libraryofwinds Challenge: Cross
They're buried at the bottom of his jewelry case under hoops, rings, a leather collar or two, but they are there. He doesn't think about them often, doesn't pull them out to run his fingers over them except now and then. There are two of them.
The first is simple in its beauty, and made of silver that marked it as precious, hammered out. Semi-precious stones line the chain that holds it together, and he was told, often, what a precious family heirloom it was and that he wasn't to touch it until he'd cleaned his grubby fingers, and only then because it had been Kieran's wish that he have it, before his ungrateful demon-whore of a mother took him away from them all.
He generally leaves that one alone, but he won't give it away.
The other, he's more apt to pull out now and again. The arms aren't equi-distant, but of proper length, but a circle winds through them, and a lattice of knotwork runs up and across both the center and the arms. It had been lovingly carved in wood with such precise detail that you could almost see the man there, in the knots, though he blended in so well it was hard to be sure he was there. One thing was clear though, if you looked hard enough at the design. The dying man had delicate, butterfly wings. How he'd managed it with fingers knotted by arthritis and eyes going blind from cataracts, Devin had never known.
He had been five when the old man gave it to him, aching fingers ruffling Devin's hair and a sweet smile curving his lips. She'd scowled, and said it was sacrilege. He'd hushed her and squatted down beside Devin to show him the details, how he'd melded two worlds, two faiths, into one, for him. Like him.
There are two of them. One he keeps out of obligation to the man he never knew. The other, out of love, and when he pulls that one out from under the accoutrements of his life, he still finds himself murmuring the soft words of the prayer he learned sitting on those bony knees as its carved beads slide through his fingers.
Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir na mná agus is beannaithe toradh do bhroinne, Íosa. A Naomh-Mhuire, a Mháthair Dé, guigh orainn na peacaigh,anois agus ar uair ár mbáis.*
*Translation: Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
The first is simple in its beauty, and made of silver that marked it as precious, hammered out. Semi-precious stones line the chain that holds it together, and he was told, often, what a precious family heirloom it was and that he wasn't to touch it until he'd cleaned his grubby fingers, and only then because it had been Kieran's wish that he have it, before his ungrateful demon-whore of a mother took him away from them all.
He generally leaves that one alone, but he won't give it away.
The other, he's more apt to pull out now and again. The arms aren't equi-distant, but of proper length, but a circle winds through them, and a lattice of knotwork runs up and across both the center and the arms. It had been lovingly carved in wood with such precise detail that you could almost see the man there, in the knots, though he blended in so well it was hard to be sure he was there. One thing was clear though, if you looked hard enough at the design. The dying man had delicate, butterfly wings. How he'd managed it with fingers knotted by arthritis and eyes going blind from cataracts, Devin had never known.
He had been five when the old man gave it to him, aching fingers ruffling Devin's hair and a sweet smile curving his lips. She'd scowled, and said it was sacrilege. He'd hushed her and squatted down beside Devin to show him the details, how he'd melded two worlds, two faiths, into one, for him. Like him.
There are two of them. One he keeps out of obligation to the man he never knew. The other, out of love, and when he pulls that one out from under the accoutrements of his life, he still finds himself murmuring the soft words of the prayer he learned sitting on those bony knees as its carved beads slide through his fingers.
Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir na mná agus is beannaithe toradh do bhroinne, Íosa. A Naomh-Mhuire, a Mháthair Dé, guigh orainn na peacaigh,anois agus ar uair ár mbáis.*
*Translation: Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Pray for us sinners, Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.