Rifiuto: Non Miriena

A/N: Written: 2006.- Licia

"Are ye sure ye know wha' ye're doin', Timothy Michael? Wha' if somethin' 'appens?"

Two sets of green eyes locked, and he sighed, reaching out to take her hand. "'twill be fine, Kit."

"Ye don' kno' tha-" She replied, turning and taking his shoulders. "Ye coul' ge' yerself killed-"

"A' leas' I'd be diein' in th' figh' t' free I'eland. Coul' be no m're nobl'r cause than tha'-"

"Bu' is dyin' worth no' bein' there when yer chil' is born? No' gettin' t' 'old yer son or daugh'er? No' gettin' t' watch 'em grow? Timothy-" She reached up, taking her brother's face in her hands.

"I will no' live t' watch 'em grow, Kit."

She furrowed a brow. "Wha' are ye-"

He pulled away from her, turning his gaze back to the house. Through the front window, past the lace curtains his wife had hung years earlier, he could see Zippi, at the piano. The normal familiar slender profile of her he was so accustomed to was broken by the great swell of her abdomen, for she had mere weeks to go before the birth would take place. A moment passed, and she stopped her playing, reaching down to lay a hand against the mound beneath her dress; her fingers trailed over the soft material, raking gently along the sensitive skin she could feel directly beneath the soft muslin of her dress. He was not ashamed to admit that he loved watching her at night, as she pulled the soft muslin nightgown on, as the swell that held his child disappeared beneath the fabric, and he often spent hours after she came to bed pushing the material up until it was tucked beneath her breasts so he could trace patterns on and cradle her belly, delighting silently in the feel of their child moving within her at response to his touch.

"Talk t' me." Sarah stepped in front of the window, blocking the view of his wife. "Timothy, talk t' me!"

His gaze slowly moved to latch onto hers, and he sighed, pulling away and taking a seat on the steps leading up to the front door. After several minutes, she joined him. "'twill no' live t' raise me chil'ren, Kit." She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued. "'twill will no' live t' meet me son."

"Tha's prepos'erous! Ye- wai'... son?"

He shrugged. "I jus'... I canna 'xplain it, I jus'... I jus' know... 'tis a son she carries."

His sister sighed, laying her head against his shoulder and sliding an arm through his, reaching down to take his hand in hers. "D' no' talk like tha', Timothy Michael. Ye will live t' watch 'em all grow. F'r birthdays, an' Chris'mases an' all th' things a Da does wit' 'is chil'ren." Her brother 'hmmed' softly in response, before shifting his head and pressing a soft kiss to her hair. "An' ye an' Zippi will grow ol' t'geth'r, jus' as Mams an' Da will, an' ye will 'ave many... many, many, many gran'chil'ren t' spoil. Ye will be th' patriarch o' a gran' line o' O'Sheas, f'r many years t' come. An' 'twill do grea' things, yer gran'chil'ren. An' th' gen'rations af'er 'em. An' th' ones af'er them. An' they 'twill be th' ones t' free our lan'. They will be th' ones t' free I'eland fro' th' Brit'sh."

Her brother sighed, his lips resting against her head, as he let the images she painted wash over him.

Grandchildren. Many, many, many grandchildren. And great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, and great-great-great-grandchildren. So many he lost count. All with the famous Irish hair and green eyes, or Zippi's breathtaking darkness. All with the same spark and fire in their hearts and souls, to make changes they themselves could not make in their time, to demand the release of the Irish from the British chains, to see a free Ireland, an independent, strong Ireland.

"Soun's beaut'ful." He whispered, pressing another kiss to his sister's red hair and closing his eyes, allowing himself to breathe in her familiar scent. He released her hand, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her close, relishing in the feel of his baby sister in his arms once more, for he feared this would be the last time he got to hug her.

"'twill be, Timothy." She replied softly, wrapping her own arms around his waist. She hated how casual he was, how calm he spoke of not living to meet his new child or see the children grow. It unnerved her, downright scared her, if she were honest with herself. It was as though he knew he would not bear witness to the birth of the child Zippi carried in her womb, or that he would even live to see twenty-five, for his birthday had been mere weeks before. She feared for the situation her beloved brother had gotten himself into, and that he was in so deep he couldn't get himself out.

Were his prediction to come true, what would happen to Zippi and the children? Women had few rights as is in Ireland, and widowed mothers even less- though they had more rights than a fallen woman, that was for sure. And they were well off, her brother and his wife. This grand house they called home and raised their children in had been a wedding gift from Zipporah's parents, as was common for the times. But there would be a stigma, Kit knew, the same stigma that surrounded all widows, be they mothers or no. Were Timothy Michael to die as he felt he would, Zippi would be forced to wear widow's weeds for at least two years, possibly more. She would not be able to bear seeing Timothy Michael's beloved and wild Zipporah dressed in black for two years if her brother's prediction came true. For Zipporah was as wild, bubbly and bright as the waves the crashed upon the sands beneath the Cliffs of Moher, and to don black would be to crush her very spirit, if not break her heart.

Though her hear' will al'eady be brok'n if he dies. She shook the thought away, determining then and there that no harm would come to her brother; he would be safe, and whatever trouble he had gotten himself into he would get out of. Yes, she would do all she could to keep her family intact. Even if it meant keeping a tight hand on Timothy, if only to spare Zipporah the crushing pain of such a devastating loss.

She turned her green gaze to her brother's face, and after a moment, leaned up, pressing a firm kiss to his cheek. "'twill be fine, Timothy Michael. Ye will live t' be ol' an' grey. I swear i'."

He smiled softly at her, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Tim blinked, and the memory faded. A moment passed, before he remembered that he and Ziva had curled up on the sofa that night after getting home. Their conversation had turned to silence as he'd stared at her, green eyes wide, caught completely off guard by her question. He'd stammered for several minutes, before finally telling her that he wasn't sure. He'd never really thought about it, he'd just always thought he'd marry an Irish girl. While she hadn't seemed satisfied with the answer, she'd accepted it, knowing she'd completely thrown him for a loop. At one point, they'd forgone dinner in favor of a glass of wine, and put a movie on, eventually curling up on the sofa and falling asleep as the credits rolled.

Slowly, he lifted his head; Ziva was curled into his side, still sound asleep. Gently, he shifted until she lay on the sofa, and took a blanket laying across the back of the sofa, draping it over his girlfriend before getting up and slipping back into his shoes. He grabbed his laptop, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then grabbed his keys, quickly checking the time on his phone.

A little after ten.

As he slipped out of the apartment, he considered not going, but he knew that she would be up. They were so similar at times, it was a wonder they weren't twins. As he pulled away from the curb, he briefly thought back to Ziva, but then shook his head. As much as he loved her, this was something strictly confined to his family; if Mams didn't understand, Sarah definitely would.