TITLE: Blind Love

CONTINUITY: Part 5

DISCLAIMER: With joy I acknowledge the creative prowess of others; Tanya Huff, Peter Mohan.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: With hope I send all my thoughts to those in charge of programming at Lifetime Television….Please be brave enough to take Blood Ties on forever! In yearning; I anxiously await October 12 and give thanks to the new set of commercials being rotated through. With Luv, I offer up my gratitude to the wonderful people who dance in the Devil's Playground with grace, hope, humor, and passion. You know who you are and you are the best!

HHHHHHHH

The old nun sighed, her hand sliding into the mysterious, voluminous fold of her habit. "Where do I begin?"

"The beginning?" quipped Laura with some nervousness.

"That's the problem. I'm not certain at all where anything began."

"Then start with what you know."

Sarah nodded. "That's as good a place as any, I s'pose. But you'll have to forgive me if I might wander through the tale."

Laura leaned close, hugging her. "I'll forgive you anything, Sister. You know that."

"That's good."

"And even if I don't, God will!" She finished with a smile.

"Bless His ever loving heart amen!" exclaimed Sister Sarah as she crossed herself. "Now then…" Her body shifted, easing into the comfort of the couch as if she intended to stay for quite some time. "I was ten years old when I was admitted into the orphanage at St. Michael."

Laura nodded, a smile curving her lips as she recalled the day. "I remember. You were a bit of a demon in rags, all wild hair and snarling teeth. You weighed no more than the wind, and when I held you, calmed you, your bones felt more like twigs beneath your oversized clothes. You were all knobs and ridges."

"I hadn't eaten a real meal in days…If it hadn't been summer time, no doubt I would have died long ago."

"No," said Laura with absolute conviction. "You would have made it. You were meant for me."

Sister Sarah sighed. "So it would seem."

Seconds turned to a minute as Sister Sarah filtered through her own memories. With an indulgent smile, Laura patted her lap. "Continue, Sister."

The frazzled gray hair bobbed. "Oh! Oh yes. I remember the day I first realized you couldn't see, at least not like anybody else. We had been in the gardens, tending the vegetables and herbs. Never in the year I had been there had I even suspected you were any different than anybody else. You worked, sang, moved through the orphanage halls and the church without hindrance or doubt in your step. But that day in the garden, Little Jamie had dropped his hoe to go chase the butterflies skipping about the rosemary. You didn't see it…"

Laura chuckled. Then she couldn't, she had been so shocked, but today she could. "I remember. My foot hit the end of the hoe just right and the handle rose up and struck me dead center on my forehead."

"The sound it made." Sister Sarah shuddered. "I will never forget turning around and seeing the river or red running down your nose before you fell backward into the cabbage."

"You were the first to reach me, the first to touch me, but the blow had me stunned and I could not see through your eyes. For a moment, I was literally blind."."You said it with such surprise, such shock, that the very heart in my chest froze. I couldn't believe it. Surely a good wack in the head couldn't have caused you to be blind! I reached out, took my apron to wipe away the blood."

"You were crying."

"I couldn't stop. At that very moment I was certain you were going to die."

"You were practically chanting." Laura said. "Don't die, Sister Mary. Please don't die and leave me too. You broke my heart that day, Sister Sarah, and healed it all at once. It was the first time anyone had ever heard your voice since your arrival."

Sister Sarah nodded. She remembered her lack of voice, stripped from her as her innocence had been at the hands of a foul foul man. But the past was the past, for her, gone and buried under the rubble of wars and the peace she had found in God. So instead of lingering on the bad memories, she moved on to the good. "Later that night, you took me into your confidence. You had me brought to your chambers, such a simple room really when compared to your home now, and you told me the secret the church had been helping you keep. "

"I knew I could trust you."

"I thought you were magic, a miracle, the most wonderful thing I had ever happened. You could never die, you could see things no one else could see…It was only when I got older, wiser, that I realized what a terrible burden you bore."

"I don't know that I can't die," admitted Laura quietly. "I know I don't get sick and if I get hurt, I heal fast. Very fast. As for my other gifts…They were obviously paid for with my sight."

"You never wondered why?" asked Sister Sarah.

"Not after the first century. Questioning God's motives never resulted in obvious answers."

Sister Sarah laughed. "I suppose not."

"What else do you know, Sister. I know you're not just reminiscing for old time's sake. You were never one to wander down the path of memory without reason."

"True." Her hands twisted through her habit, found the deep pocket and the old envelope inside. Her calloused fingers stained from years of working outside caressed the old linen, feeling the raised line of the closing flap. With a decision made, she pulled it out and pressed it into Laura's hands.

With Sister Sarah's finger touching her skin, Laura saw the item lying across her open palms. It was old, looked nearly as old as her. There was a red wax seal at the bottom corner of the closing flap; a stag bearing a crown. She shivered, but did not touch it. "What's this?"

"It was given to me by Sister Clarence the day you decided to leave the church and orphanage. She told me that there would come a time in your life when you would need this. I asked her how I would know when that was. Her reply was cryptic, but the minute you called me the last time, when you told me of your visions, I knew that now was the time.'

"Where did it come from?"

"She said it had been given to her by Father Michaels who had it from Cardinal Simonetti in Spain."

"Cardinal Simonetti?" Laura gasped. She recalled the man as clearly as she could the face of Sister Sarah, though it had been close to two hundred years since she had seen him last. He had been the first to recognize she wasn't like anyone else, the first to protect her from the fanatics of the inquisition. But for Sister Clarence and Father Michaels to have had this, kept this from her, meant it had to have followed her across the Atlantic for centuries. "What would have happened to it if you found I wasn't ready for it?"

"Sister Clarence said if it wasn't within my lifetime, I was to pass it on to someone I knew in my soul I could trust with its preservation.

. She didn't recognize the crest; however, she did notice that though it was nearly perfectly square, the envelope was not smooth. There was something inside, something that over time has left its mark permanently in the bottom right hand corner.

"Open it, dear."

A glance up into Sarah's sun and time aged face comforted the nerves fluttering through Laura's stomach. The seal was easy to break. Brittle and dried, it cracked under the slight pressure of her fingernail beneath the edge. Lifting the flap, she pried the linen up and tipped the envelope to let its content fall into her palm.

Two rings glittered in the lamp light cast off from the bulb behind her. The smaller of the two was a signet ring of black onyx set in gold. Within the raised oval of its surface a crowned stag reared, head arched as if in the throws of rage. Beside it, its silver band discolored and dulled with age, the second ring bore the weight of an oval shaped blood red garnet set in a frame whose surface was marred with a peculiar set of deep gouges. As she moved it closer to her borrowed sight, as her breath brushed across its dark surface, the center of the stone seemed to warm and pulse.

Laura shuddered as she felt her mind slip into a memory driven from the stone into her head.

"This is his," she whispered. Her voice broke on the words as with her mind's eyes she watched a very fat man, his face livid with rage, rip the jewel from Henry's limp hand.

"I will show you!" shouted the man. His words were not English. She knew this, barely acknowledged the fact that in her mind it did not matter. She knew what he said, what he spoke as spittle flew from his fleshy lips. Gasping, her body jumping on the sofa in reaction, she watched as he gave a swift brutal kick to Henry's ribs.

Deep into his daylight sleep, Henry didn't stir. She couldn't tell where they were, a cave, a dungeon, the light from the guttering torches the man held was only enough to illuminate Henry's motionless form curled onto a bed of rotting straw.

"Bind him in chains and bag his head!" The man commanded. He took a step to the side, revealing two burly ill dressed men waiting behind him. Eagerly they did as ordered, though their skills left much to be desired. With a coarse discourse on the prettiness of Henry's eternal youth, the fineness of his attire, they made a thorough and ill disguised job of personal assault as they bound Henry in weighted chains on both his hands and his feet. One man even went so far as to lay his thick tongue along Henry's smooth cheek, leaving a smear of saliva to dry as the black canvas bag was dropped over his head.

"Perfect," sneered the man as he gave one last kick to Henry's ribs. "Leave him here. The Inquisition will be arriving at sunset to take him to face his punishment."

"Yes, Don Cruces."

"Cruces, where do I know that name from?" wondered Laura.

"Maybe there's something in the letter…"

Laura fingered the folded pages inside. "Maybe." Using just the tip of her index finger and thumb, she slid the dried papers from the envelope and carefully unfolded them. A pale fragrance of lilac wafted from the page. She breathed it in and tried hard to focus on the writing. It was old, curled, beautiful and spoke of an age long past when penmanship was a highly prized skill and ink and paper most expensive. After several minutes of trying to make sense of the words scrawled so neatly across the page, she realized she was thinking in English, but reading in something else. "It's in Spanish."

"Can you read it?"

"I don't know. It's been a long time."

"Try, dear."

Laura sighed, narrowed her borrowed gaze, cleared her mind of superfluous thoughts, and tried to remember the language of her birth. In her hand the stone warmed.

October 5, 1762

Daughter,

I have had these past twenty years to contemplate the workings of God and my sins upon this earth, and as I now lay in my death bed waiting to face the Gates of Heaven, I find I cannot let go this life without relieving myself of a heavy burden. It is a strange thing to say these words after all this time, but I hope in the end you will understand and forgive a frightened man his sins.

In the summer of 1742, the Inquisition was a way of life and fear amidst those of us who still had ties to the Gentile and though we were honest and faithful in our trust in God, we always lived with the threat of deceit and betrayal. Jealousy and greed were ever the motivators as such and if the Inquisition felt its coffers were low, a rash of accusations would wash over the land, taking with it many of the wealthy who have always been loyal to the King. France was a plague of hatred and blood and greed.. The wars, the bad harvests….It was all a person could stand before one more event tipped a man into insanity.

I tell you this so that you will have some understanding of why things happened as they did, not for any thought toward forgiveness, at least not from you.

We received word from our liege King, to open our home to a young nobleman of English descent, one Henry Fitzroy. Apparently the King was indebted to him, and though the young man refused all gifts of land or money, he was given a letter of introduction to any noble house in Spain should he have need of shelter. By the cut of his cloth, his wealth was obvious. His wisdom and knowledge were certainly beyond his years. We know not the boon he performed in service of our King, he would never speak of it, but it mattered little, for in no time at all, his charm and devilish wit which gained him quick entry into the heart of our family. He was the perfect gentleman, if not for the odd hours of business he kept. Still, we could hardly count that against the young, so when my wife discovered herself to be blessed with child once again, it came to us to offer unto him the hand of our dearest daughter Maria Elena. Young Henry Fitzroy was graceful in his declination of the suit, for he understood something my wife and I had been blind to; the good Lord's calling of our daughter. With passionate fervor, he beseeched us to allow her to take the Veil and after much tears, we gave our permission. You cannot imagine the sorrow and pride filling our hearts when she left, but we had the hope of a new born and the company of Henry Fitzroy.

Summer faded to autumn. Henry had been gone for about two weeks. We knew he had not left the area permanently, he would have sent word if he had. And though we missed him, my wife most especially, life had to move on. We had attended a business gathering of the local Dons at the hacienda of Don Del Escobar. The meeting wore late, and the weather grew especially bad. I would have heeded the invitation to stay as the other Dons had done, but my dearest wife was loath to be without her comforts, especially as she was nearing the end of her pregnancy. So we had the carriage brought and began the journey home.

The rain and winds were driving fierce. Thunder, lightening, it was the very angels in heaven were battling against a terrible evil. The road was flooded, pummeled into mud and ruts and the journey harsh. My own heart and head warred with each other as I cradled my dearest in my arms, whispering to her words of comfort as we both wrapped our hands about the life cradled within her womb.

Twenty minutes from the estate, a staggering bolt of lightning struck in front of the horses. Mayhem and terror erupted. Our diver was knocked off the carriage and broke his neck. A tree, hit by the lightning fell across the road. The horses took off. They leaped the felled tree, but of course the carriage did not. With an explosion motion of rending wood, of screams both mine own and my love's the world came to a complete and sudden end.

I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I gathered my wits, so certain I was dead and risen unto Heaven, I found to my horror, I faced Hell instead. In the slashing reflection of lightning which seared away the blackness of the night, I found the body of my dearest wife held in the arms of a demon. He cradled her with a tenderness that belied his fierce countenance. Pale of face, long dark hair streaming with rain about his familiar face, he did not see me stir. The cry he gave, a roar that sounded above the thunder and vibrated into my bones. Was paralyzed by what I was seeing, scared beyond witless as a name came to mind to fit the face. It was dear Henry Fitzroy who's open mouth revealed a bestial set of vicious fangs just before he buried them into my wife.

"Oh, dear lord!" gasped Laura. Slender hand traveling to her chest as if to keep the pounding beat of the muscle trapped behind flesh and bones, she could not stop the tears falling down her cheeks.

"What is it, my sweet? What news have you there?"

Laura shook her head. She could not speak of it. It was too frightening, to awesome, to heartbreaking to bear. She didn't need to read the rest, to surmise what was left, didn't know if she could, her hands shook so badly. But she forced herself to continue, hoping against the odds, that what she guessed was wrong.

I heard his voice, deep as the pits of hell, cold and commanding. "Drink," he said to her who lay still as death in his arms. "Drink and you will live Donna Elena Cruces."

Somehow I still had my cane in my hand. Feeling its weight, its slimness, I knew what I had to do. They were so deep into their own wicked gluttony that neither heard the staggering approach of my foot steps. As I drew near, I released the catch at the tip, then withdrew the dagger I kept hidden within. I was nearly upon them both, so close, as to see the paleness of my wife's face regain color. So close I could hear her renewed breath even as I smelled the blood upon them both. At the last minute, as I raised the dagger and plunged it downward, the demon that wore our beloved Henry's face turned. The blade sank into his unguarded chest. With a silent gasp, and such a wounded look filling his black gaze, he collapsed over my wife and our unborn child.

I can remember little of how we came to return home. I remember only the servants rousing me, telling me my wife and child would live. I recall shouting, nearly screaming, when I was told they brought the demon unto my home. As quickly as I could arrange it, I had him tossed into the depths of the old dungeons, there to rot in chains and gagged until such time as the Inquisition could come and cart him away. I cared not for the wounds inflicted. I would have no concordance with such a vile thing King will or no.

I have no word on what became of the demon, save that it took the life of our first born daughter, no doubt as vengeance against his captivity. But my wife lingered on in pleasant for, seemingly unchanged with the exception of her deeper connection to God until the day of your birth. There at last, she left this world as she had been meant to leave all along. Your own sweet face, so contaminated by the blood that was passed on to you by that demon I had little choice but to give you unto the care of the Church.

Laura bit her lips to keep from howling. Knowing what had happened to Henry in the hands of the Inquisition, having felt first hand the depth of him and his torture, she knew there was something that had been left unsaid. The words were blurred in the reflection of her tears. Wiping away, she sifted through lines already read, then found the place where she had stopped.

Three weeks ago, I learned from a visiting priest, that it had not been the demon Fitzroy who had murdered my Maria, but her mentor; Javier Mendoza who had gone inane with his power and ran a stake through her heart when he learned that she had released Fitzroy from his prison. In that moment of the priest's revelations, I saw that night again, but with a mind unclouded by fear and grief. I now believe that Fitzroy could have been no demon at all, merely a man trying desperately to save the woman I loved and I owe him the deepest of apologies.

I know you owe me nothing, I have done ought but ill toward you, but I would hope that you have your mother's sweet bearing and would see your way to finding Henry Fitzroy, friend of the King of Spain and the Cruces Familia, and offer unto him that which was so brutally stolen from him; peace, peace for a man sacrificed so much for us, so much so that you might live.

"His blood runs through my veins," said Laura with wonder.