and you, my father, there on the sad height, a matched fanfic

and you, my father, there on the sad height

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Matched

Molly's hands are soft and cool, still smelling of the gardens she looks after, as she gives her father-in-law his final gift.

"An autumn leaf?" Sam teases. "Is this some kind of comment on my age?"

"No!" She laughs shakily. "I've been keeping this for years. Ever since the maples were first planted in our Borough. They were so beautiful, I thought … "

They both look down at the paper-dry leaf, more fragile even than the eighty-year-old hands holding it, its blazing red and gold fading to brown.

"Red has always been my favorite color," he tells her gently. "I don't need to see it to remember. Thank you, my dear."

Without words, she understands that he is thankful for so much more than the memory of maples.

He reaches into the pocket of his green silk Banquet clothes and brings out the cottonwood seed Cassia gave him, a tiny speck of potential life. Molly's eyes light up as she recognizes it, then darken. She shakes her head.

"A cottonwood seed? How did you - ? But the trees were cut down yesterday. My supervisor called them 'inefficient'."

"Then your supervisor's a fool," Sam retorts. "There's nothing inefficient about nature. She has her own way of doing things, and we humans interfere at our peril. You should know that."

Molly bows her head in silent agreement, the closest she ever comes to speaking against the system.

"Take it," he says. "Plant it when the time is right. One day, I promise you, the cottonwood trees will grow again."

He tells her this with such calm, such authority, that she reaches out almost in spite of herself to tuck the seed into her own trouser pocket. He has no way of knowing whether so many years of compliance will allow her to carry out his wish, but looking up into her bright green eyes – at the spark inside them, shining through her tears – he believes she will.

"Take care of my boy, Molly."

Standing by the door, she looks back over her shoulder.

"I promise."

As little Bram comes into the room, for a moment, Sam could have sworn it was the shadow of young Abram or himself. He has the same wide brown eyes, the same untamable mop of auburn curls, the same pride in his small shoulders as he stands in the doorframe. This is the first moment in the last day of Sam's life that tears come into his eyes.

"Come here, Bram," he calls softly. "Don't be shy. It's only me."

Is it really? the child's eyes ask as he approaches. Isn't Death here too?

"I hope you enjoyed your desserts," Sam says, just to break the ice, to pretend this is nothing but a family party, and their invisible guest nowhere to be found. "I won't tell your nutrition personnel if you won't."

Bram flashes a tiny grin. "The chocolate cake's my favorite. And the pie."

"Ah, yes. I'm quite partial to cherry pie myself."

"I didn't eat too much, did I?" Bram frowns, looking down at the small hands that, only a moment ago, were scooping up the last remains of a dying man's Final Banquet. "You're not ashamed or anything? Cassia was ashamed. The way she looked at me … "

His lips begin to tremble and looks away, making a futile attempt to hide his tears. Sam gathers all his fading strength to lift both arms, sit up and gather the boy into a hug.

"Ashamed? Never," he murmurs. "I was glad to see you savoring the finer things in life. Never be ashamed to ask for more, Bram. You may not get it, but it's worth the asking all the same."

"I want you not to go away," Bram sobs.

"And I wish I didn't have to." Sam kisses the top of his grandson's curly head. "But after I go, whenever you miss me, you won't have far to go. All you need to do is look in the mirror."

Abran comes last, looking both older and younger than he should. There is a streak of gray in his hair that Sam has never noticed and his shoulders are bowed, but his eyes are open and vulnerable as a child's. The way he sits down at his father's bedside is a strange reversal of his childhood illnesses, the last generation of common colds and chicken pox before the Society's medicines wiped them out.

"I … I don't have a gift for you," he says, staring down at his tightly folded hands. "I must have picked up dozens of things from Restoration sites and then discarded them. They're just … they're not enough. There's no artifact in all the world to show you what I'm thinking."

In Abran's low voice, Sam hears the echo of another bedside vigil. He remembers Maria, her auburn hair falling out in clumps after chemotherapy, her smiling face hollowed out into a living skeleton's long before she died.

"I know, son. I know."

"I'm sorry, Father."

"Don't be." Sam's body feels like a suit made out of lead, but he can still lift his head high enough to lock eyes with his adult son. "There is something you can do for me."

"What?" Abran leans forward in his chair, eagerness shining through his grief.

"My tissue sample. I want you to destroy it."

"What?" As quickly as it came, the flash is gone. Abran recoils as if he had been asked to destroy a living creature.

"You heard me."

"No! No, I can't – you don't know what you're saying."

"I may be dying," Sam snaps, "But I'm not senile yet. I know exactly what I'm saying."

"But … " The younger man darts a glance at the thin plastic tube on the nightstand, so fragile and so fraught with its potential. "But you'll be gone. Forever. They can never bring you back."

"Do you think I want to come back without you? Without your mother? Recycled like an old piece of foilware into a world that's not my own? There's no dignity in that."

Abran opens his mouth to argue further, but Sam cuts him off with a gesture of his hand.

"All I want is to die on my own terms, not Society's. Is that too much to ask?"

Abran's silence fills the room, thick as fog. Sam can see him trying not to cry.

"Please," he whispers.

Abran takes a deep, shuddering breath, covers his face with both hands, and takes the sample. He looks down at his father with eyes of stone, and for only a moment, Sam regrets his wish. Is asking Abran to break the law really worth the possibility of him and Molly losing their vocations? Risking the futures of Cassia and Bram?

Do not go gentle into that good night, he reminds himself. He may not feel inclined to burn and rave, but his words can still fork lightning. Abran knows as well as anyone that their Society is rotten to the core. Even a small act of resistance will be worth it.

"Yes," Abran says. "It is too much to ask. But I'll do it. Of course I will."

"I'm proud of you," Sam tells him, by way of a thank you. This goes too deep for thanks.

Abran only nods and leaves the room.