From: char@chaffin.com   
      
   THE PROMISE HEART   
   By Char Chaffin   
   MSR, AU   
   Rating:  PG-13   
   Spoilers:  Past AU, then surfaces in S7, before "Requiem"   
   Disclaimers:  Clones on Loan   
      
   Story Notes:  At the end!   
      
   Thanks to:  Sallie, Carol, Tess and Robin, for beta and excellent   
   technical advice!   
      
   Summary:  A family tradition becomes a mantra for the future -   
      
      
   "The Promise Heart"   
      
      
   COUNTY CLARKE, IRELAND   
   1913   
      
      
   It was made of red cloth, stiffened with starch.  It was edged in   
   hand-tatted lace that had been carefully sewn on along the edges, and   
   there was a tatted lace bow at the top.  The shape of it was slightly   
   uneven, the starch a bit lumpy, here and there.  Across the back were   
   embroidered the words, 'Gra Mo Chroi'...   
      
   Love of My Heart.   
      
   There were tears in her eyes when she finished it - and she imagined   
   how emotion would clog his throat when she'd present it to him; how   
   he'd smile when he accepted it.   
      
   She'd made it for him while he'd been gone at sea.  Young,   
   passionately in love and dreaming of him, she'd sat for hours at the   
   window, struggling with the complicated tatting, her fingers   
   unaccustomed to the thick tat bobbin and hair-thin thread.  Over and   
   over, the thread had broken.  Over and over, she'd thrown it away, re-   
   threaded her bobbin and begun again.  It had to be perfect.  Had to   
   be of the exact tension and width, the perfect delicacy.  For her   
   love.   
      
   For her Michael.   
      
   It seemed to take forever just to tat enough to encircle the heart,   
   but her persistence paid off.  When she measured it around the edge   
   of the shape she'd cut, it was exactly right.  She even had enough   
   left over to make a bow.   
      
   While Michael slowly made his way back home, she'd carefully sewn on   
   the lace, embroidered the back of her gift with words that rushed   
   through her own tender young heart.  She stiffened the cloth with her   
   mother's best potato starch.  She made an 'envelope' out of fine   
   Irish linen, edged in red ribbon.  The heart was taken to church and   
   blessed by Father Cary on the Sunday before Michael was to return.   
   She placed it in the envelope she'd made and tied the small flap   
   closed, then cushioned the romantic token between layers of white   
   paper.  And she waited for her Michael to come home.   
      
   And she waited.  And waited.   
      
   Three weeks later she stood over the open grave, tossing in a   
   handful of dirt, kneeling to place a single white rose on the rough-   
   hewn coffin, her tears flowing down her pale, freckled cheeks.  Her   
   mother flanked her on one side, her father on the other; their faces   
   were sad and worried.  She was their middle daughter, the dreamer   
   who'd wanted nothing more than to be a good man's wife and the mother   
   of his children.  She'd adored Michael Murphy, and now she faced a   
   future alone, for her love had fallen ill aship, and had died on that   
   voyage home.  And as sure as they knew their Brenna, they also knew   
   she'd never love another.  She might marry someday, but she'd only   
   love once in her life.   
      
   As for Brenna, she'd mourn the loss of her Michael for all of her   
   days.  And on her deathbed she'd whisper his name as she passed from   
   this world, knowing he was awaiting her on the other side, his hands   
   held out for her; a broad smile of welcoming love on his handsome   
   face.   
      
   She'd kept the gift she made for him, the stiffened cloth heart   
   trimmed in delicate tatted lace.  And although she had eventually   
   married, and had borne five children... still the true love of her   
   heart - her 'Gra Mo Chroi' - would always be Michael.  The heart was   
   his; she'd never given it to her husband.   She'd never mentioned   
   Michael to her daughters, or to her sons.  But when her middle   
   daughter Megan was thirteen, Brenna showed her the heart, still   
   wrapped in Irish linen and protected between layers of white paper.   
   Brenna laid the precious token in her daughter's hand, with motherly   
   love and simple instructions.   
      
   "Give it to the love of your heart, on a day that means the most to   
   you.  Give it with passion, and with generosity, mo chroi - as you   
   give yourself."   
      
   Megan Flannery kissed her mother's face, and promised.   
      
   ******************************   
      
   PHILADELPHIA, PA	   
   1938   
      
   She lit the candles with fingers that trembled.  Blew out the match   
   and then pressed a hand to her nervous stomach.  It was silly to be   
   nervous, that was a fact - but she couldn't help it.  Tonight meant   
   everything to her.  She'd waited her entire life for it.   
      
   Tonight was her wedding night.   
      
   Five hours earlier she'd stood at the altar of St. Christopher's and   
   pledged herself to Thomas O'Roarke.  She'd gazed into his bright blue   
   eyes; her voice had been a dry whisper in her throat as she'd spoken   
   her vows.  Thomas had actually had the audacity to wink at her,   
   flashing that devilish smile, his face turned just enough to hide his   
   expression from the family and friends crowded in the church's old   
   wooden pews.  And when she'd fumbled a little at the words 'obey and   
   trust', he'd stuck his tongue out at her.   
      
   Impudent, funny, handsome, strong and passionate Thomas.  The love   
   of her heart.   
      
   Megan loved him with a fierceness that she was just beginning to   
   understand.  She'd known him half her life; he was the boy next door   
   for most of her teenage years.  He'd always been the best-looking   
   fellow in her class; she'd been bowled over by his wit, his charm,   
   his boldness.  When she was sixteen he'd come calling for her,   
   charming her parents and bringing her spring flowers.  And he'd   
   walked her home from that first date, holding her hand, asking her   
   for another date for the very next night... pressing her up against   
   the oak tree in her front yard and kissing her with that wide, full   
   mouth of his.  Her first kiss... her first experience with a young   
   man's eager mouth, his tongue, his embrace.   
      
   She'd fallen for him, hard.  He was everything she wanted.  He was   
   the one she'd love, for all time.   
      
   Her wedding night, and here she stood in front of the mirror staring   
   at herself in the white lacy gown and matching robe.  Her mother had   
   made it for her, had presented it to her on the night before the   
   wedding.  She'd pressed the box into Megan's hands, smiling mistily   
   at her, murmuring, "For you, mo chroi.  Wear it with happiness,   
   knowing how much your man loves you.  And how proud I am, to claim   
   you as my child."  She'd kissed both her daughter's cheeks and Megan   
   had flung her arms around her beloved mother and clung to her,   
   whispering her thanks in a voice gone thick with happy tears.   
      
   The reflection in the mirror showed Megan a newly-married woman that   
   she barely recognized.  Gone was the girl with the unruly dark brown   
   pigtails.  Gone, the babyish cheeks and the thin body.  She was   
   eighteen years old and tonight she would become a woman.  Tonight she   
   would know how it felt to have a man intimately touch her, join with   
   her.   
      
   Tonight she would give her husband the priceless gift of her body...   
   and the precious token of her heart, for in the box that held her   
   wedding night finery was an Irish linen square protecting a red   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)