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kerk_hiraethTITLE: Like the first dewfall on the first grass [Halfamoon 2026]
AUTHOR: kerk hiraeth
FANDOM: Buffy the Vampire Slayer;
CHARACTERS: OC's; Fatima El-baz & Sofia Blazhevich (Senior Chaplain & Junior Slayer respectively);
'VERSE: Not set in stone, but fanon-adjacent to Jet Wolf's much-mourned Chosenverse;
RATING: PG-13;
WORD COUNT: 1,000;
NOTES: Started well before this year's Halfamoon this story ended up fitting the day three prompt (The Caregiver) perfectly.
Unlike most of my fics this one has a very specific date as it is set on the morning (in the area of Pennsylvania where Slayer HQ is situated) of the passing of Pope Francis on the 21st April last year. Thus it's important that this is very much dedicated to me greatest supporter, elisi, and as begun a few days after that date, but before his successor, Leo XIV, was elected.
I have a very extensive backstory for the chaplain; have her appearing in a couple of stories before this, all written a long time ago now. This is however the first time she has been a central character, though I have drafts for several ideas in several notebooks.
Sofia is a new character, certainly my newest Buffy character and was born, given her age her, several years after the show's conclusion, and a few years after the Slayer HQ as created in Jet Wolf's Chosen!verse was established.
ADDENDUM: This will also be posted for this year's halfamoon, which starts tomorrow ~or today~ depending on when I post this on my Dreamwidth and when I post it there.
Sofia stumbled into her office just before Dawn.
And just after Dawn as it should happen.
Fatima Amastan Sultana Sara Tirzah Elbaz, known as Queenie to most of those for whom she was Chaplain, replaced the receiver she had been about to use and immediately devoted all her attention to the young Slayer.
Nothing could have happened to her girlfriend who; as with her own partner; Praise be to Allah she should return safely her arms, was embedded in a war zone.
She knew where both were and Buffy would hardly have left her in the dark if something had happened.
As Sofia composed herself, it also occurred to her that her girlfriend; several years older than her and deeply embedded in occupied territory not far from Sofia's birthplace.
No, whatever was distressing her, that was not it. She began to boil some water; waiting to ask if the girl wanted some green tea, or maybe some of the Black tea she might be more comforted by.
Patiently she helped the girl into a sofa chair she kept in her office and knelt, as was her fashion, and held Sofia's hand as she calmed down.
Finally she felt able to ask, “What is it, tafruxt?”
She was relieved to see Sofia manage a slightly embarrassed smile.
The girl spoke softly; sounding strained, naturally enough. “Pomer Papa Frantsysk... “ adding after a moment, possibly seeing her slight confusion. “The Pope has died. “
She recalled Sofia's arrival; barely fourteen years old, more than five years before now, and nodded in understanding.
The confusion returned however; wasn't Sofia Russian, and agnostic?
Sofia actually managed a grin at her expression, “I'm Catholic, “ reminding the Chaplain, “My family was allowed to move to Vasylivka not long before Krushchev died. “
She nodded, recalling now that, though Sofia rarely attended Mass, she felt unusally comfortable being ministered to by someone who wasn't actually Catholic. A click made her rise and a raspy voice answered her unasked query, “Chornyy chay... bez lymona. “ She managed a smile and filled the old ceramic teapot her father had given her before she had boarded a ship heading for Sicily on her long journey to Pennsylvania.
As the tea steeped she recovered some sugar and placed it in a woven wicker bowl lined with Goat's kidskin, a gift from her best friend at the academy where she had trained.
She softly recited some of Surah Maryam for both her and her father; neither of whom she ever expected to see again. She repeated the words for her beloved; Sofia and her beloved.
Placing the pot and bowl on a wooden tray and carefully carried them over to where Sofia seemed lost in contemplation and placed them on the wooden table Yehudit had given her when they had spoken their commitments to each other.
Judith and Sara, as they referred to each other, could not be married by each other's faith, so their ceremony had been private and held near a waterfall out by Buttermilk Falls.
Sara held Sofia's hands and they held a silent blessing before she knelt down again.
While the tea steeped properly they discussed what Sofia wanted to do.
Sara told her she would be hosting a mass if Sofia wanted to attend.
She did not.
Sara offered Sofia a private prayer session if Sofia was willing to teach her the Ukrainian.
Sofia declined the latter but a simple latin prayer would be okay.
Sensing Sofia's hesitancy she recalled her own need for comfort; especially since her habibti was so far from her.
Struggling with the knowledge that her habibti might be startlingly close to where Sofia had grown up, and just maybe was engaged in aiding Sofia's own family, she kept her bond; returning her mind to something more comforting for them both,
“You know my wife is Jewish? “ Sofia was perplexed; everyone knew that.
Gently patting Sofia's hand Sara illucidated, “Every year, we go somewhere remote and commemorate the liberation of Auschwitz, Usually,” she added, getting up to find cups.
Warming them, Sara informed her, “we plant bushes or trees; release fish or other creatures back into their natural environment.
Sometimes we make love by an open fire and say the kaddish ... “
Fearing she had spoken a little too freely she was relieved Sofia seemed not to have not heard.
“You know the Kaddish? “
The young woman wiped a tear away.
“My father was taught the Yiddish when he was a child so he could assist with the Kaddish over the last survivor of the heto that had been close to where my family lived when we first moved to Vasilyvka. He believed those times should never be forgotten.“
As Sofia thought of her father, Sara kept a warm smile to herself thinking on her own.
“Well I don't know the yiddish but if I speak the hebrew; you the yiddish...? “
Sofia seemed to come alive with that thought; one of her own following quickly, “By the sapling? Tomorrow at dawn? “
It was times like this that she felt blessed by her vocation.
Sara poured the tea; adding more sugar than she should, but only as much as Sofia did.
She preferred honey with her tea, but Sofia was who mattered on this occasion. Sara could already see her gaining a sense of strength from this talk.
Fatima Amastan Sultana Sara Tirzah Elbaz, known as Queenie to those for whom she was Chaplain, felt something of the same herself; owning some comfort too in the belief she would be hold her habibti when she returned home; promising a prayer for the safe return from the Sudan for Sofia's girlfriend.
She heard the echo of her father and her friend's voices, reminding her she still needed to call a Priest to hold the Mass for Pope Francis; in that moment too she felt the warmth of her father's gentle pride in her, and the warmth of her best friend's acceptance.
Goddess watch over you,
' Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass '
kerk
addendum 1 ~ Surah 19: Maryam Ayat 96
إِنَّ ٱلَّذِينَ ءَامَنُوا۟ وَعَمِلُوا۟ ٱلصَّٰلِحَٰتِ سَيَجْعَلُ لَهُمُ ٱلرَّحْمَٰنُ وُدًّا
addendum 2 ~ lyrics which provided the title of this story...
Morning Has Broken (1971) by Cat Stevens (latterly Yusuf Islam)
Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world
Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dewfall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day
Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the world
