched her cheek affectionately. Both of them shared a little smile.
*
For months she appeared to cope with her grief, but in reality she numbed herself. Excuses of research and revenge camouflaged her true emotions to the untrained eye; others believed she was moving on. Sometimes she sat there, not talking, not moving, just staring into blank space, her hand resting on her swollen abdomen. The first days were torturous, to say the least, as grief encompassed her and she thought off tangents almost every spare moment she had with herself. We were living on borrowed time anyway, so why do I feel so cheated? In the echoes of the dead air, the only thing she could hear was her own harried breaths.
The easy, companionable silence only served as a reminder of dancing in the Grand Central Station, lost in a pair of eyes of emerald, and she felt her heart ache again. Borrowed time even from the day we met. From the first time… she felt her throat tightening and stopped thinking coherently.
Nothing that is so, is so.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks into months. It was a cloudy day in February when she felt throbbing, consistent lower back pains, but she ignored it until her waters broke. Fear seized her heart: she wanted her child to stay safe in her, and didn’t want it to come out of its sanctuary and into the dangerous world. Even so, after nineteen agonising hours of pain, pushing, and breathing, Isabelle Bristow-Vaughn was born, complete with dark brown hair and ten perfect fingers and toes.
It was love at first sight for Sydney when she held her daughter for the first time. She marvelled at the pure innocence she exuded, a picture of perfection. Nuzzling her, she made a vow to protect her daughter, the sole thread she had with the man she still loved today.
*
When the phone rang, she took a glance at Isabelle, worried that the ringing would wake her. She snatched the receiver and brought it up to her ear.
”Joey’s Pizza?”
To Be Continued...