Fic: Gather Ye Rosebuds (SPN/Gen/Prelude Episode 3.12)
Title: Gather Ye Rosebuds
Author: Epeeblade
Genre: Gen
Category: Episode related, prelude
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Episode 3.12. If you have NOT seen this episode, this fic will not make any sense.
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
Warnings: Religious imagery, no blasphemy though.
Notes: Title is from the poem "Virgins, make much of time." Thank you lapillus for looking this over for me.
Summary: Many years later, long after Abuelita had died, Nancy would press her fingers against the wooden beads and feel her grandmother’s arthritic fingers on her own, guiding her as they said the Ave Maria together.
As a girl, Nancy used to hold the yarn for her grandmother. Abuelita would wind the wool into great balls of color. Later her swollen fingers would master the yarn, pulling and plying with long metal needles, transforming something wild and untamed into a simple scarf or a sweater or a long blanket for the cold winter’s night.
The saints watched them from Abuelita’s polished wooden dresser. The place of honor belonged to the Madonna, of course, dressed in her flowing white robes in the center among tiny plastic companions. There stood St. Joseph and St. Jude and St. Michael the Archangel with his huge white wings. Next to the Madonna though, sat Abuelita’s favorite saint, St. Teresa de Avila. “You will know your prayers have been answered,” Abuelita would say, “because St. Teresa always sends roses.”
Rose petals often covered the dresser, in between thick candles encased in glass shells, scattered sets of rosary beads, some broken, others twisted beyond recognition because Nancy had let them fall into the hands of her little brother. Every spring Nancy would bring roses to school for the shrine to the Virgin in her classroom, and always save one to bring to her grandmother.
They would place the rose on the makeshift shrine together: the full bloom larger than any dime store flower, the thick stem with thorns intact encased in wrinkled foil. Abuelita liked the yellow roses the best, so Nancy tried to save those for these visits. Then her grandmother would light each candle and they would pray the rosary.
Abuelita liked the Joyful mysteries the best, so they always said those, except during the dark days of Lent. They she recited the Sorrowful ones, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. Nancy always closed her eyes then, listening to her grandmother’s soft voice.
Something happened, when they prayed together. The world didn’t seem so dark. The devils that taunted her from the carvings on the church door didn’t frighten her. She could close her eyes and everything would be bright instead of dark.
Many years later, long after Abuelita had died, Nancy would press her fingers against the wooden beads and feel her grandmother’s arthritic fingers on her own, guiding her as they said the Ave Maria together.
Even as she grew into a young woman, Nancy would visit Abuelita after school, still in her uniform with her tall knee socks. They continued to pray together, though Mama didn’t want Abuelita lighting so many candles, she was afraid the old woman would catch herself and the entire house on fire. The rosary, they would say first, and then Abuelita would pat the seat next to her on the dusty couch and Nancy would rise from her knees. Abuelita had long given up on kneeling and said God knew she was willing, just that her body was weak.
Then Abuelita would speak, stories of how she came here to Colorado of all places, and how she met Nancy’s grandfather. “Nina,” she said once, calling Nancy by the nickname only she used, “your virginity is a gift for your future husband.”
“‘Lita,” Nancy had squirmed, not liking the turn of the conversation. There were some things you just didn’t discuss with your grandmother.
“You listen to me. There are some things you cannot help. But there is nothing like turning to the man you will spend the rest of your life with and saying, there has been no one else. You are the love of my life until death.”
When she put it like that, Nancy listened. It meant more that way, to imagine this great gift of her body for the one man she would love forever, her soul’s mate for as long as they both shall live. It meant more than Sister Mary Jose’s exhortation at the all girls assembly: “Don’t you ever let a boy touch you!”
The other girls had giggled. What did Sister Mary Jose know about boys anyway? She was a nun, and had been wrapped up in cloak and habit forever.
“And besides,” Abuelita had continued. “Men talk. Boys talk worst of all. Do you want to be thrown away like yesterday’s trash? Laughed at when another girl takes your place?”
“You’re so old fashioned,” her best friend would tease. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Nancy. Women aren’t property and you don’t need to save yourself for some guy who’s probably already been around the block. You want to know what to do on your wedding night, don’t you?”
“I’ll just ask you!” Nancy shot back with a grin. She knew she didn’t fit in. She knew her boyfriend was more than annoyed when she went home right after the prom. And she wasn’t surprised when they broke up shortly after that, or at the whispers of ‘prude’ and ‘ice queen’ that she heard in the cafeteria.
Abuelita died that summer.
Abuelita had died and Nancy remembered the smell of wax and the shape of small beads beneath her fingers. She remembered pricking her thumb against the thorn of a rose and Abuelita kissing the cut and offering a prayer. These things she valued.
Someday she would meet a man who understood. He would know the virtue of a quiet moment offered up in prayer. He would light candles for her in church, the flame to ward against evil. He would accept the gift of her body and give his own in return, forsaking all others.
Until Death.
Author: Epeeblade
Genre: Gen
Category: Episode related, prelude
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Episode 3.12. If you have NOT seen this episode, this fic will not make any sense.
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
Warnings: Religious imagery, no blasphemy though.
Notes: Title is from the poem "Virgins, make much of time." Thank you lapillus for looking this over for me.
Summary: Many years later, long after Abuelita had died, Nancy would press her fingers against the wooden beads and feel her grandmother’s arthritic fingers on her own, guiding her as they said the Ave Maria together.
As a girl, Nancy used to hold the yarn for her grandmother. Abuelita would wind the wool into great balls of color. Later her swollen fingers would master the yarn, pulling and plying with long metal needles, transforming something wild and untamed into a simple scarf or a sweater or a long blanket for the cold winter’s night.
The saints watched them from Abuelita’s polished wooden dresser. The place of honor belonged to the Madonna, of course, dressed in her flowing white robes in the center among tiny plastic companions. There stood St. Joseph and St. Jude and St. Michael the Archangel with his huge white wings. Next to the Madonna though, sat Abuelita’s favorite saint, St. Teresa de Avila. “You will know your prayers have been answered,” Abuelita would say, “because St. Teresa always sends roses.”
Rose petals often covered the dresser, in between thick candles encased in glass shells, scattered sets of rosary beads, some broken, others twisted beyond recognition because Nancy had let them fall into the hands of her little brother. Every spring Nancy would bring roses to school for the shrine to the Virgin in her classroom, and always save one to bring to her grandmother.
They would place the rose on the makeshift shrine together: the full bloom larger than any dime store flower, the thick stem with thorns intact encased in wrinkled foil. Abuelita liked the yellow roses the best, so Nancy tried to save those for these visits. Then her grandmother would light each candle and they would pray the rosary.
Abuelita liked the Joyful mysteries the best, so they always said those, except during the dark days of Lent. They she recited the Sorrowful ones, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. Nancy always closed her eyes then, listening to her grandmother’s soft voice.
Something happened, when they prayed together. The world didn’t seem so dark. The devils that taunted her from the carvings on the church door didn’t frighten her. She could close her eyes and everything would be bright instead of dark.
Many years later, long after Abuelita had died, Nancy would press her fingers against the wooden beads and feel her grandmother’s arthritic fingers on her own, guiding her as they said the Ave Maria together.
Even as she grew into a young woman, Nancy would visit Abuelita after school, still in her uniform with her tall knee socks. They continued to pray together, though Mama didn’t want Abuelita lighting so many candles, she was afraid the old woman would catch herself and the entire house on fire. The rosary, they would say first, and then Abuelita would pat the seat next to her on the dusty couch and Nancy would rise from her knees. Abuelita had long given up on kneeling and said God knew she was willing, just that her body was weak.
Then Abuelita would speak, stories of how she came here to Colorado of all places, and how she met Nancy’s grandfather. “Nina,” she said once, calling Nancy by the nickname only she used, “your virginity is a gift for your future husband.”
“‘Lita,” Nancy had squirmed, not liking the turn of the conversation. There were some things you just didn’t discuss with your grandmother.
“You listen to me. There are some things you cannot help. But there is nothing like turning to the man you will spend the rest of your life with and saying, there has been no one else. You are the love of my life until death.”
When she put it like that, Nancy listened. It meant more that way, to imagine this great gift of her body for the one man she would love forever, her soul’s mate for as long as they both shall live. It meant more than Sister Mary Jose’s exhortation at the all girls assembly: “Don’t you ever let a boy touch you!”
The other girls had giggled. What did Sister Mary Jose know about boys anyway? She was a nun, and had been wrapped up in cloak and habit forever.
“And besides,” Abuelita had continued. “Men talk. Boys talk worst of all. Do you want to be thrown away like yesterday’s trash? Laughed at when another girl takes your place?”
“You’re so old fashioned,” her best friend would tease. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Nancy. Women aren’t property and you don’t need to save yourself for some guy who’s probably already been around the block. You want to know what to do on your wedding night, don’t you?”
“I’ll just ask you!” Nancy shot back with a grin. She knew she didn’t fit in. She knew her boyfriend was more than annoyed when she went home right after the prom. And she wasn’t surprised when they broke up shortly after that, or at the whispers of ‘prude’ and ‘ice queen’ that she heard in the cafeteria.
Abuelita died that summer.
Abuelita had died and Nancy remembered the smell of wax and the shape of small beads beneath her fingers. She remembered pricking her thumb against the thorn of a rose and Abuelita kissing the cut and offering a prayer. These things she valued.
Someday she would meet a man who understood. He would know the virtue of a quiet moment offered up in prayer. He would light candles for her in church, the flame to ward against evil. He would accept the gift of her body and give his own in return, forsaking all others.
Until Death.