Rifiuto: Non Mirena
She watched from her place at the island counter in the kitchen as he continued to leaf through the book; Sarah was sitting on his lap, pointing out the colorful photographs and occasionally interrupting her brother. The girl let out a squeal of surprise and quickly crossed herself as he read of the executions of the Easter Rising leaders at Kilmainham Jail.
"... an' bam! Bam! Bam! thousands o' times ov'r, th' bullets rained ont' th' lea'ers o' th' rebellion. In fightin' th' boars o' Englan', they die' sons o' I'eland, no' free in body, bu' in spir't. Thomas MacDonagh, poet o' th' risin' cas' one las' prayer t' Brigid-" Sarah tugged on his arm, tearing his attention from the book, and he smiled, reciting with the girl as she whispered the prayer and crossed herself.
"'Oh Bless'd St. Brigid, Mother o' th' Churches an' Patran-'"
"Patroness." He corrected softly.
"... o' our Bless'd easels-"
"Isles."
"I... sles... o' Éireann.'" The boy nodded, going back to the story.
"'... askin' for his wife t' be looked af'er, an' for 'is chil'ren t' continue th' struggle fo' a free count'y, t' guide th' 'and o' Pa'rick-'"
"Sain' Pa'rick- wh' drove th' snakes ou' o' Ir'land."
"Aye." Ziva cocked her head to the side as the boy kissed his sister's cheek, making her giggle. "'... t' 'elp remove th' Br'tish from Ir'land.'"
"Timmy?"
"Hmm?"
"Are th' Br'tish gone?" He thought a moment, glancing towards the kitchen and catching Ziva's gaze.
"No, Sarah. Th' Br'tish are who we're fightin'."
"Why?"
Timothy closed the book, setting it aside. "B'cause they wanna take ov'r Ir'land, for themselves; make it Br'tish. They dinna care 'bout th' Irish." He bit his lip. "Nobody cares 'bout th' Irish."
"Why?" He shrugged, not wanting to confuse the girl anymore than she already was.
"B'cause..." He glanced around. "B'cause we's a bad people."
"So's tha's come they're fightin',Timmy?"
A shrug. "Guess."
"Bu' ain't th'-"
"Ar'n't."
"Ar'n't th' Br'tish bad peoples, t'? Tha' why Mams an' Da sent us 'way? B'cause we're bad?"
"No..." He swallowed, glancing at Eli, who was paying attention to his Chess game with Ari, but still had one ear tuned tightly to their conversation.
"Timmy?"
The child sighed. "Aye, Sarah?"
She turned to look at her brother. "Wha' 'bout Samhain? 'ow will aintín Brigid be able t' 'ave dinner wi' us if we're 'ere? She will ge' los'."
Everyone turned their attention to the two children then, and slowly, Timothy leaned close, whispering, "I dinna think we'll be eatin' with aintín this year, Sarah."
The girl's face fell, but instantly, she perked up, remember something else. "Wha' 'bout th' fires? An' the aos sí? They canna find us in Isr'el, can they? An' th' apple cores! We canna find ou' true loves wi'ou' apple cores! An' eggs an'... an' th' Pooka, Timmy! Wha' 'bout 'im? I wanna t' see him thi' year!"
"I... dinna think Jews cel'brate Samhain, Sarah. Da says they 'ave diff'r'nt 'olidays than we do."
The girl soon burst into tears, curling into her brother's side. "I wan' Mams, Timmy. I wanna go 'ome."
Rivka immediately understood; it wasn't the holiday that meant so much to Sarah, but the fact that such traditions were something done together, as a family. And considering the children had come to them in November of the previous year, the shock that this Samhain would be spent in a foreign land, far away from their parents and their traditions and everything they knew, was finally hitting the girl.
"I know, Sarah. So do I." After a moment, Timothy got up, taking Sarah to her room so he could put her to bed. Ziva watched them disappear before turning to her mother.
"Why are they so ungrateful, Ima?"
Rivka sighed. "They are not ungrateful, Zivaleh. They are just... just missing their parents. They are homesick."
The girl furrowed a brow. "What is homesick?"
Her mother poured a cup of jasmine tea into a mug and pushed it into her daughter's hands. "It means that they miss their home and their parents and their friends. Now how about you take that to Sarah, see if she is okay." After a moment, Ziva left, heading down the hall towards the child's room. She raised a hand to knock on the door, as her mother had taught her before entering a room, but stopped, upon hearing voices.
"... an' bless Mams an' Da back 'ome, an'..."
"An' Mr. an' Mrs. David."
"An' Mr. an' Mrs. David, an'..."
"An' Ari an' Tali an' Ziva."
"An' Ari an' Tali an' Ziva-"
She shifted to the other side of the door, watching through the gap between resting door and frame as Timothy helped his sister into the bed and tucked the covers around her. He then perched on the edge and did something Ziva didn't understand until Sarah spoke. "Wha' are ye doin', Timmy? We 'ave a fi'eplace a' 'ome."
"An' rem'mb'r 'ow Mams let's me rake th' coals?" The girl nodded. "Well, I'm rakin' th' coals."
"Bu-"
"'tis tradi'ion, Sarah."
Ziva watched in fascination as Timothy grabbed the hairbrush off the nightstand and proceeded to brush the covers in the sign of a cross as he spoke. "I rake thi' fi'e as th' pure Chris' rakes us all..." He reached down, tapping his sister's feet gently, making her giggle. "wi' Mary a' th' foot," He then reached up, gently tapping Sarah lightly on the forehead. "an' Brigid a' th' 'ead." He then set the brush back on the nightstand. "An' may th' eigh' brigh'est angels from th' City o' Grace preserve thi' 'ouse an' all its people 'til th' comin' o' th' day." She watched as Sarah slowly imitated her brother, crossing herself- touching her forehead before moving down to her chest, then to her right shoulder before finishing with her left, her voice soft. "In th' name o' th' Fath'r, Son an' 'oly Ghos'."
"Amen."
Timothy then leaned over, pressing a kiss to Sarah's forehead, as Ziva returned to the kitchen, his words ringing in her head.
"May Bless'd St. Brigid, Moth'r o' th' Church an' Patroness o' our Bless'd isles keep watch ov'r yer dreams, body an' soul 'til th' morn."