Mar. 12th, 2002

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"Elijah," Sean said one day, and Elijah flinched.

"Don't call me that."

"Okay," Sean said slowly, soothingly, treading lightly. "What do you want me to call you?"

"Not Elijah. Do you know who Elijah was?" Elijah didn't wait for an answer. "He was a prophet, sent by God to speak his word. He was taken undying up into Heaven." Elijah shook his head. "I'm not a prophet," he said, as if begging Sean to understand.

Sean didn't understand. "No one's asking you to be," he said, carefully.

"They are. They are." Elijah's hands moved restlessly. "This whole thing depends on me. It all depends on me being the right ring bearer. I'm not a prophet. I can't be a prophet. I can't do it."

Sean drew Elijah down into his arms. He stroked his back and murmured softly to him, "Okay, sweetheart. It's all right," comforting him the way he would Alexandra after a nightmare or a scraped knee.

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Ruth Sadelle Alderson

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