Disclaimer: I do not own the Alex Rider series.
A story written by DreamsInBlackAndWhite.
When he rushes inside to her, snow dusted through his fair hair, blue eyes wide with shock and fear, she can only embrace him. She stroked his hair and he shows her the warm, still breathing bundle of life.
"Can you fix it mother?" he asks urgently.
No, my love. This I cannot fix.
An accident. An accident. He explains it to her and she pleads with him not to lie to her. Lie to his father. Lie to his friends. Lie to the whole world if it pleases him. But never lie to her. He crys into her shoulder and she is thankful. As the tears spill from him she repeats it to herself.
An accident. Surely, an accident.
When their next door neighbour's cat disappears and she finds black hairs on his jumper she cries. She lies on his bed, cuddling his pillow and cries. But she makes sure to clean his room before he returns from school.
She tells his father about her suspicions. She wants him to reassure her. To tell her that she'd being foolish. Instead he flys into a drunken rage and beats their son within an inch of his life. She goes to him afterwards.
His nose is bleeding. His face is bruised. His whole body aches. He sobs to her and confesses what he did. He mummbles an apology and asks her how his father found out.
She cannot lie to him. She cannot look into his pale blue eyes and tell him a lie. So she tells him the truth. She strokes his hair and tells him how she was the Judas, the one who betrayed him.
He pulls away from her soothing hands. His eyes fill with rage and he storms out of the house, stepping over his father's sleeping body. At the time, he is only eight and a half years old.
She knows something is wrong. He does not, cannot love her. He is as cold as the snow that falls all year round. When he looks at his father, there is only hatred in his eyes. When he looks at her she sees that he does not love as any child should.
He is lacking. Physically he is strong and able. He wins medals for his sporting prowess. But he lacks the decency and humanity that is present in all other children. He is no longer a child. Her son, aged ten, is already an adult.
She discovers, much to her dismay, the fights. He had been fighting other local boys behind the school. She tries to tell herself that he was bullied. But when she looks at him, she sees it in his eyes. He could not be bullied.
Because he is the bully.
His father beats him for that as well. She goes to him afterwards and tries to stroke his hair as she used to. He pushes her hands away and mumbles something about being alone.
He is alone. In his head and his heart. He chooses it for himself. But still she loves him. She loves him so much that her love is a vice on her heart. He twists her feelings with an iron hold on her love and there is nothing she can do.
The first time he over powers his father she dismisses it. She is sure he was just trying to protect himself and struggled a bit too hard for her husband. But the second time she is there. She sees the ice take hold of her son's heart. Take hold of his eyes.
He stares through the ice that encases his heart. He stares through it at her. She loves him. He knows this. But he cannot love her. It is not in the nature of fate to be kind. But it seems the cruelest thing to her. The one person she loves more than life itself is the one she cannot help.
After her husband's death, she feels more heartbroken than ever. She had loved Gregor because he gave her a miracle. And as she grows weaker and weaker, her miracle still remains.
She begs him, pleads with him despairingly to leave her. The longer he stays the more chance there is of him being radiated. But still he stays. He is waiting to leave. She can see it in his eyes.
He is ready to become the man he was born to be.
He brings her water diligently every hour. But it isn't love binding him to the house. She can see it in his eyes, those ice cold beacons. He is holding back everything. But a resentment still shines through.
At first she thinks it is resentment that he will soon be truly alone. But then she realises it is her he resents. His mother. Because he is tugging at the leash. He is ready for life. And she is the only thing stopping him from leaving.
Love, for her, has always brought disappointment and pain. This is what she feels when he brings her water.
She gives him what little money she has. She gives him the address of his uncle in Moscow. She begs him to leave. Still he will not go.
She wills herself to die. She has to. Otherwise her love will be wasted. Her son will die if he remains much longer. When months pass and she is still breathing she despairs. And in her despair she writes him a note.
Then she uses her late husband's shotgun. She pulls the iron trigger with her toes. The metal makes her shiver. She lived alone, loving him from a distance. She dies alone, loving him from even further away.
In the eternal dark there is a pause. All is calm. All is silent. She hears a rustle and she looks around. From a corner emerges her son. She beams at him. He brings light to the darkness that draws around her.
She embraces him warmly. The ice melts and he stares at her, his eyes full of remorse and sorrow.
Why did you leave me mother? I'm cold. My heart is cold.
She blinks back tears and strokes his hair the way she did when he was a boy. He does not push her hands away. He leans forward, into the contact. She can feel how alone he is. How alone he feels.
I never left you, my little man. I was with you every single step you took.
He blinks at her and a sorrowful smile spreads across his mouth. He begins to cry, but he is smiling still. He is upset but elated simultaneously.
Do not leave me mother. I am missing something.
She knows it is true. He is missing something. It is something essential. She strokes his cheek and time seems to slow to a stall. She smiles up at him. He is a man now. And so very tall. And handsome. And nothing like his father.
It is alright. You are missing a heart. But I love you. More than anything. So we can share my heart.
He is whole again in his mother's arms.
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