Warnings: Character death. Time skip - two years.
Abigail is human. Completely, 100% human, despite what certain demons might have to say on the matter. And like all humans, she is mortal, prone to injury and illness. Disease.
She wants to curl up on her side, huddle under the heated blanket Melissa McCall provided her with until the jarring shivers settle and she can breathe without the air feeling like ice water. There is no fat left on her body, nothing left to keep her warm. Her skin stretches pale and thin over protruding bones. Her cheeks are hollow, yellow tinted areas beneath bruised eyes, the purple the only source of natural pigment. Her hair (gods, her hair! Hair that Genim would spend hours braiding. Hair that John would tug lightly, teasingly, on those few mornings when they could make breakfast together. Long, dark, vibrant hair, a color she inherited from her father) is long since gone.
She knew this was coming. She has known since her tenth birthday (a day she will never get to experience with her baby, barely eight years old) when all young Seers come into their powers. Their own death is he first thing a Seer witnesses as truth. It is unchangeable, undeniable, unforgettable. At ten years old Abigail knew how she was going to die: rotting from the inside out,a slow liquefaction of her internal organs.
And Abigail is dying, unable to get warm under her heated blanket, unable to even curl into a pitiful, painful ball of agony and sorrow.
When the demon offered to help (that was last year, when a trip to the hospital for a regular checkup resulted in seeing an oncologist and several invasive tests), she had to refuse. She didn't want to. She wants to see her baby grow up. She wants to watch him become a man, stronger and healthier than he is now, perhaps more mellowed.
That is probably one of the things she hates the most about her visions. They rarely show her Genim, not after that first time three days before the demon arrived. It means that everything is a surprise, just like normal children with their normal parents. Except now she's dying and she wants to see him. Needs to see him, to know he will be alright without her there.
Ten years, the demon offered. Ten years from then and Genim would be seventeen. But Abigail knew. She knew and she Saw. A deal would do her no good, for not even Hell's power can break the hold Fate has on a Seer.
After her tenth birthday, Abigail tried to distance herself from everyone. Her death scared her then, just like it does now, and she never wanted anyone she loved to see her so broken and defeated. Too late now, of course. Now she has John and Genim and Melissa and Scott. Even the demon is staring at her like he is losing something precious.
Three nights before the demon arrived in her quaint little town, Abigail was subjected to two visions. The first was simple. The demon shows up with an infant halfling. He offers her a choice: take the boy or don't. The second vision is a bit more complicated. It showed the world should she refuse.
Genim, a tiny boy with powerful magic raised in an apocalyptic war-zone. He would see death on both sides. He would bloody his hands too early, too young, and forge a side of his own in the end of days. Demons and angels, fallen or otherwise, would rally under his banner. And at his stood Silas, not in charge but respected, looked up to. He would be strong as well, somehow having circumvented Genim's mother's deal.
If Azazel thinks his children are powerful, he had best hope to never run into a war-raised halfling.
Really, it was no choice when the demon came. For all that Genim looks up to his godfather, the demon and child are pinned to her side. She can keep them far, far away from where the fighting happens.
Abigail has never been the type of person who can look away when a child is hurt.
She never thought she would get so attached though. She never thought she would settle when her baby tried so hard to stay in control of his budding powers. She never planned on John, sweet and loving John. She never planned on Melissa or adorable, puppy-faced Scott.
But, that is life, even for a Seer, and Abigail so desperately wants to stay.
Last year there had been talk of children. She and John had wanted to expand their little family. Genim had been so excited at the prospect of a little sibling that the demon had said his soul burned brighter every time the subject was brought up. John thought the responsibility of a younger brother or sister would do wonders for helping his new son settle down a bit. She agreed.
But that was before the doctor's visits. Before the cancer struck her down and tied her to a useless hospital bed. Before Genim stopped talking when he thought they weren't paying attention. Before he spent nights sitting up, silent and unmoving, staring at a blank piece of wall like his world was collapsing in on itself. Before he started lying about running again (saying that he doesn't, that his meds are still working, don't worry) just to fill the void left by the illness.
Just, before.
A tear trails down the paper-like skin of her face. Frail fingers spasm against the blanket, unable to find the strength to pull it higher. She's dying and everything she knows is before. Everything she will know means nothing.
"Mama?" It is well past visiting hours, but Abigail finds herself unsurprised at her son's call. He sounds lost and small, so much less than the boisterous eight-year-old he should be. She loves him anyway, loves the sound of his voice. She can barely lift her head to look at him, her precious baby, young and scared and clutching the demon's hand like a lifeline. She still smiles.
"Hey baby," she manages to rasp. Talking hurts. Seeing the smile (a lie) on her son's face hurts more.
The demon places a hand on Genim's shoulder. "If you're careful, you can sit on her bed." Green eyes blink at her and look away, his face a mask of guilt and grief.
Are you sure? the look asks.
Yes.
Yes. She is going to die. Today. Probably tomorrow. The morphine drip does very little now to ease her pain.
Genim crawls into her bed. He fusses with her blanket, easing it around her shoulders. Each flailing limb is contained, a foreign sight, to ensure he causes her no unnecessary pain. Too late, but it is always too late. He lays down at her side, fingers twining with hers as he whispers in her ear. He's stronger than her. He has been for a while.
The warmth starts in her toes. It washes inch by inch up her shuddering, stick-like legs like water in a bath. It overtakes her knobby knees and creeps up her thighs, over her hips. It brushes her fingertips even as it strokes her belly, soothing the stabbing agony and lingering aches alike. She stops shivering as it slips into her mind, sinking in and settling. A warm cup of hot chocolate on a snowy winter day.
It is sometime near Christmas. Cinnamon flavors the air and tiny ringing bells fade in and out of her range of hearing. She's lounging on the couch, a throw blanket bunched around her shoulders and her feet wrapped in fuzzy slippers. She can hear Genim and Scott playing upstairs. They are planning on escaping into the cold to enjoy a rare snow day. John is in the kitchen attempting to make pasta. He's not terrible at it.
"Genim?" She can't see the demon, barely realizes she heard his voice. "What are you doing?"
When Genim answers it is muffled. He sounds far away, not the chattering she can hear from upstairs. That is clear, more defined. She's warm though. Warm and safe. Warm and tired. Her son is happy. Her husband is happy. All she wants to do is sink into the pleasant heat from the fire and rest. Close her eyes. Take a nap.
"Helping," her son says. "You can sleep now, Mama."
And she does.
AN: Okay, so I cried while writing this. It didn't help that I used my best friend's name...
