Prologue
Preston was a sinner. Of course he was—all of his kind were. That is the nature of man: from before his first breath, doomed to a life of imperfection, condemnation, and atonement. Or, so the stories go.
Sometimes I wonder why He plays games like that-- tell them they are born in sin and will die that way, then tell them they should strive to be blameless anyways. Tell them no man is worthy, "No, not one." Tell them suicide is a mortal sin, but martyrdom gains you sainthood. Is knowingly allowing others to kill you when you could have saved yourself suicide, then, or martyrdom? And why is killing other people in the name of God, or because they worship Him differently, somehow different? My God, my God. It is all a bit of a farce, in my opinion—and I think I am fairly well equipped to comment.
But for all my centuries of misty musing, I was once one of them. For all I am held in history's highest esteem, to Him, I am still human. Still fatally flawed. What I think about His brand of logic is not particularly important to Him.
Not that He is uncaring. Far from it, in fact. Just… preoccupied, perhaps, with trying to organize the workings of the universe of His own design. And the little problem of the giraffe. He doesn't make mistakes, but between you and me, I think He's a little embarrassed about that beastie. But I digress; this story is not about Him. This story is about me. And, of course, Preston.
Preston, though a sinner, was about as close to sinless as a man in his world could get. The Ultimate Secular Catholic, you could say. Confession, Communion, Lent, Mass—all the little laws made up by fellow sinners to keep him on the straight and narrow, Preston adhered to with complete devotion. But it was Preston, faithful, priestly Preston who would eventually bring about The End.
First, though, let me tell you about the beginning.
***
Chapter One
I'll never forget the day our paths crossed-- Preston's and mine, I mean. It had been a few decades since I bothered to visit a church; men didn't seem to care anymore whether they could actually feel my presence, or just pretend they could. But He had suggested that despite evidence to the contrary, men had begun to at least feel my absence, and that knowledge soothed my pride sufficiently. So I revisited one of my favourite old churches, a quaint and modest one in the middle of New England, and found Preston, kneeling solitary at the alter.
Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
I smiled faintly. It had been a while since I heard the words, and although it was vain of me to bask in this idolatry, I allowed myself a small glow of pleasure. Here was a man with good timing, at least.
Blessed art thou among women...
The richness of his voice, his prayer, made me curious. Familiar the words and comfortable the phrases, yet he used them in a… different way.
And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.
Ah, fruit. I rested my hand briefly over my long-empty womb, channeling warmth to it as though mere wishing could fill it again. As is the way with most Catholic buildings, there were likenesses of my First Fruit, my beautiful Son, everywhere—but none reflected the likeness I kept closest to my heart. If I were to paint Him, for one thing, He'd be alive. Say what you like about Sacrificial Lambs; to me, He was still my boy, my baby. I held Him in my arms, bloody, bawling and innocent. Innocent, no matter what the stories have to say about sin. I was Mother in every way to His physical body, and I missed Him. I always will.
Holy Mary... Mother of God...
The man lingered over the words, made them almost a crooning song. His hands slid softly against each other as he prayed. The way he said my name-- words like "holy" and "mother of God" were simple soft adornments. Mary... Another man had called me Mary, more lifetimes ago than memory usually serves, but I could recall how that other man had groaned that name, gasped it, cried it as he loved me deep and strong. Why did a man in a church centuries later remind me so strongly of those primal times?
Pray for us sinners... now, and at the hour of our death.
Yes. They had all sinned, and they all knew it-- but not a lot of them truly cared. I let my mind wander during Preston's next few prayers, perplexed by the trembling within me. Then, suddenly--
My Queen! My Mother!
