Part LIII - The Anchor's Vow
Maria stirred from a fitful doze. Her frame ached from a night curled on the narrow cot, supporting Isaiah through his bouts of pained cries. The cramped bedroom was dim, the atmosphere thick with the musty scent of a South Central LA winter morning as cars coughed to life outside.
She eased onto an elbow, her heart seizing with cautious hope. Isaiah remained coiled tight beside her, his slight figure still hot, but no longer the searing furnace of pre-dawn. The Brand on his forehead, evident through his moist, white hair, glowed a dark, angry crimson—it was no longer flickering with active heat.
The Titan's consciousness, shaken by the night's turmoil, felt dull yet rooted. As Maria watched, burdened by love and fear, Isaiah's eyelids twitched. He released a low, wretched whimper, his face scrunching in a mix of childish discomfort and foggy distress.
"...Mami... the box is too warm," he breathed, his speech parched and rough. "The numbers... they're fuzzy. Make the pain stop."
"It's alright, little one, Mami's present," she murmured, her tone trembling but laced with fierce, protective steel. She tenderly brushed his moist hair back, her thoughts racing to translate. The box? The red hue?
"Where does the discomfort lie, mijo?" she inquired, her words hushed and urgent. "Is it your tummy? Your skull? Is it the mark?"
Isaiah's gaze, normally sharp and analytical, squeezed shut. He gave a feeble, pained shake of his brow, which seemed only to worsen his distress.
"Head... It's burning, Mami," he sighed, his whisper a dry, rough sound, his words a mix of infantile panic and strange, fleeting logic. "Can't draw... the paper's all wrong. Fix it, please."
A wave of immense relief, so strong it almost made the mother dizzy, washed over her. It wasn't the Brand.
Okay... alright, only his Head. Not the mark. It's serious, but it's not... that. Thank God.
"Oh, mijo," she breathed, her cadence softening, all the dread draining from it. "Isaiah, is it only your skull? It's just the sickness talking. That's all it is."
Her palm, no longer trembling, stroked his damp hair, carefully avoiding the faint crimson glow of the sigil. "No paper's broken, sweetheart. Mami's got you."
He seemed to settle under her contact, his respiration still ragged but his eyes remaining tightly sealed, retreating from the ache.
Seeing him quiet for a moment, her gaze flicked toward the cramped bathroom doorway, her mind now clear and focused on the solution. "We just need to cool that inferno. I'll be right back, mi vida," she murmured, her rhythm soft but now full of purpose. She slowly eased her limb from under his trembling figure, her warmth slipping away.
Isaiah lay still, his fever-haze clouding his senses. A faint chill crept where her arm had been. The absence of her comfort was jarring, a sudden loss of pressure and heat.
His tiny hand groped, finding only damp sheets.
That was wrong.
His eyes snapped open, searching. Panic flared as he saw her silhouette—no longer lying down, but moving, her shape detaching from the cot, her feet just quietly touching the floor.
"No! Mami, stay!" he demanded, his cry thick with the petulant, absolute will of a sick 4-year-old. "Take me! Take me with you! You can't depart! Don't leave the box!"
Maria froze, her movement halting instantly. His outcry sliced through her.
She looked down and saw the primal terror in his glazed stare. The Brand pulsed, echoing his fear. Her breath caught as she processed his need—the child's desperation tangled with the Titan's fraying control.
After a heart-twisting moment, she obeyed. The mother sank back onto the edge of the cot and immediately scooped his overheated form into her arms, still wrapped in the damp sheet. "Alright, mijo, I'm taking you," she said, her tone hushed and steady, a vow sealed in her Blaxican cadence. "Mami's not leaving you. We'll get the medicine and cool the inferno together."
Isaiah's small fingers twitched against the sheet, his whimper softening as she embraced him close. He let her move, tethered by her presence.
Maria stood, shifting his full, feverish mass securely against her hip. She carried him into the cramped bathroom, the linoleum cool under her bare feet. The faint drip of a leaky faucet echoed, and the air smelled of mildew and faded soap.
She leaned, bracing his weight against the basin with her own frame, keeping the arm around him locked tight. With her free hand, she first reached up to the cluttered shelf and grabbed the small bottle of children's Tylenol.
"Okay, mijo, first this," she said, holding up the bottle. Its bright red cap caught the dim light. "This is Mami's magic juice. It'll chase the hotness away, keep your numbers safe."
Isaiah's fevered gaze flickered to the bottle, his voice wavering, small and scared, like a 4-year-old facing medicine. "Magic… juice? It won't… burn the numbers?" he breathed, eyes wide, the Titan's logic fraying into childish hope.
"No burn, mijo," Maria murmured, unscrewing the cap with a soft click, the faint cherry scent rising. "Just a little sip, and Mami's right here." She tipped the small dose gently to his lips, her eyes locked on his, steady as an oath.
Isaiah hesitated, his breath hitching, then swallowed with a shuddering gulp, his gaze clinging to her face to ensure she stayed. "Tastes… weird," he uttered, a faint grimace crossing his face, but his body seemed to relax slightly, the panic ebbing.
"Good… good," she murmured, giving him a second to recover. She placed the Tylenol bottle on the edge of the sink, freeing her hand.
"Okay, mi vida," she said, her voice hushed and even. "Now we cool the inferno."
Only then did she reach for the faucet. She turned the tap, and a sharp hiss filled the room as cool water streamed into the chipped porcelain tub.
Isaiah's eyes, foggy with sickness, snapped to the water's glint. His small form tensed. "Mami, the water..." he whimpered, his fingers digging into the sheet.
"I know, sweetheart. I'm right here," she said, kneeling and immediately testing the stream with her free hand. "See? It's not hot. It's not cold. It's warm. We'll go slow." She let the water run over her own wrist for a moment so he could see.
"I'm putting you in," she breathed, her mouth at his temple. "I will never let go. I hold you. I stay."
"Don't drop me," he whispered, his voice papercut-thin. "Don't let it eat me..."
"I won't drop you," Maria promised. Only then did she lower him toward the bath—still in her arms as the steamless liquid lapped at his burning skin.
The first touch of water made him jolt—a strangled, wet gasp. His fingers spasmed against her shirt, seizing.
And then the nerves caught up.
A raw, animal cry tore from him—rising, rising, too hot, too bright—not the whimper of before, but a full-throated rejection of annihilation. "It's eating— it's burning the numbers off— Mami— MAMI!—"
He exploded in a wild, primal storm—kicking, bucking, his feet slamming into the porcelain, water exploding over the rim. Every splash was a protest, every breath a glitch.
Maria held him firmer, bracing his trembling figure, her own body taking the brunt of his thrashing. She moved in one controlled motion. Her arm locked across his torso—not hurting, but unbreakable. Her other hand secured the back of his skull. He was pinned against her, contained, anchored.
"MAMI— NO— NO— LET GO—"
"I will NOT let go," she answered, her tone fierce and unmovable, dropping into a slow, rhythmic cadence to cut through his panic. "Fight me if you need to. You will not drown. You will not burn. I am HERE. Breathe with me, mijo. In—and out. I stay."
Her cheek pressed to his wet hair, grounding him. He clawed at her, his small legs still thrashing, but he couldn't escape her embrace. He fought another heartbeat—two—a frantic, weak strike against her wrists—then, finally, the resistance faltered.
The violent kicks became shudders. The screams became panting sobs.
"There. Let it pass," she whispered, her voice instantly softening. Her grip on his skull eased, and that hand went to his sternum, feeling the tremors lose force. "There you go. You're safe."
She eased him down so his small frame sat in the lukewarm water, his legs quivering. The frantic thrashing had ceased; only the tremors remained. She gently brushed his damp hair from his forehead, pressing the cool cloth above the Brand as his breathing slowly, painfully, became more measured.
The heat that had radiated from him like wildfire finally began to ebb. He glanced at her, eyes wet and exhausted, his voice a whisper. "Mami… I… scared…"
Maria's thumb traced the curve of his cheek. "I know, mijo. I'm here. Always. The sickness is going down."
He shifted, legs curling closer, his voice barely audible. "Numbers… still… broken…"
"It's okay," she murmured, her tone thick with her own exhaustion. "The numbers will be here when you need them. Right now, we fix the vessel first. You rest. Mama's got you."
He nodded slightly, his gaze softening as he leaned back against her steadying hands. A faint, shuddering sigh escaped him—the first truly peaceful sound since the fever's peak.
She dried and dressed him quickly. Maria carried him gently back to the cot, then laid the final cool, damp cloth over his forehead, carefully concealing the angry red Brand. He let out a sigh of deep, feverish relief.
Maria eased herself onto the mattress, lying carefully on her side beside him, fulfilling her promise. "See? Isn't that better?" she whispered.
Isaiah, already halfway back to sleep, mumbled a weak protest. "Only because you didn't leave... The metrics are still unstable."
"Shh, mijo," she murmured, her voice hushed and soft. "I'm not going anywhere. Mama's right here. You just rest."
As if her words were a final command, Isaiah immediately shifted, tucking his head into the space beneath her chin. His feverish warmth pressed against her chest, and he went completely limp, a dead weight of exhaustion and absolute trust. The Brand, deprived of conflict, receded to a persistent, manageable warmth.
His breathing, ragged just moments ago, finally deepened, evening out into the slow, heavy rhythm of a child lost to sleep.
Maria felt the last thread of tension leave his small body. She stared at the cracked ceiling, her own adrenaline draining away, leaving a bone-deep weariness. A dozen anxieties tried to surface—the warehouse, Marcus, the new orders, Vance—a whole empire waiting just outside the bedroom door.
She mentally slammed the door on all of it. It could all wait. It could all fail. It didn't matter.
Her arm tightened around him, her own eyes growing heavy. She was no longer the CEO. She was the anchor. The wall. The watery morning light shifted, moving slowly across the floor, brightening to the flat white of midday, and she didn't move. She just... stayed.
She held that position, a sentinel pressed against the exhausted boy, for over three hours. The world outside the small bedroom window faded from that flat, cold white of afternoon into the bruised purple of a winter dusk. Time became a thick, slow-moving current, measured only by the shallow rise and fall of Isaiah's chest.
Suddenly, the apartment's doorbell shrieked—a harsh, electric BZZZZT that pierced the air like a needle.
The sound clawed at the sacred quiet. In the cot, Isaiah flinched violently, his whole frame giving a small, pained shake. He whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, burrowing his face into the pillow.
"Mami..." he mumbled, his voice thick with sickness and sleep, "...can you fix the sound? It's too... Loud."
Maria's focus snapped instantly to him, her heart clenching. All exhaustion vanished, replaced by pure, protective concern. The sound wasn't just an interruption; it was hurting him.
"Shh, it's okay, mijo. I'm right here," she whispered, her tone hushed and soothing. She leaned down and pressed a long, gentle kiss to his hot forehead, her lips brushing the Brand. "Go back to sleep. Mami will make the sound stop. I promise."
Isaiah gave a small, trembling nod and burrowed deeper into the pillow, reassured by her vow.
Maria watched him for a beat, her hand resting on his back until his breathing steadied. Only when she was sure he was settling did her expression change. The softness in her eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, quiet fury.
She rose from the cot, her movements now sharp and predatory. Who dared?
She stalked out of the room, pulling the bedroom door almost shut behind her. Her entire focus was on the front door, a few feet away. She stormed across the linoleum, her hands clenched, ready to throttle whoever was on the other side.
She yanked the door open, a harsh word ready on her lips—
And froze.
It was my Abuela.
Abuela's lined face was etched with worry, and in her hands, she held a small, steaming pot. The rage vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving a hollow ache in its place. The fury had been a shield, a surge of useful energy. Without it, there was only the vast, crushing weight of reality.
Abuela spoke first, her voice hushed and gentle, breaking the tense silence as she held the pot forward. "Hey, mija. I heard Isaiah was sick. I wanted to make some soup for you... for both of you."
Maria's shoulders, which had been tense and high, slumped. The angry greeting died, and the simple, kind words were almost enough to make her break down. She just nodded, unable to speak, and took the pot. The warmth seeped through the towel.
"He's the same, 'buela," Maria finally whispered, answering the unasked question. "The fever... It's bad."
Abuela nodded sadly, respecting the quarantine and not trying to come in. She just pushed the pot more firmly into Maria's hands. "He must eat," she said, her voice hushed but firm, a simple, unshakeable command. "Strength. Te quiero."
Maria nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She watched Abuela turn and walk away, then quietly closed the door.
The warm, savory scent of chicken broth felt like a fragile shield against the sickroom's stale air. Preparing it wasn't just about feeding Isaiah; it was a necessary ritual, a small act of control handed to her by her mother. Her purpose renewed, she poured a small amount into a bowl and went back into the room, back to her post.
The bedroom was dim and heavy with the scent of sickness. Isaiah was curled on his side, lost in a fitful, feverish sleep, his breathing shallow.
Maria placed the bowl on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the mattress.
Maria knelt beside the cot, her heart aching at how small he looked. She gently brushed his damp, white hair from his face.
"Mijo," she whispered, her voice a low murmur. "Isaiah, baby, you need to wake up for Mami."
He just whimpered, his face scrunching as he burrowed deeper into the pillow, trying to escape.
"I know, mi vida, I know," she soothed. She gently eased the warm blankets down from his shoulders. "Come on. Just for a minute."
She slid one arm carefully under his back and the other under his knees, lifting his small, limp form. She settled back against the headboard, cradling him securely against her chest so he was nestled in her lap, his head resting in the crook of her arm.
Isaiah's eyes fluttered open, glazed and wretched. He was awake, but barely, trapped in a miserable, feverish haze.
"Just a little sopa, mijo," she urged, her voice a low murmur as she held a spoonful to his lips.
The Titan's mind barked a cold, logical command: Fuel. The vessel requires fuel for repair. Consume the resource. But the 4-year-old's body, raw with sickness and grumpy from being woken, staged a primal, petulant mutiny. The very smell of the broth made his stomach roil.
He turned his head away, his cheek pressing into her shirt. "No," he whined, the sound thick with phlegm. "Don't want it." It wasn't just childish defiance; it was a total physical rejection. The thought of swallowing made his raw throat ache.
A cold spike of fear shot through Maria, far sharper than his refusal. A sick child who wouldn't eat was a terrifying omen. Her voice remained soft, but beneath it was the unshakeable steel of a commander forged in sleepless nights and constant worry.
"Isaiah. I am not playing. You will eat. You need strength."
The Titan's mind railed at the body's insubordination, but the child's raw instinct won. "No!" He tried weakly to push the spoon away, his small hand flapping against her wrist.
Maria caught his wrist, her grip firm but not punishing. "Yes." She didn't raise her voice. She didn't argue. She simply held the spoon steady, an unmovable force, and waited. The silence stretched, thick with a battle of wills—not just between mother and son, but between the Titan's logic and the child's profound misery.
After a long, tense moment, Isaiah's lower lip trembled. Defeated by her sheer persistence, he reluctantly opened his mouth just a fraction. Maria saw her opening and gently guided the spoon in.
He swallowed once, a difficult, painful gulp. Then, as she brought the spoon back for a second try, his small hand shot out with surprising speed and knocked it sideways.
Clatter. The metal spoon hit the floor. Hot broth splashed onto the clean sheets and Maria's hand.
Maria froze. The sound, the mess, the deliberate defiance after all her patient effort—it was the final straw. Something inside her, stretched taut for days, snapped.
Her hand, the one splashed with soup, started to tremble. Her breath hitched. The soft, weary lines around her eyes hardened instantly into something sharp and brittle.
"¡Basta!" she hissed, the word cutting through the quiet room like a whipcrack. Her voice wasn't loud, but it vibrated with a raw, frayed anger he had never heard before. "Enough, Isaiah! Do you know how worried I am? Do you know what is happening outside that door? People are counting on us! Marcus is counting on us! And you lie here, fighting me over soup?"
She grabbed his shoulders, her grip perhaps a little too tight, forcing his glazed, startled eyes to meet hers. The sudden shift from gentle nurse to furious commander shocked him into stillness.
"You will eat! You will get better! We don't have time for this! Do you understand me? ¡No tenemos tiempo!"
Tears didn't just spring into Isaiah's eyes. The sound that ripped out of him was a raw, terrified wail. It wasn't a whimper; it was the full-throated, hysterical, world-ending scream of a 4-year-old whose only anchor had just let go.
The Titan's mind, already battered by sickness, vanished completely, submerged under a tidal wave of pure, childish terror. He'd seen her stressed, worried, fierce—but never like this. Never directed at him. He thrashed in her arms, his small fists clenched, his face screwed up and turning blotchy red. The sobs were so violent they left him gasping for air.
Seeing his raw, broken fear, seeing him shatter not in defiance but in genuine terror, shattered Maria's anger as quickly as it had erupted. The fury drained away, leaving a hollow, agonizing guilt in its place.
Dios mío, what am I doing? He's sick. He's just a baby.
"Oh, baby, no, no, no..." She instantly released his shoulders and pulled him tight against her chest, her own hands shaking. She rocked him, her cheek pressing against his wet hair. "Okay, mijo. I'm sorry. Mama's sorry. I didn't mean to yell. Shh, shh, I'm right here."
She took deep, ragged breaths, forcing the storm inside her back down, her heart breaking at the hiccuping sobs he couldn't control. She just held him, rocking him and whispering apologies until the hysterical wails softened into miserable, hitching cries.
She pulled back just enough to look at his tear-streaked face, her hand trembling as she gently wiped his cheeks.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice rough and unsteady. "Okay. Mama's sorry. I'm just... I'm scared, too, mijo."
She took another breath, re-centering herself. This was her son, not a soldier.
"Listen to me," she said, her tone soft but steady again, the desperate plea replacing the anger. "I know. I know you don't feel good. I know you can't eat it all now." She gently brushed his hair back. "But you have to eat, baby. Just a little. You have to eat it throughout the day, okay? Because I don't want you getting any more sick."
Isaiah stared at her, his whole body still shuddering with sobs, his lower lip trembling. He looked from her face—now soft and loving again—down to the spoon in her other hand.
"Okay, Mami," he whispered, the words broken by a sob.
"Just one bite," she pleaded gently. "Just one for Mama. Then we can rest."
She dipped the spoon back into the bowl and held it up. Through his tears, he watched her, and after a long, heart-wrenching moment, he leaned forward and let her feed him.
It was a slow, painful process. He managed one more bite, then another, before a wracking cough seized him. He turned his head, whimpering, and she didn't push. The fight was over for both of them.
"Okay," she murmured, putting the bowl aside. "Okay, mijo. That's good. That's enough for now."
He leaned his full, heavy weight against her, his form boneless with exhaustion. His breathing was still hitching from the crying, but the hysterical edge was gone. The combination of sickness, the small amount of food, and the emotional drain of his breakdown was pulling him back under. His eyes fluttered, then closed.
Maria felt him go limp, his head lolling against her shoulder. She sighed, her own frame aching for sleep. But she couldn't let him. It was late afternoon. A deep, heavy slumber now would mean a long, feverish, wakeful night for them both.
She rubbed his back gently. "Isaiah... baby, you can't go to sleep. Not a deep sleep, anyway."
Her voice was soft, and he didn't tense, but he didn't open his eyes either.
"If you sleep hard now, mijo, you won't sleep at all tonight, and you'll feel even worse tomorrow," she explained, her tone reasonable and calm. "So, what do you want to do? We have to stay awake for just a little while."
Isaiah didn't even open his eyes. He just burrowed his face into her shirt, his voice a thick, wretched mumble. "...Go to sleep."
Maria's heart ached for him, but she knew this was the one thing she couldn't give him. "No, mijo," she said gently but firmly. "No sleep. Not yet."
He let out a small, protesting whine.
"But we can rest," she offered quickly. "How about this... let's go see what's on TV. We can watch some cartoons."
He didn't answer, but he didn't fight her. He was too exhausted.
"Okay," Maria whispered, shifting his weight. "Mami's got you."
She stood up, her muscles protesting as she lifted his limp, feverish form. She carried him out of the dim, heavy air of the bedroom and into the living room. The light was a little brighter here. She settled them both on the worn sofa, grabbing a blanket from the back of a chair and tucking it around his small frame.
She clicked on the small television. The fuzzy, colorful image of a cartoon mouse chasing a cat filled the screen. The sound was low and tinny.
Isaiah didn't watch, really. He just lay against her, his eyes half-closed, his head pillowed on her chest, lulled by the flickering light and the steady, reassuring sound of her heartbeat.
It wasn't sleep, but it was rest. And for now, Maria, the guardian back at her post, would take it.
Hours later, the room was dark again. The cartoons had long since signed off, leaving only static, which Maria had eventually silenced. She had carried him back to the small cot, given him another dose of Tylenol, and now lay on top of the covers beside him, her own body aching with exhaustion.
The TCG, the comics, the Phoenix Empire... it all felt suddenly meaningless. Abstract. A problem for a different world.
Isaiah stirred in his slumber, his small, hot frame burrowing across the mattress until he was pressed tight against her side. Maria's breath hitched. All the fight, all the fear, all the anger of the day just dissolved, leaving only a vast, aching love that filled every hollow part of her.
She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him closer, her chin resting on the top of his head.
The Phoenix Empire could all burn to the ground for all she cared. She wasn't moving. The guardian was at her post.