#sees the truth about human nature. that curiosity that turned their SISTER into a pile of flesh in a few test tubes

[orcelito]

hahahaha. you dont say.

in any case i just read chapter 40 of trimax and i am. not the same.

[writingfromkitchenator]

Thorin ~ Falling For You

Falling for You by Jem

600 Followers Challenge!

Requested by @thopil2941btw (another tag not working...sigh...)

Words: 3916 (yeah...it’s a long one.

Warnings: Dragon shifters (is that a warning?) Usual violence, a little bit of angst, dragon sickness.

You had been ordered to kill Thorin Oakenshield and all that travelled with him, but the problem was, the longer you were with them, the more you realised that that was the opposite of what you wanted to do.

Growing up, you’d never really known any different, you were told tales of your uncle’s great conquest of the dwarves, and even though his name was spoken in fear and reverence, after all, it was very rare for a dragon shifter to lose such control over himself that he could no longer shift back into human form.

It became a stark warning for all young dragons, despite what he had gained in the process.

When word reached you of the dwarves intending to reclaim their home, it became agreed that Smaug would need help and you were the eldest child, so it naturally became your responsibility.

You were honoured to do so, after all, no one had respected dragon kind for the longest time, only feared, and you wanted to play your part in that.

However, you quickly realised that it wasn’t going to be as easy as you’d first thought, mostly because of a wizard being present, so you followed at a safe distance, keeping out of the way, biding your time.

When the wizard left, you thought that you’d been in luck, that now was the time to act, only to find the dwarves suddenly in the hands on trolls.  Honour had demanded that you intervene, no matter how hilarious you thought it was and you soon found yourself under their scrutiny, even though you had just taken on three trolls to save their lives.

You played being a travelling warrior, one that just happened upon the trolls, and while it was clear they didn’t trust you, they seemed to accept your story.

The wizard was your main concern and you could tell by his gaze that he was the only one that realised you were lying, so it you were then equally surprised when he mentioned you potentially joining them on them on their journey.

Later, you realised it was so he could keep an eye on you.

Rivendell didn’t fair you much better, the elves distrusting you and Elrond gave you a stern warning against trying anything.

You were surprised when Thorin came to your defence, him and Dwalin having been the most vocal about you not coming along, but he warned Elrond against insulting those in his company as they were on tenuous grounds being here anyway.

It was the first time that you questioned what you were doing, so you tried to separate yourself from the company, only to be quickly interrupted by Gandalf, puffing away on his pipe.

“Do you enjoy following people wizard?”  You asked quietly, on guard.

“Only when they may me a threat.”  He said lightly.  “Tell Y/N, are you a threat?”

You broke away from his fierce gaze.  “Why would you think that?  I have only helped.”

Gandalf watches you closely for a moment.  “You know, we don’t have to follow the paths that others set for us, we can choose our own way.”

A low growl rumbles through you before you can stop it and you shake your head.  “And bring the wrath of others down upon us?  No, it is easier this way wizard.”

A smoke dragon swirls around your head and you glare back at him.

He smiles.  “It may be easier, but it doesn’t make it the right thing.”

“I was raised-”

“I know,” He said and rests a hand on your shoulder.  “And now you have to make a decision on what you are going to do with yourself. Follow the same path that all your ancestors have, being feared like the rest, or, rising to a new level, making yourself and your kind a new place in this world where maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to hide anymore.”

He’d left you alone after that, but the words weighed heavily on your shoulders.  You found yourself watching Thorin, watching how he interacted with the others, learning what you could about him and the more you learned, the harder those blows were becoming.

You kept trying to convince yourself that you could do this.

The goblin tunnels had been an experience and a half, wanting to shift to rid the filth from around you, but knowing that doing so inside would put everyone in grave danger.

It was also the first time that you took a serious blow, or what should have been a serious blow, but you just brushed it off like it was nothing.  It raised a lot of questions but no one was in a position to ask.

When Azog attacked, you had had enough.

You didn’t shift, you knew that you’d never regain the company’s trust if you did, but you did spew fire forth, alighting the ground and stopping the wargs short, eyes alight with rage.

That one was harder to explain.

Gandalf called it magic, that you had an unusual talent that you didn’t want to mention for fear of what would be said, but then that illusion was shattered at Beorn’s.

The bear greeted you with suspicion and it became instantly obvious to the company that there was some other connection between the two of you.  You had tried to brush it off, but Beorn would hear nothing of it.

He outed you as a dragon shifter and told the dwarves that nothing good could come from having you around.

There’d been fury, outrage even, and many of them said that you were just after their gold.  You’d looked to Thorin, you weren’t sure why at the time, and saw hurt there and that tore you apart.

In anger, you told them the truth.

Then Thorin did something unthinkable.

He saved your life.

In that moment, a couple of the dwarves had turned on you and you stood ready to take their blows only for him to intervene.

Then you fled.

You knew you shouldn’t have felt like this, knew that they only reacted out of fear because they didn’t understand.  You didn’t understand yourself, thoughts tumbling over and over, mixing together until you had to take to the skies to try and clear your mind.

It wasn’t until you were there, under the cover of darkness thankfully, that you realised you’d ended up at the mountain, at Erebor.  Shifting back, you watched from a distance, on guard, the scent of your uncle still clear in the air, although it was obvious that he hadn’t left in some time.

It was more curiosity that made you enter, that made you seek out Smaug, the treasury opening up before you, making you stare in wonder at the pile of wealth before you.  You’d never seen gold like this and you could certainly feel the allure upon you, but the longer you stood there, the more you felt the sickness dwelling with it.

You realised that no one should have to die for this.

Warning Thorin crossed your mind and you turned to go just as the gold shifted and Smaug’s form rose before you.

“I haven’t smelt my own kind in a long time,” His voice rumbled through the hall.  “What is it you seek from me when they abandoned me because of what I am?”

You stared him down, unafraid.  “Simply to know whether the tales are true, uncle, your name is spoken of with both reverence and fear back at home, and seeing as I was old enough, I set out on my own to learn the truth.”

“Uncle?”  His voice rose a little louder and you heard it echoing well and truly down the cavernous halls.  “So, my sister has not forgotten me.”

“No,” You said.  “She spoke of you often when I was growing up, talked of how you became what you are.”

A growl that should have been a laugh echoes around.  “My my, I can see her tenacity in you, but I never would have thought that she’d raise a bad liar.”

“Liar?  I-”

“Do you not think that I can smell dwarf on you?”

You fight the urge to take a step back.  “If you can, it’s only because I was ordered to kill them.”

Smaug chuckles.  “Oh no, little one, this is no scent of death on your skin, one that I know.  This is the smell of friendship, and frankly, you should ashamed.”

He attacked without warning and had you not been expecting it, it would have meant certain death or serious injury for you.

“You are wrong,” You snarled angrily.  “They cast me out just like the rest of our kin!  Why would I owe them any loyalty?”

“Because you care.” His voice growled low as he stalked after you.  “And caring is the most dangerous thing you can do.”

“And you would dare kill your own kin?”  You roared, challenging him and making him pause.

“Maybe not,” He hissed, backing down a little.  “For I know what wrath that would bring, just as you do, but that does not mean I can let you leave so you can warn them.”

Smaug’s attack came swifter this time, and as much as you tried to fight, you soon found yourself pinned beneath his claw, struggling, but unable to change due to the sheer weight against you.

He lowered his head right down to your level.  “You will stay, Y/N, and watch me devour these dwarves when they dare turn up to my kingdom.  Perhaps then, I will let you return to our people so that you can face their shame and spread the new fear of what I am willing to do.”

You remember shouting at him, but it was only moments before it all went black.

As you slept, you dreamt of Thorin, dreamt of all that you had seen of him and his company, of times long before the two of you had ever met and of what he could possibly going through now.  There were rapids and orcs and elves and you found yourself growling, wanting to help but not knowing how.

When you came to, you found yourself surrounded by thick stone walls and the only way out well above you.  The space was too tight to shift and the walls too smooth to climb.

“Smaug!”  You bellowed, fury burning in your stomach.  “You coward!  You dare lock me away like this!?”

There was no answer and so you began to pace, not liking being caged and knowing that the silence was taunt, you knew you had to keep your mouth shut to not give him the satisfaction.

You still don’t know how long you were down there for but it seemed like too short a time that a rumbling voice got your attention, except that he wasn’t talking to you.  The voice that was answering him was small and feint in comparison, one that you couldn’t pick up from where you were, but you knew by the tone in Smaug’s voice that it was someone from the company.

So you knew that you had to get out.

You eyed the walls and ran your hands along them, getting a feel for the stone work.  Growling, you knew it was going to hurt, but that there was no other way around it.

Leaping as high as you could, you let your hands shift into claws, burying them hard into the wall and biting your tongue against the pain and burying them into stone, drawing blood.

Slowly, you began to climb, increasing your speed as you heard Thorin’s voice followed by the shouts of the company and the roar of fire from Smaug.

There were bars above you but fury allowed you to make short work of these, ripping them apart and then pulling yourself out to start running like your life depended on it.

Through the maze of stone halls you went, following instinct more than anything else, echoes of the fight reaching you and making you run harder, stripping off the restricting gear as you ran, swords, knives, arrows clattering down and being left to be long forgotten.

They weren’t something that you needed for this fight.

You came into the large opening hall just as Smaug burst free from his golden trap, heading straight for the entrance to the cave, cursing the dwarves and swearing revenge.

Your stomach twisted hard as you knew you could not allow him to succeed, bolting after him, ignoring the cries of the company behind you as they saw you.

Out in the free air, you allowed the shift to happen, midnight scales bursting forth and obsidian wings filling the air as you beat them hard and gave chase after Smaug.

Smaug was furious at this blow, not having believed that he was being challenged, but challenge him you did, the two of you crashing hard in the sky, teeth snapping, claws ripping and tearing, fire spewing forth.  There was no more time for words, no more time for musings of your kind, this was going to be to the death and both of you were giving your all.

You tore through one of Smaug’s wings, making him roar in pain, but in doing so, left yourself open, his teeth sinking hard into your chest.

There were two things that dragons feared, black arrows and other dragons.

His teeth tore as he started to fall, your own roar bolting through the sky and you fought to pull away, Lake Town on fire beneath you in the midst of your battle, and it was only because your wing beat was stronger that you managed to stay in the air as he crashed into the buildings below.

Vision swimming, you followed him with a burst of fire, trying to weaken him further, but he matched it with his own and you had to quickly draw away, feeling the slight sting of an arrow.

You sought out the source, seeing a lone archer in a bell tower, a child running up to his father, a black arrow in hand.

There was only one and you knew that it had to be Smaug on the end of it.

Barely keeping yourself in the air, you drew away from Lake Town, ignoring Smaug’s voice after you, calling you out for cowardice, but you knew, with his injuries, there was no way he could follow.

As far as you were concerned, his fate was sealed.

You lost the ability to hold your dragon form any longer as you reached Erebor again, the shift happening still too far from the ground and you crashed down hard, fighting off darkness as voices called your name.

There were hands and voices, stinging against your wounds, shouting and for a moment, a thought passed through you that any one of them could end it here.

But no cold bite of steel came.

Instead, you were swiftly carried inside, the feeling of safety surrounding you, and you let your world go black again.

You awoke to commotion, your hands and chest bound firmly in bandages, ointments burning at your skin, but you were still instantly alert, struggling to sit up to know what was happening.

It didn’t take you long, a simple smell at the air told you the toxic dragon sickness that was looming.

Biting your tongue against the pain, you followed the smell, using the walls for support, but already knowing, due to his family history, who had succumbed.

Everyone was in the treasury, voices calling to each other as they searched and Thorin loomed over them.

You didn’t want to believe it, but when he caught sight of you and you saw the gleam in his eye, you knew there was no denying it.

Things were tense, to say the least, you had reiterate several times how you had ended up here and the discussion that you and Smaug had had, but eventually, it seemed, they were trusting you enough, much like they once had.

You had, after all, as Bofur put it, taken on Smaug for them, even if Lake Town was destroyed in the process.

Thorin, however, as much as he didn’t voice it, became convinced that you were only there for the gold.

One of the dwarves even asked you about it and you shook your head.  “There are things far more valuable than gold in this world, master dwarf. I do not share Smaug’s desire for it, if I did, then I promise that I would not be here before you in this form.”

Once Thorin was gone from the room, the questions turned to dragon sickness.

Your shoulders sunk.  “Unfortunately, I wish I had the answers for that myself. It is a rare thing, even amongst my people; Smaug has been the first case in many, many years and none dared go near him for fear it may spread to them too.  There is way to break it, that I do know, but it is very difficult to do, especially as ruled by greed as it is, and for this amount that was so long dwelt on…” You sighed, not daring to look at any of them.  “I do not know whether anything will work but I promise you that I will try, I owe you all that much.”

Finding yourself alone before Thorin was not really how you had envisioned this, but you did so proudly, even still as injured as you were, even with the thought of the battle to come still on your mind.

“Thorin,” You said calmly, giving a slight bow to where he sat on the throne.  “May I speak with you?”

Thorin’s gaze was almost cold if it wasn’t so empty.  “Why?”

You continued to hold yourself tall.  “I wish to offer my apologies to you, personally, for what I was ordered to do and almost followed through with.  If it hadn’t been for the fact that I had to bide my time, trying to honour the kill for myself, but getting to know you instead, then I would not be standing here by your side today, I would instead be returning to my people as a hero.”

His eyes flared momentarily. “Is that so?”

“You allowed me to join the company Thorin,” You said carefully.  “You showed me something that I had never really thought possible outside the world I knew, a kindness that I was told did not exist.  What I’m trying to say is, thank you.”

“Thank you?” Thorin spoke slowly.  “It was not my responsibility to show you anything.”

“No, it wasn’t,” You agreed. “But you did anyway, even without realising it, and even though, in doing so, you have doomed me, it has been worth it.”

Thorin’s lip curled in a snarl that you chose to ignore, even as he got to his feet and stalked towards you, his eyes burning.  “What did I show you, dragon?”

You didn’t flinch at the bite in his tone, simply staring him down as he stood before you.  “To show me, it’s worth it all. That friendship, and maybe even love, are more powerful than greed and vengeance, that that is the way the world should be, even if few are willing to see it.”

“Love?”  The darkness across Thorin’s voice broke a little as he said it back quietly, but it was brief as he jabbed you in the chest, although you still did not flinch.  “Is that what you think this is dragon?  Perhaps you are more naïve than I first thought.”

He spun around and marched away from you as you stared after him, having not moved or reacted to his words.

“Then perhaps,” You said quietly, making him pause.  “It is you that is the dragon and not I, as most care not for feelings, they care for power and greed and rage.  I will tell you know, Thorin Oakenshield, that that is a world you do not want to live in.”  You turned away as he looked at you, starting your long walk back out of the hall.  “I’ll have you know that I will be hunted for what I have done, and if it means anything to you, it has, as I said, been worth it.”

You left to silence, refusing to answer any questions and to sit and wait for the battle to come.

Things moved swiftly after that, and while you were no where near healed, you knew you had to be present to help win the day, although shifting was out of the question unless you desperately had to.  You were pleased when Thorin re-joined you, his eyes clear and focused as his gaze met yours.

“We will discuss this later.”  He said quietly and you give a simple nod and ready your sword in hand.

You lost sight of most of the dwarves in the midst of battle, focusing heavily on your own until Ravenhill got your attention, eagles soaring overhead and you caught a brief glimpse of Thorin that made your heart beat faster.

You risked it and roared up to meet him, landing back in human form between him and Azog, the two of you clashing, your exhausted body just keeping up blow for blow, Thorin distracted by more orcs rushing in.

At a shout from him, it was distraction enough that Azog buried his sword into you, making you roar in pain for a moment before going on the attack, knocking him backwards enough that the sword was pulled free, but in doing so, you lost your balance.

He did not.

The mace hit you hard, sending your spiralling across the ice, a shout muffled in your ears as you fought to stay conscious and to get your body moving again so that the final blow didn’t come.

Silence enveloped the ice.

You frowned, managing to roll onto your back, footfalls hurrying over but you had no time to think as Thorin was suddenly there, bloody, hurt, but his eyes were full of concern.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet as he knelt by your side.  “I cannot decide whether that was foolish or brave.”

You smile at him.  “It worked though, he’s dead?”

Thorin nods slowly, looking over your injury and carefully resting a hand over it.  “We need to get you looked at.”

“I will be okay, we dragons are a hardy folk.” You give half a laugh before coughing hard, pain roaring through you.  “It’s been worth it, I promise.”

He sighs.  “Y/N…those words you spoke to me, were the true?”

“Yes,” You managed to get out.  “There’s still…a lot to…work through…but….I believe…that’s what it is.”

Thorin doesn’t say it, but you can feel it as he looks at you, his eyes shining with tears that he quickly hides and helps you sit up.  “Come on then, we can’t leave you here like this.  Let’s…get you somewhere so you can heal up.”

“Thank you Thorin.” You mumble, closing your eyes for a moment as he pulls you fully to your feet, taking your body weight over his shoulders.

He glances at you, worried. “You can thank me after Y/N, once the chaos has cleared.  You and I have much to discuss after all.”

You just smile and fight to stay awake in his arms, allowing yourself to be lead into what was hopefully going to be a brighter future than what had originally been intended.

[toffeetaffy]

Beast at My Side [6]

An Unfinished Sky

Alice. I imagine her as a paper crane. Unblemished wings folded with a peerless precision, a delicate shell to house the heart of the sweetest songbird. She was once a Cullen, I am told. Once, a lot of things. Edward's sister, Bella's friend, Jasper's wife. Now they call her Volturi. That word so small and insignificant to me saturates the room with a rage that is both dark and tempting. My heart gives an irregular, sloppy thump and their eyes all turn to mine. For the first time I am truly experiencing the fear—the thrill—of being here without the numbness of my loss. Wherever this discussion now leads it is not for my ears. I gather my wits and my jacket, then make for the door.

Dark mud and thin fog are canopied by leaves of green. The woods are damp and warm, rich with colour and sound. Breath slow. Eyes closed. I feel a calm in these trees that I can find nowhere else. Too soon it is broken by the snapping of twigs, the dragging of feet. I hear her only because she lets me. Each sound a deliberate warning of her approach.

"That was a whole new level of tension, huh?" Even here in the bowels of the forest, knee-deep in weeds Bella is beautiful. Too beautiful.

I nod in response. There is no tactful way to enquire about Alice, to slake the burn of my curiosity. All I can do is arrange my face into a look that urges and implores.

She takes pity on me then. She tells me the story of Alice: a broken girl left to wither in darkness, turned cold by a stranger and preyed upon by a demon, saved from her torment by a vision of the future. A future with Jasper. "And they fixed each other," Bella continues, "they loved each other until they were whole again." She wears a smile that would once have seemed dopey. On her immaculate, snowy mask it looks only serene.

"Then why did she leave?"

"To make a new future."

Two creatures whose hearts would beat forever, stitched together by the threads of fate - suddenly undone. That even her kind were not guaranteed love eternal must have been a sobering revelation for Bella. I ask how she feels about it all and her smile takes an enigmatic curve. It's better this way, she tells me. Better for whom, I do not know.

___

The Cullen house is filled with open spaces, dusted with creamy carpet, and spotted with golden sunlight. Patterned china and priceless works of art line the white walls but nothing under its roof is quite as stunning as Rosalie Hale. Startled by her invitation I hover near the door. My hands sweat. Sitting at a vanity, her reflection greets me with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. She looks breathtaking. I look awful.

"You look awful," she says.

I laugh and she counters with a rueful smile. Creatures as lovely as her say what they please. She extends her arm in a placid appeal and I drift to her side without further thought.

"What must you think of me?" Her tone implies an inquiry but questions such as these are rarely answered to satisfaction, and I would be loathe to dissatisfy her. "Perhaps you think me cold," she hums, "cruel? Many do, Bella among them. I'm not... adept at first impressions, or so I am told."

"Guarded," I say, "not cruel. To protect a family like this I imagine I would be too."

A quirk of the mouth, a pinch in the cheek. Rosalie Hale wears her affection with a practised subtlety. She beckons me closer, pats my hair like a child. There is something in her touch that is almost warm, almost maternal. But it is only an echo, a shadowy remnant of a woman who no longer exists. Much of her seems this way. Glossy varnish coating the muddled brush strokes of an unfinished sky.

When I enquire as to why she has summoned me, she looks at my hands, my throat. Anywhere but my eyes. Profound sadness, she says, is something she knows and knows well. First, she speaks of the ephemeral nature of joy; likens human elation to the slapping of waves, the changing of tides. To know utter devastation, she explains, one must first have known complete and total exaltation.

"And did you?"

Her response is no more than an unschooled expression but it answers my question without the burden of words. Yes. For all her poise and power, Rosalie hid something inside herself that was soft and scarred. It was not damaged from a darkness that had taken over, but from a bliss that had been snatched away. I understand now that she holds a sadness so deep that I may never comprehend it.

"But that's not why you're here," she says, "give me your keys."

Outside, she appraises the Kombi with a tsk and a tut. She circles it slowly, grimaces at the paint, the upholstery, the mats on the floor. "It's a Type Two," she runs a neatly manicured hand across the blistered orange door, "popular in the sixties and seventies." For a moment she appears lost in one of her perfectly preserved memories. "The seventies were exciting," she sighs. "Not the fashion, mind you, or the music. But there was something. Something that made even creatures like us feel... alive." She smiles with all the warmth of a stolen sunbeam. "But the most memorable thing? Carlisle's wavy perm!"

When she laughs the sound is as deep and rich as the bell of a church. Stunning. Hopeful. Real. She is more striking now—parted lips, crinkled eyes—than I have ever known her to be.

Inside the van, she turns the keys and the thing roars to life, lurches forward at her command. We drive to the garage—so much larger than it first appeared—and park inside. The dark walls are spotted with cars, all new and polished, spectacular even under the rows of fluorescent lights. One corner is filled with metal chests and lined with lockers painted cobalt blue, in another sits a pair of motorcycles, a pile of rags, and an assortment of dented tins.

She wastes no time in talking. Instead, Rosalie sheds her creamy woven sweater before plunging her arms under the engine lid. For close to an hour she guts the machine: picking, pulling, and plucking at its gizzards with little effort or exertion. She speaks only to instruct, praise, or direct my hand as she sees fit. Another hour passes as I watcher her work, mesmerised by the vibrancy of her eyes and the dexterity of her fingers. At her request I hold a piece in place. The metal is round, heavy, and slick with grease but she fastens and fixes before it has time to slip away. Her dead hands work at twice the speed of any living, and her eyes see in to even the darkest recesses. Scotopia, she tells me, gives them something akin to night vision.

"Like a cat?" I ask.

"Like a cat," she replies.

With her work complete, Rosalie starts up the van. For a time she sits with her eyes closed and her lips pursed, listening for something beyond my divination. Eventually her face slackens with satisfaction and she silences the motor once more. I am caught in the act of replicating her faraway smile.

"You're rudderless," she says, "and you're sad. And you're starting to wonder if there's any point at all."

I do not question or deny. She allows me only time enough to scrunch up my nose, to wrinkle my brow, before she speaks again.

"The sad truth is: there is no point. There never was to begin with. Beyond the acts of living and loving, of sharing and dying, a single human life is of little consequence or significance. You'll spend your meagre years accumulating knowledge, friends—perhaps even wealth and status—but one day soon your body too will rest beneath the earth." She wipes down her hands and arms, picks her nails clean. "But find comfort in this: I would trade every single decade of my deathless existence for even one more day of real human pain, of real human life. Embrace it. Awful, dark, and terrifying as it is, because there will be a day when you will know incomparable joy. And that day will make these worth their bitter taste."

My arms hang at my sides, weighed down by grease, grime, and the burden of her words.

In her sister, Bella sees only mist and frost. But I can see something else. Something more. Pink and warm and resilient. A blushing rose caught in a drift of snow.

"Thank you, Rosalie."

She tilts her head in an increasingly recognisable gesture. "We're wanted inside."

A soft whistle and sharp gust of air are the only signals of her departure. I make a small attempt at ridding my arms and knees of the filth that cover them before starting towards the house at a dismally human speed. By the time I arrive the entire Cullen family is waiting, arranged around the living room like a row of teeth.

"Hey, what's up?"

Bella huffs and shrugs in a poorly practised attempt at exasperation. "I could really use a favour," she says, "Ren's going to stay at Charlie's for a while and I was hoping you could drive her there. We've got a few things that need finishing up around here."

"Sure."

My response sounds sceptical at best but Bella forges on. She stores the address in my phone, tells me Charlie is expecting me. Edward fixes his daughters backpack in place and ushers her forward with a kiss on the head and a quiet warning to behave.

"So... you have some super secret family business to take care of and you'd like it if I could myself scarce for a while?"

My assumption must be correct. The matriarch and the behemoth both laugh out loud while Edward's shoulders shake in silent mirth. Bella's face is stuck oscillating between a grimace and a pout. She appears unlikely to respond with either.

Edward produces from his pocket a ring containing a single key and fob. "Please, take my car." His saccharine smile does little to hide his intent. Impervious to harm though she may be, Edward's daughter is cargo too precious to travel in a car like mine. I'm too intrigued to be offended.

I load her in to the back seat. She's small and smiling and it somehow doesn't look right. Yesterday she was smaller. Five days ago, smaller still. A month from now she may be full grown. I worry for her. A child trapped in a woman's body. Ren reaches out and touches my cheek; her gift shows me a wisdom and strength that surpasses her frail form. She asks why that makes me sad. I tell her that I do not know.

"Tempting." He says it with a sigh. Propped against the wall of the garage, Jasper paints a long, lean shadow. Green, blue, black.

A curious combination of fear and attraction heats my skin. It crawls up my neck, pinches at my ears, renders me dumb. I remember all too well his lips on mine. Cold and smooth. Sour and delicious. I can think of little else while I stare at his well-formed mouth.

"Honestly," he says, "I am sorely tempted to just get in the car and let you drive away with me."

Ren giggles from the back seat, shaking me from my stupor. I ask him if he would like to join us. A question he seems oddly troubled by. He makes an approach—soundless and slow—his eyes always on mine.

"Never offer me something you don't truly mean to give."

Though more riddle than response, I can see his statement for what it truly is: a warning. Of what precisely, I am not sure. But I nod my head sharply. I turn away on unsteady legs.

With a little direction from Ren, and one or two lucky guesses, I find the home of Charlie Swan. It's small and white with uneven windows and a smudge of front yard. A short drive of muddy brick winds up the side, drowning in lashes of decaying summer leaves. The porch steps creak. I take them one a time and the sound makes my chest grow large, my heart feel warm. Every single thing about this house screams home. An unfamiliar feeling. I knock on the door in a short staccato, brittle chips of paint loosening at my touch.

When he answers the door I am immediately struck by how little he has changed. A few more greys in his mop of curly hair, his moustache a little more severe. But he is Charlie Swan. A plaid shirt, dusty jeans, and demure smile worn like a uniform. Perfect as a second skin.

"Hi, Mister Swan. Bella said you'd be expecting me."

Ren darts forward and offers her grandfather a brief hug before disappearing over the darkened threshold. A woman's startled laughter rings in the distance.

"Lena King." The offered greeting is little more than a mumble. "Been a long time." His arm waves lazily in a gesture that seems to beckon. I follow him inside.

He leads me in to a kitchen with stark white walls, cabinets that beam a cheery yellow in the afternoon sun. A quaint invitation. The little table we sit at is a solid slab—oaken, brown—rimmed with mismatched chairs and scored with shallow cuts. He makes tea from cheap bags. It's strong, hot, and prepared by hesitant hands. The chief of police offers me his condolences with a practised ease and I am furious to think that such a thing should ever become so simple, so straightforward. He talks in to his mug. The kitsch thing—chipped and lightly stained—is so much easier to look at than my bloodshot eyes, or my quivering lip when he asks about my future. I tell him I have no plans beyond the very next breath I'll take. No design greater than to simply survive the coming days.

"But I can do that here," I say, "with Bella. Plot a course for my future, finally figure out what it is I want to do with my life."

"Wish Bells had spent a little more time doin' that."

"Don't worry Mister Swan, we're still young. Bella's got plenty of time to figure out who she is."

His eyes meet mine. They urge, implore, they burrow away until my throat feels dry, my shoulders feel heavy. "She was just so young." And though he could be talking about her marriage, her child, her retreat into a whole new family that he is not a part of - I know that he speaks of her death. We both understand that this Bella is not his Bella.

There is little to say after that. I leave with an odd sense of foreboding.

I drive until the trees close in on me. They tower and twitch, they blot out the sky, they cover my darkness with their own. Then I see it. The thing. It's black and oily, and streaks across my vision like a shadow made flesh. I gasp without thought. The car lurches then halts. Tight against the wheel my fingers fold and flex, my knuckles pale and pop. The car fills with a sound like a rasping wheeze. It scratches at my ears. It claws and scrapes until I crush my hands to my head to dampen the din. But the noise is inside me. It is me. My own terrified breath struggling out of my mouth, burning my lungs. When I finally think I have regained my composure there is a rap on the window—short, sharp—that starts my panic anew.

The girl is pale and narrow. Her cloak hides all but her face: thin and grey with a broad, toothy smile. Such a haunting vision. She leans forward to tap the window again. It would be quite a pretty picture were it not for her eyes: brilliant and vibrant, stained the colour of mulled wine. I know what she is, what to expect, but my end does not come. Instead, she motions with her hand, one bloodless finger twirling in place. Lower the window. But even as I'm thinking no my hand obeys, the partition falls.

"Hello Lena." This smile is small, close-lipped, and barely dimples her sallow face. "Looking for a little direction?"

___

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