Disclaimer: Not mine.
Blessed Art Thou Among Women
by entropic order
Everyday, she walks the same path.
It is going to rain today, perhaps even storm. It is in the air: the funny grayness and that electrical feeling that heralds bad weather. The sky is almost the same color as the cobblestones.
She pushes open the heavy wooden door of the tenement. A few flakes of paint break off on her hand, and she brushes them off silently. Walking down the steps, she turns her eyes to the road. It is early enough that there are few other people out, and no carriages. She takes to the street and drops her eyes to the ground once again.
The sun must be rising, for a faint peach-colored light just manages to penetrate the heavy clouds. It colors her face faintly, bringing the dark blue shadows under her eyes and the sharp contours of her tired face into sharp relief. She does not look up, even when a gentleman asks her quite kindly if she is all right.
She does not have to look up to find her way.
The nuns are incongruous with their surroundings. The lines of their habits are bold and starkly black and white against a backdrop of dirt and mud and weary laborers heading for the factories.
When she reaches the nuns and their cart, she finally looks up. The sister on the left catches sight of her face and sends her a sad smile. She does not return it. She is too busy searching the sea of faces before the cart.
They are all children, not one of them above the age of eighteen. A faint coat of dirt and sweat adorns each visage, and an ink stain each finger. A few of them look up at her as she passes them, their faces mirroring the nun's earlier expression.
None of them matter to her. Only he matters.
She calls out his name once more, as she does everyday, and as everyday, no one responds. She stays there as the children slowly drift away one by one, still calling out his name. Just because it has never worked before does not mean it will not work today.
Eventually, they have all left and she is alone with the nuns.
Once, long ago, they tried to offer her food like they do the children. She turned it away emphatically. They will not make the same mistake again.
Her face is shining, but not with joy. Tears score her face red like the back of a whipped slave. She turns her face away from the nuns, and they pretend not to notice her sobs.
This is not the worst part. The worst part is the hope that maybe, someday, somehow, he will come back.
This is not the worst part, but it comes close.
She stumbles blindly down the street. People stare, of course. A woman torn up like she is is indecorous.
She collapses against a brick wall and turns her face from their hostile glares. It starts to rain at last.
The only difference between the rain and her tears is that the rain is cool as it drips down her face. It washes the salty red tracks from her cheeks and weighs down her hair and her dress. She lets it wash over her, unmoving.
She does not turn her head when the door next to her opens, and neither do her shoulders tense.
Above her, a voice exclaims gently.
It sounds soft, like a satin pillow, and soothing as a healing balm. It is the kind of voice that invites you in for tea and listens to your sorrows and wipes away your tears with its silk handkerchief.
She looks up.
The figure in the doorway is backlit, but she can make out a dim silhouette of an intricate dress and curly hair. When the figure steps forward into the rain, the gray light hits her face and illuminates her further. She is dressed in shades of vibrant pink which, combined with her impossibly red hair, do not seem to match her gentle voice.
The light behind her in the doorway turns her into an angel, and the woman on the ground before her gasps softly.
The angelic woman kneels down beside the other. Her dress is dragging in the mud, but she does not even glance at the place where the pink turns to brown.
"Are you all right?" She asks, her voice unbearably quiet. It is like porcelain, like crystal, like the bones of a newborn bird.
"No," says the first woman. It comes out sounding broken and torn. Her face matches it perfectly.
A pair of arms lifts her to her feet, surprisingly strong for belonging to such a delicate looking woman. She does not resist, and follows the other woman inside.
Beams of wood crowd the high ceiling and ropes leap from one to the other, supporting curtains and backdrops and signs. It is obvious, now, that it is a theatre.
The second woman turns into an adjoining room, so the first woman follows her. It is a dressing room, rather plainer than one would expect from a woman like the one who is currently digging busily through the armoire against the wall.
She stops suddenly and holds up an expanse of royal purple fabric. Both of the women are wet from the rain, but the first is positively sopping, and relief is obvious in her face when the other sweeps the blanket she is holding around her companion's shoulders.
"Here," she says as she pushes the other down onto a fainting couch, "Sit down."
She sits opposite her on a matching armchair.
"My name is Medda. I own this place, and you're welcome to stay as long as you want," She is smiling so warmly that the other woman can't help but smile back, though her smile is considerably weaker.
"I'm Mary," she says, voice still shaking slightly. Medda takes her hands and grips them lightly.
"Well, Mary," she says, "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Mary stares at the woman before her, her expression an odd combination of fear and relief.
Finally, her voice breaks forth.
The weakness in it shrinks as Mary speaks, her speech slowly building up to a tumultuous river of words. Medda's face remains compassionate as she listens silently. At last, Mary finishes with a final exhalation more effective than any word could be at bringing a story to an end.
Medda looks at her wordlessly for a moment, and then reaches across and pulls the other woman into a hug.
Mary has never spoken of the events of her son's disappearance before. By the time it happened her husband was already gone, and she had not talked to any of her friends for weeks. Now she has explained it to someone else, her son's absence has been given a resounding finality it never had before.
It's real now, and so are Mary's sobs. Medda hugs her even tighter. She does not speak. She does not have to.
When she finally pulls back, Mary looks at her, and sees the same angelic glow she thought was a product of the stage lights before.
This is when the situation breaks the bounds of the unexpected and becomes all-out surreal.
As though directed by some outside force, Mary leans forward, closing the distance between herself and Medda, and kisses the other woman on the lips.
It is over very quickly, and when she pulls back, she looks Medda in the face. Medda's eyes have widened and her eyebrows (elegant and expressive and distinctly not red) have risen to about twice their normal height.
Before Mary can apologize, Medda's hand is at the nape of her neck, pressing the lips together once more.
The second kiss is like Medda's voice: sweet and soft and delicate, yet still firmly insistent. Every so often, a drop of water from their hair will come between their lips and give the kiss a wet, rainy flavor.
Wrapped up in Medda's arms and the scent of her perfume, Mary smiles against the other woman's lips.
Everyday she walks the same path, but she does not always end up in the same place.
A/N: I… have no idea where this came from.