Arthur Kirkland raised his head from his hands to look up at the still form on the hospital bed. Four year old Alfred slept there, looking so tiny in the big bed. His face was flushed with fever, and his messy, fine blond hair was matted with sweat at the temples and across his forehead. The vivid blue eyes were hidden behind closed lids. His breath was nothing more than labored panting that kept time with the erratic beeping of the heart monitor. A doctor stepped into the room, checking monitors and printouts. Arthur watched as the doctor talked in an undertone to a nurse who both shook their heads. It was obvious what they were thinking. Arthur knew exactly what was going on. It was what he had feared since Alfred had first gotten sick.
His little boy was dying.
Francis sat at Alfred's bedside, stroking the pudgy hand and crooning a French lullaby as his eyes filled with tears. He was trying so hard not to cry, trying to be strong for his son. But he was so tired. They both were Arthur dropped his head back into his hands. In his lap slept Alfred's twin brother, Matthew. The lanky young boy had his long arms wrapped around Arthur's neck with his face buried into his father's shoulder. He didn't understand what was going on, why Alfred wouldn't play with him anymore, why his brother was always sleeping. It was heartbreaking.
"I'm going for a bit of fresh air." Whispered Arthur as he carefully stood, laying Matthew onto the chair. The boy slept on, shoulder length blond hair falling over his face. Arthur scooped Matthews beloved stuffed polar bear from the floor where it had fallen; he tucked it close to Matthew, who sighed contentedly. Francis nodded distractedly, never taking his eyes from the sick child.
Arthur's feet took him through corridors and down the elevator, past dark rooms and dim hallways. Even with the bright colors on the walls, it was still a grim place. Children's hospitals were always the ones that tried hardest to be cheerful, but were always the most depressing. Filled with little kids that were sleeping, quiet and still when they should have been playing, laughing, running around...
He found himself standing in front of a pair of wooden double doors on the first floor. The lettering on the wall said "Chapel". Arthur was not a particularly religious man. He had always been shoved from Protestant to Catholic to Anglican depending on his monarch... it was exhausting. When asked, his answer was always that he preferred to keep a few steps back from the subject and let everyone believe what they wanted. But he did believe.
And now he slipped into the quiet, empty chapel and fell to his knees in front of the cross. The tears he had been holding back for so long poured down his cheeks in a torrent. His sobs were nearly silent gasps in the silence. He knew, he knew that he couldn't do anything more for his son. He knew the doctors didn't have any more ideas to help Alfred. There was only one other who could possibly save the little boy.
Down on my knees again tonight
Hoping this prayer will turn out right.
There is a boy who needs your help,
I've done all I can do by myself.
His Papa is tired...
He sits and holds his hand.
And he tries not to cry
as the tears fill his eyes.
Can you hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him?
Can you make him feel all right?
If you can see him,
let me take his place somehow
See, he's not just anyone...
He's my son...
Arthur turned his streaming eyes to the stained glass window. The moon was full, almost like sunlight, and the image of Christ looked down at him with those sad, understanding eyes. Arthur thought about all the things he had done, all the horrible, sinful things. He wasn't a good man, wasn't someone that any God would love... but Alfred was just a child. So innocent. Would God shun a little boy just for his father's sins? Surely not...
He stared into those eyes and thought of his little Alfred, before he got sick. Playing with his brother, trying to feed Kumajiro his dinner when nobody was watching, tying a towel around his neck and playing superhero.
Sometimes late at night
I sit and I watch him sleep.
I think of the boy he'd like to be.
He's so tired...
and he's scared...
let him know that you're there.
Can you hear me?
Am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him?
Can you make him feel alright?
If you can see him
let me take his place somehow.
See, he's not just anyone...
He's my son.
Can you hear me?
Can you see him?
He's not just anyone...
He's my son.
He's my son.