Requiem For Prussian Blue

by Rabbit

Notes: For Kassie's Crayola Challenge
And SV improv #15 Vague, myth, vain, fire.

Title: Requiem for Prussian Blue
Disclaimer: I don't own. This is not for profit. Distribution: Lists and The Crayola Challenge Summary: A sweet, reflective Martha fic. (I don't know where this came from) Rating: G
Feedback: Why not, anything's possible. Notes: For Kassie's Crayola Challenge And SV improv #15 Vague, myth, vain, fire.

{1958: In response to educators' requests, "Prussian blue" is renamed "midnight blue." Teachers felt that children were no longer familiar enough with Prussian history to recognize that this crayon color referred to the famous deep-blue uniforms of Prussian soldiers.}

Requiem for Prussian Blue

By Rabbit

It was difficult to explain to someone what it was like to be unable to have a child, especially in this fertile community. Smallville was and is based on the ability to nurture, to bring life to fruition. Corn. Cows. Fecundity that permeates every acre, every rock like some mythic, biblical valley that becomes the cradle of civilization. It's a part of this town, and something I had to get used to. The first few months I thought I might have made a mistake in coming here. Especially kneeling in a barn at 2am during calving season, covered in blood, cleaning off a wobbly baby, or finally realizing that this one wasn't going to start breathing even after all you'd done. For someone who was used to seeing her steak laying next to a potato and a piece of parsley, I felt a little overwhelmed.

Maybe that's why I wasn't able to sustain a pregnancy. I'm an outsider, Jonathan Kent's Metropolis bride, not worthy of carrying out the town's legacy. Not that anyone ever consciously tried to make me feel that way. It was my own internalization of the depression I felt.

I tried to boil it down to some coherent, logical theme, but it remained just a vague ache. I just needed to have a child, no matter how many doctors told me it was impossible, or how many times I spent crying in the bathroom when I felt that heavy cramping and saw the red spotting in my panties. I couldn't rationalize it because it was something so deeply entwined with what society expects, with everything I'd wanted since I was a child...what every girl wants when she's young. 'I want to be a mommy when I grow up'. The milestone of adulthood.

And I found the person I wanted to share that with.

Jonathan Kent was and is, simply the best person I've ever known. Smart. Funny. Caring. Good looking. He's the kind of soul that everyone aspires to be-honest and inspiring to others. The world is a better place for his having been born into it.

I think the first time I saw him, I knew I wanted to marry him and give him a child. No, a dozen. I wanted to see him blowing soft kisses on giggling toddler's bellies, because I knew he would be the perfect father. And for all he gave to me, I couldn't even do that.

Of course he's never held it against me, no digs or verbal attacks during heated words (maybe because we've never actually disagreed on anything) But any other man would have kept that ammunition, maybe not used it, but had it lingering in the back of their minds if they ever needed an excuse. Any of the boys I dated in Metropolis would have.

Not with malice, but I think it's just a natural part of human's vanity to want to pass on your genes, to replicate yourself, to have something tangible to show the world and say 'see what I made.'

But Jonathan never fell to that human failing. "Martha, I love you. Period. I don't want to be with anyone else, even if it means we never have a child of our own. There are plenty of kids out there who need our love."

Just like that. He has so much to give, to teach, and it never occurred to him to hold it back. With that pragmatic Jonathan Kent logic, he just set about solving the problem. We have love to give, there's a child out there who needs it, who is willing to accept it. Simple and logical. No drama or fuss. That is maybe what I love the most about him; he inspires hope even in the darkest of times. He's the sole reason I got through that period of my life really.

I'd had this small doubt inside of me. Maybe I was being punished because I wouldn't be a good mother. Maybe somebody knew this awful, hidden secret that even I wasn't fully aware of.

And if I was such an awful person, that I couldn't be trusted to conceive a child, maybe I couldn't love someone else's child either. Maybe I wouldn't be able to get past the mystery of genes and background, things that I would never know for sure.

I prayed a lot to God in the early days. You know, please let me get pregnant. After awhile, I thought maybe he wasn't listening. My prayers changed, and I began bargaining; just send us a child. I think I even used to repeat it endlessly under my breathe when I was doing repetitive chores like hanging the laundry on the line. Just saying it over and over like a mantra: Just send us a child, send us a child, sendusachildsendusachildsendusachild. I. Don't. Care. How.

And one day, he did. Amidst destruction, and meteor rock and fires that didn't die down for days... God sent us a son. Clark's birth parents and the Langs died so that we could have a son.

"Mama, look. I made you a picture."

Clark waves a sheet of paper over his head as he sits at the kitchen table. I can see blob of blue crayon marks near the top as it flops back and forth. "That's wonderful honey," I walk over and sit next to him, he thrusts the page in front of me. Three vaguely human figures stand beneath a squiggle of blue lines with random black V's scattered throughout.

"That's you and me and daddy," he points out proudly with the tip of a crayon.

"Of course it is, I knew right away." It was silly to think I couldn't love him. He's been here a year and I still cry every time he hugs me.

I kind of had this image in my mind of what it would be like to be a mother, this rosy, perfect scene in my head where we would bake cookies, read stories, and everything would be this idealistic, flawless existence. Yes, we do those things, but I wasn't prepared for this fierce mothering instinct, the intense need to protect him and keep him safe. Sometimes I think the urge is so strong that I could kill someone who threatened him, which is a level of violence I never thought I had in me. It's strange, like some warrior spirit that invades you when you assume the title of mother.

I believe his birth mother is dead; it's just this feeling I get in my gut. But if it's possible, I just want her to know that he's okay here. He's happy, and healthy, and perfect. I don't think I could love him more, even if I'd given birth to him.

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