Mary
Title: Mary
Pairing: M/M
Rating: K
Summary: In the trenches, Matthew thinks of Mary. One-shot, ficlet, whatever.
His head is full of Mary, her name repeated like the ringing of some distant bell. Mary--touch of the languid beginning on the lips, the end like an after thought. How it pulls at the corners of the mouth, a smile every time one says her name: in greeting, on parting, even when she is not there. In the dark of the rent earth, flickering against his cupped palm like a flame where, like a flame, it gives warmth. A blessing given at birth from mother and father, impossible to lose-in her deep as blood. Her name, the thing she is. In the mouths of others it is a reverence or a prayer. Mary, queen of heaven.
He has never prayed before, not seriously, but he does so now. Hail Mary, full of grace. But maybe it is bad luck, in war especially, when death is all around, to love a woman more than God. God, who is said to grant merciful salvation. Of the two, though, it’s Mary in whom he puts more faith. If will alone could get him through this alive, Mary’s--fierce, immoveable as stone--would be strong enough to do it. Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed be thy name. In the pocket of his jacket the black glass eyes of the dog press their particular cold into his palm.
He doesn’t sleep enough to dream, not truly. But when it is time to rest he soothes his fraying mind with a sort of waking dream. Behind his shut eyes he follows the path up to the great house. The sky is blue as glass and all the windows wink back at him as if in welcome. The heavy creak of brass hinges, the hall opening out behind the swung-in door, and on the stairs--she, Mary.
The length of her body calls to mind birch trees, new-fallen snow--the things which form the England of his mind, the one he tells himself he is fighting for. Though they stand apart he can imagine the smoothness of her skin, the feel of bones beneath. That night he kissed her--or she kissed him, he isn’t sure, can only remember it as seamless, perfect--it was the fragility of her bones that made his breath catch. It was that, above everything else, that he could not get out of his mind.
The Mary of his waking dream is not surprised to see him; her lips curve as he moves into the hall. She has known all along that he will come home unharmed, knows in some way that her own certainty is exactly what’s done the trick. Her confidence nearly glows about her, her face radiant with it. He reaches the bottom of the steps and kneels before her, speechless but for the one word that has, like the little toy dog, stayed with him through everything. He says, “Mary.”
The whistle sounds.
Pairing: M/M
Rating: K
Summary: In the trenches, Matthew thinks of Mary. One-shot, ficlet, whatever.
His head is full of Mary, her name repeated like the ringing of some distant bell. Mary--touch of the languid beginning on the lips, the end like an after thought. How it pulls at the corners of the mouth, a smile every time one says her name: in greeting, on parting, even when she is not there. In the dark of the rent earth, flickering against his cupped palm like a flame where, like a flame, it gives warmth. A blessing given at birth from mother and father, impossible to lose-in her deep as blood. Her name, the thing she is. In the mouths of others it is a reverence or a prayer. Mary, queen of heaven.
He has never prayed before, not seriously, but he does so now. Hail Mary, full of grace. But maybe it is bad luck, in war especially, when death is all around, to love a woman more than God. God, who is said to grant merciful salvation. Of the two, though, it’s Mary in whom he puts more faith. If will alone could get him through this alive, Mary’s--fierce, immoveable as stone--would be strong enough to do it. Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed be thy name. In the pocket of his jacket the black glass eyes of the dog press their particular cold into his palm.
He doesn’t sleep enough to dream, not truly. But when it is time to rest he soothes his fraying mind with a sort of waking dream. Behind his shut eyes he follows the path up to the great house. The sky is blue as glass and all the windows wink back at him as if in welcome. The heavy creak of brass hinges, the hall opening out behind the swung-in door, and on the stairs--she, Mary.
The length of her body calls to mind birch trees, new-fallen snow--the things which form the England of his mind, the one he tells himself he is fighting for. Though they stand apart he can imagine the smoothness of her skin, the feel of bones beneath. That night he kissed her--or she kissed him, he isn’t sure, can only remember it as seamless, perfect--it was the fragility of her bones that made his breath catch. It was that, above everything else, that he could not get out of his mind.
The Mary of his waking dream is not surprised to see him; her lips curve as he moves into the hall. She has known all along that he will come home unharmed, knows in some way that her own certainty is exactly what’s done the trick. Her confidence nearly glows about her, her face radiant with it. He reaches the bottom of the steps and kneels before her, speechless but for the one word that has, like the little toy dog, stayed with him through everything. He says, “Mary.”
The whistle sounds.