"the tulips are dying about now, but i always thought lilies suited you better." and indeed, lilies are the star of the bouquet — white blossoms stained with deep, blood-red centers, surrounded by snapdragons and pale roses cut from the garden. she's wrapped them carefully in paper and twine; one of her fingers still bears a small scratch from being snagged by a thorn. "happy mother's day, mama. care to go to breakfast together?"
Peace was always such a fragile thing - never a moment of quiet within hallowed halls; never a minute to breathe. Politicians and visitors and staff that all had to be entertained and fed; doctors and nurses to manage and schedule — Our Lady is a paragon of strength; she is tireless, diligent. They say she prayed seven days and seven nights when The Lamb took ill; they say she nursed The Prophet to health and The Lord Himself had lent her his endurance. Exhaustion is what finds her most days; and she has selfishly tucked herself away for a moment of respite - lounging in her sitting room when she hears steps she would know anywhere, in any world, in every lifetime - and when the Sainted Lady looks upon the Miracle Child, all she can see is Anna. Her mother’s features are blurred in her mind’s eye; but upon @huntershowl, they come back into sharp focus - a family portrait spanning decades written in the slope of her chin, her upturned mouth, the blue of her eyes. Our Lady cannot remember her mother, not truly - but she knows that Elizabeth would have been loved. It is a blessing, indeed, that The Lamb looks nothing like the Prophet - and at her approach, a smile breaks the Holy Mother’s normally serene expression. “ How darling of you, Dot. ” Her hands are grasping, reaching things - always holding on too tightly when they take the flowers from Elizabeth; head dipping to bury her nose into the array. There had been lilies at her father’s funeral. Her mother’s, too - there had been lilies planted by the somber statue of the Virgin at the church she had frequented in her youth; growing tall and proud. How fitting that they had made their way into her hands; pretty pinks a soft contrast in her hands. Mother to all, Mama to just one. “ Thank you. I will have to press them later - they are lovely. ” And the lives of flowers are all too short; albeit happy.
For a moment, Our Lady looks upon Elizabeth - more woman than girl now, as much as it pains her; taller than she ever had been at that age. A world of possibilities at her feet, and every door but one closed to her. Any other patriot might find her heart filled with glad joy - her own sinks; giving way to something heavy. Dread. The Blessed Mother does not know what her own had imagined for her; only that she cannot fathom what has been ordained to come — and wonders if she is powerless to stop it. “ You are hurt. ” She remembers when Elizabeth had been younger; smaller - how tenderly she had kissed every scrape, every bruise. You are such a brave girl. Elizabeth is too old for that now - it pains her, still. Her free hand moves, taking Elizabeth’s in her own, scrapes and all as she stands, looking up ( always looking up ) upon her daughter. It is only a scratch - she can almost hear it now. Yes, and I am only your mother. She squeezes. “ Come. Let us attend to that scratch, and then breakfast. ” And as Our Lady is wont to do, she leads her by the hand.
