Rating: NC-17 overall (some entries as mild as a G)
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most who post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Summary: It's the year 2047 and Aishling Rosenberg has recently discovered that her grandmother left behind a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living.
Feedback: Beggars can't be choosey, and I'm begging, so. . .
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Entry No. 2
Prologue (Galway, circa 1729)
For as long as she could remember, the young woman had just known things . . . been aware of things no one else seemed to notice. Her husband said it was her “sixth sense”. She never thought that description was accurate. What she felt had nothing to do with her senses. It was much more internal, like instincts or gut reactions. It was just "knowing".
Like she knew that the child in her belly was a boy.
While he would be her first son, he was not her first child. So, perhaps that's how she knew that his birth would be difficult. Perhaps . . .
He'd not been easy to carry and she knew that he was going to come into the world the same why he would go out . . . kicking and screaming.
As her term of confinement was drawing to a close, she knew he'd not turned. He was contrary already. She could feel his small feet pressing into the small of her back, not into her ribs as her other babies had done. No amount of poking or prodding on her part could make him turn. None of the old wive's remedies had any effect either. This boy was obstinate! Yes, it seemed he really would come into this world kicking, and then screaming. He'd be a fighter always, in both the bad ways and the good.
The woman knew her son would be the light of her life and the bane of her existence. And she'd not lose him yet, no matter what it cost her.
That's why she'd sent her brother off to Ard to fetch the midwife who lived there by the sea.
She knew that people would talk. A woman of her station would not normally call upon the services of one such as her. But the midwife was good at her craft and had saved many a mother and child from certain death.
Yes, this midwife was an enigma, to say the least. Some said she was really an ancient goddess. Others said she was a witch. But the young woman knew she was something else all together. And she didn't care what people thought or said. She knew the mysterious woman was the only one who could help her now. She gently hugged her belly and the baby in her womb. This woman would save them both.
The midwife arrived just two days before her labor began. She was a beautiful woman, well educated and wise beyond her apparent years. She had a truly gentle and giving nature, just as did the woman she attended. Had circumstances been different, they would have been fast and lifelong friends.
The delivery had in fact been long and difficult. The boy had been set upon presenting himself to the world ass first. <How fitting? > But with much careful manipulation, the midwife managed to coax him into giving her his tiny feet. She then led him as gently as possible into the world. And was it not a portent that he'd finally been born in the dead of the night.
The midwife began to worry. The young mother had lost a lot of blood during her labor and delivery. Even the passage of the afterbirth seemed to do little to slow the flow. The midwife left the room and returned just moments later with a cup full of a warm thick liquid which the failing woman consumed without question. The flow of blood ceased almost instantly and, as a welcomed blanket of sleep settled upon the new mother, she thought she could almost feel herself beginning to heal.
She awoke a short time later feeling strong and refreshed. Her son lay beside her and she quickly drew him to her breast. She cried soft, silent tears of joy.
He was a beautiful baby who she knew would grow to be an equally beautiful man. But his looks would be deceiving. She knew that, too.
Angelus.
She named him, Angelus. It was not an Irish name, to be sure. But it was a good, strong name. It was a beautiful name, befitting such a beautiful child; a name with a regal grace to match that which she knew he'd possess later in his life. And she hoped beyond hope that the celestial bodies he'd been named for would watch over him.
Her tears of joy turned quickly to sorrowful ones as her heart began to break. Because she knew. She knew, even as this tiny newborn suckled at her breast, that her son, her Angel, was destined to be one of the fallen.
The midwife came to her then, offering what comfort she could, as she too secretly feared what the future held for this dark-haired angel.
The midwife stayed on for another five days. And while the new mother was deeply appreciative of her tender care and warm companionship, she could not help but notice how the other young woman avoided her son. It was almost as though she was afraid of him. No, she was afraid of how she felt toward him and how he responded to her. And rightly so. On the few occasions that she'd been tricked or forced into holding little Angelus, the joy that consumed them both was evident.
The day that she left was the first time since Angelus' birth that the midwife actually picked him up of her own accord. And she held him close. She smiled and cooed at him. She sang to him softly as she gently ran her fingertips across his tiny face - as though she were trying to memorize it. He gurgled noisily. His dark eyes, fathomless even then, shone up at her in his delight. She kissed him tenderly then upon his forehead and made to return him to his mother's arms. But as if sensing her imminent departure, he began to cry in protest and his chubby little hands began grasping at the long locks of her flame colored hair. His mother had to pry his small fingers away as he continued to wail.
The midwife then attempted to exit quickly but she was stopped at the bedroom door when she heard Angelus' mother ask her one simple question. <Simple for whom? >
"Will you love him, no matter what the future brings?"
Aoífe turned then, and looked upon Angelus as he continued to cry as if mourning her loss. With all her heart and soul she wanted nothing more than to take him back into her arms, to console him and to protect him from what might lie ahead. But she could not. It was not yet the time for that.
So, looking up into his mother's eyes, seeing the heartbreak there, she spoke but one word of comfort before leaving.
"I gcónaí." (Always.)
End
Entry Two