Chapter 6: Like a Prayer
Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home
[Chorus:]
When you call my name it's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there
In the midnight hour I can feel your power
Just like a prayer you know I'll take you there
I hear your voice, it's like an angel sighing
I have no choice, I hear your voice
Feels like flying
I close my eyes, Oh God I think I'm falling
Out of the sky, I close my eyes
Heaven help me
[Chorus]
Like a child you whisper softly to me
You're in control just like a child
Now I'm dancing
It's like a dream, no end and no beginning
You're here with me, it's like a dream
Let the choir sing
[Chorus]
Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there
Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery
Just like a dream, you are not what you seem
Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there
Just like a prayer, I'll take you there
It's like a dream to me
- "Like a Prayer" by Madonna
I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick.
I provided the full lyrics to the song "Like a Prayer" by Madonna because this is what inspired this whole story. :) I hope you enjoy.
Italics: thoughts/speech in native tongue and memories
"They will not bother you if you do not bother them," Connor reasoned, concerning the rats.
"That is more than fine with me. It doesn't mean that I have to like them."
Connor shook his head, smirking lightly at MaryLynn's scrunched up nose. She reminded him of a rabbit that he would encounter in the woods: easily startled, curiosity beyond measure, scrunching of the nose while the eyes narrowed. It was amusing to watch her open disgust of rodents, her facial expressions so dramatic.
The pair began their underground trek with a right hand turn up a wide corridor with nailed down, wooden planks as steps. Connor led the way, the lantern held up with his left hand. The blonde woman followed closely, careful not to bump into his broad back. Along the way, Connor would light candles on the walls to keep track of their path, gaining more light. The handle of the lantern squeaked from time t time with each turn, the high-pitched sound piercing the air. MaryLynn had mistaken the sound for a nearby rat.
"What was that? Was that a rat? I heard a squeak!" she whispered frantically, eyes darting about her surrounding.
Her hands darted forward for Connor's bicep, forgetting momentarily that he did not like to be touched. A flinch of his arm rattled beneath MaryLynn's hands.
He slowly turned his head to look down at the small hands that grasped his bicep. Making an "oops" sound, the blonde woman immediately released her hold, keeping her hands close to her chest. She apologized quietly. He turned his head back around, continuing the path.
"It is just the lantern," sighed the Native assassin, choosing to focus on the lantern than her warm touch. He saw no reason to fear rodents. He and MaryLynn were fully clothed, so contracting a disease by the touch of a rodent was not likely.
"O-ok," she stutters, pulling out her rosary from her bodice.
Eventually, the pair had come across a red door where a small barrel of gunpowder was settled. Connor squinted his eyes at the red door, discerning if this was the appropriate way. MaryLynn stepped forward to see his concentrated face. 'What is he looking for? I don't see anything but a door. Perhaps, I am just blind.' Advancing forward, Connor attempts to open the red door. It did not budge. Hmmm…hence the gunpowder barrel.
"Stand back," he commands, stepping backwards to create a safe distance from the barrel.
Putting down the lantern by his feet, he reaches for his pistol, aiming at the barrel.
"What are you-?"
BOOM!
Her inquiry was interrupted by a loud explosion. Once the black smoke cleared, her coughing echoing in the corridor, a brand new opening was revealed.
"Are you mad?!" shouts the startled woman, her heart pounding hard against her bosom.
"It worked, did it not?" the Native assassin reasoned, a subtle smile on his lips. He quickly retrieved the lantern at his feet.
'There it is again,' she thought with a cocked eyebrow. 'That small smile. Albeit unnoticeable at times, that was still a smile. How oblivious is he about a beautiful smile? How lovely his smile is?' Connor quickly turned away to continue their trek to the chapel.
"How do you know that this is the correct way? That door was inaccessible. Well, until you blew it up…"
"I have abilities in tracking down my destinations, as well as tracking down certain people."
Connor was referring to "Eagle Vision," an extrasensory ability inherited by assassins of a certain bloodline tracking all the way back to the Beings of the First Civilization. This vision granted Connor the ability to discern how certain people related to him. An aura of sorts would be seen glowing around the person he chose to look upon.
Ally (blue).
Target or Person of Interest (gold).
Enemy or Bloodshed (red).
Source of Information (white).
As for destination, the Native assassin was able to see old signs drawn as arrows on the walls of the tunnels that modern eyes could not see. Again, he could not divulge into this secret meant only for brotherhood ears.
He never used his Eagle Vision on MaryLynn for some odd reason. He was naturally suspicious, and preferred to know exactly what a person's intentions were before progressing any further. Perhaps an unconscious part of him did not wish to truly know of his affiliation with the blonde woman. Whatever his Eagle Vision revealed concerning the person was usually accurate. Perhaps he did not want to risk being disappointed in some way. She was a true friend, and any further knowledge on her status in relation to him would be much too much for his brain to handle. Or so he feared. Fears are often exaggerated within one's mind. What if he enjoyed what he found, only to lose her at some point? T was something not new to him.
Connor clears his throat aloud.
"Come. We are almost there."
After another right turn…up a long corridor…yet another right turn past a large hole in the wall…and a left turn, the pair arrived at a large circular room where there appeared to be a bulky projector atop an ancient stand. A few feet before this contraption, also known as a "magic lantern," was a wide, wood paneled door with a sign above that read, "To King's Chapel" in sloppy handwriting. Connor walks up to the projector, using the lantern to light a small candle within the projector. A millisecond after the candle was lit, a ball of light appeared on the door ahead. Four images appeared with the light in a circular pattern:
A Globe.
A Crucifix.
A Wheel.
A Scale.
"Marvelous," breathes MaryLynn in amazement as she watches Connor flip around the images on the projector. "What are you doing?"
Connor leans over slightly, fiddling with the projector in deep concentration.
"I am looking for a combination that will give us entry through this door. Puzzles lie throughout these tunnels if one wishes to access certain areas of Boston."
"Slightly paranoid, are they not?"
Connor does not answer her. He is far too immersed in succeeding to crack the code of the image combination. MaryLynn shrugged her shoulders, leaving the Native assassin to his puzzle. An audible squeak pierced the air. She immediately wrapped her arms around herself.
"That was the magic lantern," MaryLynn said, desperate to believe it was the projector that had squeaked. "Right, Connor? That was just the magic lantern?"
"Nnno," Connor stretched the syllable out as he focused on arranging the images on the projector. "That was a rat that had made a noise."
Blue eyes enlarged, pupils dilated to pin-points.
"You know you could lie to me and say it was not a rat!" she tries to keep her voice down, her tone cracking with nervousness. "Are you done? Please, hurry."
"I am almost done," he assures in a firm voice, becoming very irked by being rushed. "I have a better idea on the correct combination. Be patient."
MaryLynn nods, her lips thinning into a tight line at his commanding tone. Looking about frantically, the blonde woman is vigilant of any dark little figures pitter-patting along the ground. Her left foot twitches, alluding to her readiness to whip off her boot and throw it at any pesky rodent to come within ten feet of her.
"Come near me, will you," she murmurs. "Damn disease carrying, filthy things. I'm ready for you."
Finally, a heavy "clunk" sound was heard. With a satisfying smirk, Connor cracked the code of the images: Crucifix in the north; Wheel in the west; Globe in the east; and Scale in the south.
"How did…How does," the blonde woman is befuddled by this puzzle unlocking the door up ahead.
Connor stood up straight, turning his head over his shoulder with a smirk.
"It is a mystery. The trick is to work through the mystery. Asking too many questions only slows down the process."
"I would still like to know how that projector unlocks that door," she insists, her hands firmly placed on her hips.
"I do not know why," says Connor, bending over to pick up the lantern. "There is nothing wrong with the unknown."
And with that said, he turns his head around and begins walking toward the large door. Pulling on the rusty old knob, he opens the door wide, the creaking sounds of the hinges alluding to its ancient state. MaryLynn quickly makes her way to the door, catching up with the Native assassin.
And there she stood before the chapel doors, the cracks in the wood revealing its age. The width of the doors intimidated her, as if this wide entrance withheld something unbearable to human eyes. Was this real? Was she truly here?
Her hand inched towards the iron handle, flinching at the chill of the metal. 'It's just a door. It's just a building. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.' The pair ended up standing before the doors for a good ten minutes. Not once did Connor rush her.
"I'm scared," she confesses in a barely there voice.
"The past is the past," he says to her with the patience of an angel. "It does not exist in this moment. Let it lay where it will."
How could he understand so much and yet be so young? He was so awkward in social situations, and yet was the wisest person when she least expected it. With her back facing him, his voice came to her as if he were a guardian, quietly bestowing words of encouragement when it was needed. Little did she know, he still struggled with the same lesson he had just spoken of. The past haunted him every night, and letting go was something far more difficult than infiltrating a fort or slaying dozens of soldiers. He found himself to be a hypocrite, nothing like a guardian as the blonde woman had thought of him.
"You are right," she whispers. "I must face at least one fear in this lifetime."
Breathing in cool air, she opens one door quickly, her eyes shut tight. He notices that she is stiff in her position, her head bowed down. He knows that she is not looking inside the chapel.
"It is ok to look. Nothing is in there."
Again, his voice grants some kind of confidence in her palpating heart. She believes. She believes again. Opening her eyes, MaryLynn looks inside the chapel. It was dark, but the pale light of the full moon, pouring through the stained glass windows, had given a soft lighting to the dark wood pews. The altar at the end of the red velvet aisle seemingly glowed where it stood.
And she exhaled a long imprisoned breath, permitting serenity in her palpitating heart. The blonde woman's stiff body melted like ice in the hot sun, her limbs lowering and her shoulders loosening. With a quivering hand leaving the iron door handle, she stepped into the chapel with steady footsteps. The air was painfully still in the surrounding. MaryLynn could not discern if the chapel was warm or chilly. Nonetheless, she removed her black handkerchief scarf from around her head, her golden waves free to breathe. Suckling in another deep breath, she advances.
Connor waits motionless at the doorway entrance, feeling unsure about entering this place of worship. In his village, beforemeeting with Clan Mother, it was respectful to address her formally and wait until the wise woman granted permission for one to sit down. One was only allowed to speak when the wise woman permitted one to. He was reminded of this, and hoped that a similar gesture would be appropriate. And yet, the pestering feeling of doubt gnawed on his mind. Mimicking the blonde woman's removal of her handkerchief scarf, he removed his white hood.
"I am not sure how to properly enter this place," Connor admits, his shoulders tight. "Is there a proper gesture required of me before entering?"
"No," she sighed lightly, "you are free to come in. God accepts people of differing beliefs. At least, I like to think He does. I presume a bow is appropriate since you do not practice Christianity. Even though this chapel has been abandoned, it is still a sanctuary."
Nodding slowly, Connor still felt uneasy about this foreign place of worship. With a stern expression, his facial features like stone, he bows deeply from the waist before proceeding into the chapel. Scanning the dark area thoroughly, relying on his Eagle Vision for a moment or two, he locates four lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Two hanging lanterns loomed over the back sections of the pews, while the other two loomed over the front sections of the pews. Lighting these lanterns would give MaryLynn better sight of the chapel. Observing her, the Native assassin sees that the woman is still in her stance, looking around the chapel in silent awe. Her eyes imbibed each shadow and highlight dancing upon the wooden pews. 'She should not be in the dark,' thought Connor. 'This is no way to visit.'
Making his way over to the left side of the back section of pews, Connor was hesitant in climbing atop the pews to access the hanging lanterns. He thoughtfully nods his respect before climbing a pew to light the first hanging lantern.
And with the first lighting, the back section of the pews burst with an ethereal radiance. MaryLynn's eyes darted to the newborn golden light. Her body thieved the reins of her control, and brought her to the red velvet center aisle. The light…it was so…dazzling.
A second hanging lantern was lit a minute later. Her head darted toward the other light, her golden waves bouncing with the quick motion.
Then a third lantern was lit.
Then a fourth.
And now, a dreamland had been revealed from beneath the formerly melancholy chapel. The dark wood pews. The ruby velvet carpet lining the center aisle. The tall podium, draped in ivory silk, waiting at the end of the aisle. The large, beautifully woven tapestry of Christ's resurrection on the third day after his crucifixion, a halo of light depicted around his head. And there it was, her favorite piece of the chapel: the golden tabernacle off to the far right, the little doors sealed shut.
The blonde woman's fingers had been splayed across her cheeks, her blue eyes glittering at the lovely sight before her. She was a little girl again, finding her sanctuary away from her mentally ill mother. In this place, she was not a bastard child, a stained girl. She was welcomed, and was a child of a loving Father. Tears crowned at the corners of her eyes as she slowly walked down the center aisle, entering a pleasant memory she had long forgotten.
The Native assassin watched with fascination as he stood amongst the pews, watching his dear friend bask in the golden light, a look of gentle ecstasy on her heart shaped face. His heart felt warmed by this sight. He had never seen her so happy. Wanting to respect her privacy, Connor slides out of the pews, and makes his way to the back of the chapel. He decides to sit in the last pew on the left hand side, his elbows resting on his knees. With quiet curiosity, he watches MaryLynn look around the entire chapel, dazzled by the colors of the stained glass windows.
She turns around, walking backwards for a moment as she continues to look around like the little girl enchanted by an old home. She used to hide in this place. It was hers to sneak away into. She turned back around to face forward, reaching the podium. The blonde woman touches the ivory silk draped over the podium, her fingers basking in the texture.
Connor was willing to wait all night for her, for as long as she wanted to stay in King's Chapel. Her happiness seemed to be contagious, for even Connor felt a subtle tickle of joy. He had finally given her something worthwhile for all the kindness she had showed him.
He was happy. He was happy to see her happy.
MaryLynn slowly leaves the podium, her hand trailing away from the silk. She walks toward the tabernacle. The wonderment that had been brightening her face now dimmed with a soft affection. Her slim fingers trace over the grapevine patterns of the golden doors, the cool sensation of the metal kissing her fingertips.
Turning around swiftly, she waves Connor over. Acceding to her wish, the Native assassin slowly rises from his seat in the last pew, his back popping. Rotating his shoulder, he makes his way cautiously down the center aisle, his moccasins rubbing audibly against the red velvet. Swish. Swish. She waits for him to arrive, looking down at her black boots like a shy child. Once Connor stands before her, the blonde woman looks up at him with a warm smile, the words spilling from her lips.
"I used sit right here, looking up at this tabernacle," she says, mimicking exactly where she sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her bosom. "Call me naïve and strange, but I loved the idea of living in a small, golden house. The Eucharist would be kept in this tabernacle, but I wanted to magically shrink in size, climbing inside with my rosary and hide away."
Her eyes were drawn away from Connor, and he saw a bittersweet smile stretch her lips.
"Whom would you hide from?"
"My mother. I was, uh…I was born out of wedlock. She tried to be a good mother, but she was ill. Not physically, but in here," MaryLynn taps her forehead, signifying that her mother was mentally ill. "When I was twelve, she went into hysteria, and said I was born with a stain, a bastardized child not worthy of blessings. I ran away before she could attack me, and I hid here in this chapel for quite some time."
"You do deserve blessings."
The blonde woman shakes her head, that bittersweet smile deepening along with the sadness in her eyes.
"You are sweet," she says in a rasp, clearing her throat. "Naïve, but sweet."
"I mean what I say, MaryLynn. You did nothing wrong. I never asked to be an illegitimate child either."
"You were born out of wedlock as well?"
Connor nodded hesitantly, dodging a spoken answer by asking a question of his own.
"Did you live in this chapel? What would you do when ceremonies were held?"
"Ceremonies? Oh, you mean sermons. Well, I would have to either leave or stay for the sermon. I would usually resort to leaving the chapel, because the minister would speak of punishment and fear. Honestly, he rather scared me, speaking of people burning and suffering in Hell for their disobedience to God. I never felt comfortable with that view of God. I mean, as a child, I was afraid of burning myself for I was born illegitimate. Would I burn for that? I wanted a loving God, not a vengeful God.
"So, I would linger at the market place until the sermon was over. The minister would shoo me away, but I would sneak in when the old fool would leave. And you know…I never felt unwelcomed here. I felt loved by my God regardless of what I was told. I thought my life would be alright when this man found me, later adopting me into his family."
"Did this man give you a good home?"
Connor did not sense a pleasant ending to this story, but questioned nonetheless. What was wrong with these colonists? This would not occur in his village. No. He was accepted by his people, even though his mother did not have a husband, even though the man she conceived her son with was a Britishman…a Templar. Connor, or Ratohnhaké:ton, was still loved and given a the security of a community. What kind of system did these colonists have? He knew he should not judge a different system, but to see MaryLynn, his dear friend, reliving a morbid time, an illegitimate child like himself…he could not refrain from questioning such things.
"At first," answered MaryLynn, retrieving Connor from his escalating anger. "This seemingly kind man heard me giggling and running around. He was visiting the gravestones apparently. He took me home to his family, and I was adopted as one of their own. But then things had changed, as I grew older. I was fourteen years old, and the kind man became greedy once he noticed how my body had blossomed into that of a young woman. He touched me when I did not want to be touched, and I fought my way to run off. I was upset once I was safe, and his wife had found me huddled in the backyard. She had comforted me, not knowing what had happened. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I just cried. I think it was around this time when I began to have panic episodes.
"The man spun the story off as me being a 'troubled girl,' saying that I had tried to seduce him into sex. The wife, who once held me, now slapped me, calling me a whore. I left that house and never looked back. A week later, I returned to the chapel, hoping to find some peace, but there was the wife and her tightly knit circle of ladyfriends. They sat in that last pew on the right hand side. She captured a glimpse of me standing at the end of the aisle, and smirked wickedly my way. She whispers to her friends as the minster is speaking, and they all look and snicker at me. All I could hear was, "whore," "harlot," "tramp." I ran out crying, covering my face with my hands. I never came back to this place until now. I lived off the streets for a year until I was fifteen years old. Madame had found me next to a pile of crates, curled up and desperate for warmth. She took me to the brothel, and cared for me. She was nothing like the previous family. Her actions towards me never changed, and whatever mistakes I made, she never turned me away. And the rest is history…"
Absentmindedly, she walks over to the pew across from the tabernacle and sits down. Looking down at her hands, she remains quiet for moment before saying, "That is why I was afraid of coming back. I was afraid of reliving that humiliation of being accused of something I never committed. The man got away with his ill intentions, and I was the so-called whore."
A spark of silent anger ignited in Connor's stomach. Why did the wicked live on with their deeds, while the innocent suffered? It was a theme he knew all too well. The wicked survived. Charles Lee survived when his mother was burned alive. A different story, but the same underlying suffering was evident. The Native assassin begins to pace, trying to control his anger. His nostrils flared as memories of his own past and the words spoken by MaryLynn clashed and collided. As silent as he was, his mind was loud and unsettling like a thunderstorm. MaryLynn squeezed her hands together, worrying over how upset Connor was. Should she have kept her mouth shut? Did she say too much? Heat flushed her cheeks, feeling embarrassed.
"Connor, I'm sorry if I upset you. I-I am sorry if I said too much. I just…my heart opens up and I.."
"Forget them."
"What?"
He stops pacing, walking over to where she sat. He looks down into those blue eyes deeply, his gaze intense. She shivered while under his gaze, feeling as if she could hide nothing from him, for he would surely see the truth.
"For. Get. Them. These people, they did not nor do they deserve your attention. You came here, thereby defeating the memory of them."
Connor's anger seemed to dissipate once he witnessed the blonde woman's face relaxing. It was so easy to tell what she was feeling. "My heart opens up and I.." Her heart opened up. Her heart was open for him and anyone who was able to get close to her. 'How does she do this? She had been hurt over and over again, and yet she is still capable of revealing herself to others, to me. Does she ever worry over pain? I don't think I could ever stop worrying. How does she do it?'
"You're…You're right," says MaryLynn. "I faced my fear after all. I did not panic either."
"No, you did not. And you did not drink of your whiskey either. Do not think that I did not notice these things."
"You notice everything, don't you? Nothing gets by you. And yet you speak very little."
He looks away, trying to ease through his reserved nature as he says, "I…I see many things in people. However, what I see is not always meant to be spoken of."
His words were very calculated, slow. Secretly, MaryLynn could listen to him speak for hours on end. He could be talking nonsense, but the way his deep voice articulated every word, every syllable…the way he meant every word he spoke. Perhaps this is why he spoke so little: he meant every word that left his lips. When he would soften his voice, she would feel lulled into a quiet security. He possessed this presence of a guardian who knew when to let one fall, and when to stop one from sinking in one's own suffering. Her gentle blue eyes looked up at him, her eyelids heavy hooded.
"You choose your words carefully. You mean what you say, even if you don't say much."
"English is not my native tongue."
"But you speak it so beautifully. I prefer to listen to you speak rather an Englishman."
"Thank you.." says the Native assassin quietly in a husky voice. He did not know how to receive a compliment sometimes. Actually, he never knew how to receive a compliment. In his mind, he was only doing what he thought was right or appropriate. Shouldn't everyone be that way? Ah, the beauty that is naiveté.
"Commanding in speech, yet you say little. You know… Prayers are spoken quietly, in few words, but they withhold such power when heard. You speak in that manner, Connor."
"That manner," he reiterates, unsure of where she was going with this observation. "What is this manner that I speak in? Like what?"
"Like a prayer."
She lies down upon the pew she sits on, her back adjusting to the hard wood. Leaning her head of golden waves back, she closes her eyes with a soft smile on her rosy lips.
"You sound like a prayer to me sometimes, you know?"
"I-I-I do not know how to respond to that, I am sorry."
"You don't have to respond. It means that I admire your voice."
"It is your voice that is worthy of admiration. Not mine."
"Since when are you so romantic?" she chuckles, not one for flattery and fluff.
"I am not being romantic. I am saying what I think is true."
Sighing deeply, her body in a tranquil state, she recalled how she used to daydream right here as she would lie down on this pew. Her hand would rise up, palm facing her. In her palm would be the projected colors from the stained glass windows. She held the colors of red, blue, yellow, and green in the palm of her hand, a dream she could hold on to forever more. However, once her hand lowered, the colors disappeared, much like security.
"Connor," MaryLynn speaks in a low voice, realizing that this was not the past but the present moment. She felt security in this moment, and that was what mattered.
"Yes, MaryLynn," he answers, kneeling down on one knee at her side.
"Why must childhood end so drastically? Why must bad things happen when we grow older?"
He felt like a boy again at the mention of childhood ending so "drastically." His childhood ended when he witnessed his mother burn in the hungry flames. She sent him away, refusing for her little boy to save her from the flaming planks of wood that anchored her broken legs to the earth. His eyes glazed over at the memory, almost feeing that pair of large arms around his waist again, pulling his little body away from the horrid scene. He could not save her. He tried….but he could not. And it was all because he, a five-year-old child, could not fight off a wicked man, a man named Charles Lee who choked him until he almost saw the faces of his ancestors come to take him to the Spirit World. Luckily, he was set free, gasping for sweet air. That sort of physical contact terrified him, and he never wanted to relieve that choking for air ever again.
He couldn't do it.
Connor whispers softly, as if speaking as the five-year-old boy who vowed to kill Lee and avenge his mother, a boy who was scared beyond his wits and wishing for sanctuary.
"I do not know.."
His voice was so fragile to MaryLynn's ears. She opens her eyes, and turns her head to face Connor. His face had changed altogether somehow. His features were softened, and his eyes were glazed like a glass menagerie about to shatter. When she said his name again, he snapped out of his daze, the Adult now returning with a hardened gaze.
"Connor, what happened to you…?" questions the blonde woman slowly, seeking answers in his dark eyes.
He hears her clearly, but he does not respond. He feels a need to reciprocate her call, but he does not want to answer in this vulnerable state.
She couldn't stop herself. She knew he didn't like to be touched. However, her heart wept for him and for everything he was not telling her. The Native assassin was beginning to unravel, and a glimpse of what hid inside him was beginning to peek above the surface. Her pale hand reaches over and gently presses her palm against his chest, where his heart would reside.
He flinched only slightly, but relaxed under her touch. The warmth of her hand permeated through his white military shirt and heated his skin. Her touch was healing. Connor did not feel the urge to rip her hand away. His own pain vanished once she touched him so lovingly, knowing very well that he could easily reject her touch and push her hand away.
He did not push her hand away.
Their eyes were locked in a knowing gaze. He could not speak, but a thousand words, both in English and in Mohawk, collided within his head and his heart. He wanted to tell her so much about everything he was unsure of, everything he feared, everything that haunted him in his dreams. However, he couldn't find the words. Or better yet, he couldn't find the courage to speak of his vulnerability.
MaryLynn sat up slowly from the pew, her hand leaving his broad chest. Her eyes crown with tears as she looked at his pained face. Before her kneeled the same fifteen-year-old boy she had met in the alleyway, the scared boy who stumbled over himself and hoped that he would live to see the next day. She knew not of his village burning or his mother's cruel death, but she knew that he had suffered in this lifetime, just as she did.
"Connor," she barely whispered, embracing him around the waist.
He did not embrace her in return. His body froze in place at the unexpected physical contact.
"What won't you tell me?" her heart speaks through her words, tears welling her eyes. "I trust you with my pain. Why won't you trust me? Be free of your pain by speaking of it."
No. No, too much emotion. Damnit, why couldn't he get a better grasp on his emotions? How did this woman transform him from a man into a boy? Again? He ground his teeth, his jaw tensing.
"…I cannot."
"Then I'll wait. You are my friend, and I will wait for you."
Finally, a large hand managed to rest upon the side of her head, her soft hair cushioning his palm. His distinguished chin rested atop her scalp, initially hesitant, but easing into the contact.
He touched her.
He touched her back.
It was not much, but from the Native assassin, her dear friend, it meant the world to MaryLynn that he tried to open up to her.
"I feel embarrassed," she whispers into his white coat. "I have said so much of myself, and yet I know very little about your life."
"You do not need to know. I am content to listen to you as long as you feel the need to speak."
"…I want to know you better."
"You will know in time. Give me time. Just give me time."
Basking in the golden glow of the hanging lanterns, Connor and MaryLynn remained in this position for quite some time. When the heaviness of sleep caressed her weary conscious mind, MaryLynn mumbled into his clothes just before she yawned.
"Connor, I want to go home."
"I will take you home," he answers into her hair, his breath hot.
The blonde woman slowly parts from his warmth, an idea of showing her gratitude coming to mind. Her eyes looked away in a reserved manner as she bit into her lower lip. A hand reaches down into her blouse, retrieving the silver crucifix. The beads ride up her soft skin, rubbing against the flesh in a pleasant way. She pulls the rosary up over her head and pauses to look at the treasured jewelry with a loving expression. Kissing the silver crucifix, she holds out her hand to Connor, offering the rosary to him.
"What are you doing?" he is confused by her gesture.
"I…I want you to have this, Connor."
"MaryLynn, I have seen you grasp onto this necklace many times. Why are you giving it to me if it means something to you?"
"Because I don't need it anymore. I used to wear it to feel safe, and have been for many years. Thanks to you, I'm not afraid anymore. You showed me a way to face a fear, even if it was just one."
She further extends her hand with the rosary beads collected into a black ball.
"Please," she implores. "It will bring you luck."
He is reluctant to take the rosary, but finds how lovely the gesture is. Seeking to bring her to a place she once loved had actually given her more than just memories; it gave her strength. This was something he never expected. He never expected such affection from the woman, and he was aware that she could discern his aversion of physical contact. A crooked smile tugs his full lips as he takes the rosary from her small palm, his calloused fingertips grazing her skin. She felt warmth in her belly when his calloused fingertips touched her palm. The sensation was subtle and yet felt so good.
Gently closing his fist around the rosary, the Native assassin looks into MaryLynn's blue eyes, his dark eyes glowing in the lantern light from above. He pulls the rosary over his head. The black beads contrasted beautifully with the crisp white of his military shirt, the silver crucifix dangling down his torso. In a strange way, it seemed to compliment the necklace he wore with three wolf teeth dangling from the leather strap. A symbol of him. A symbol of her. Both around his neck to carry with him wherever he may go.
"Thank you. I will wear this always."
Her smile twitches slightly as she tries to fight back tears. He was utterly beautiful when he was so gentle, so vulnerable like a child whose vision of the world never became tainted with cynicism and negativity. The simple things he had done for her were all she could ever ask for.
'Why must you tempt me to fall for you, you silly man?' thought the blonde woman, rubbing her eyes.
Author's Note: Well, now you know what inspired this story and the title. :) I've been listening to Madonna since I was a baby, so get used to me citing a song of hers now and then, ha ha. But seriously, I love "Like a Prayer" and the music video is intense.
I cannot begin to thank you all for reading/favorite-ing/following/reviewing this story. I read your words are so enthralling and cannot begin to thank you enough. I'm getting a better handle on getting used to my busy schedule, but will still take time to write and post. LurkingLady, I love your reviews, please start a account so I can chat with you, girl! ;D I usually try to PM my reviewers when I find time, and I would love to PM you and answer any questions you may have like I do with the lovely people (you know who you are) that review this story.
Connor is very rigid and not ready to open his heart just yet. I know some of you are a little antsy (myself included) and want him to just open up his muscular arms for a hug, but he will need some time to open up. MaryLynn, on the other hand, wears her heart on her sleeve. Let's hope she can coax Connor out of his shell. It will take time, so ML will have to have some patience. ;)
Again, thank you for your continuing support and patience. Have a lovely week.
~take care