"The grass was greener

The light was brighter

With friends surrounded

The night of wonder" --Pink Floyd, High Hopes

She was excited to be married. Of course she was excited—what woman in her right mind could look at the man she had fallen in love with and not be excited to marry him? And for the first few weeks, it had been pure marital bliss. They'd gone to and island off of South Africa for their honeymoon, a tiny, exotic place where they got full blast of the culture without the diseased mosquitoes. Although, either way, they would have both healed quickly enough.

But then, they'd come home, moved into the little cottage that had originally been intended for her parents, but who had given it to them and told them they would like the isolation the first couple of years, and then would realize it was much better with the rest of the family.

She hadn't counted on it.

And then she realized he was like any other man, with all his nasty habits. Good Lord, how she hated a mess…

But this argument wasn't about any more messes, even if he always made one.

Her baby was dead. Her poor, poor baby. That sweet, fluffy thing she'd gotten a few years back…

Fifteen years.

That wasn't so old! In a way, it was so ironic. She and him had gone through childhood together—for him, a speedy growth was normal, and had matched up perfectly with her own acceleration. By the time she was seven, and an adult, so was he. She'd loved him. When her relatives weren't with her, his shaggy, smiling complexion had always been. But he was dead.

She sniffed miserably, and kept walking. She would find a good spot to bury him, she swore to herself. He wouldn't have died in vain, only to be buried under a rock. She would have planted him a garden, if the season permitted it, but as it was, the snow and chilly air had already numbed her fingers…

He's dead, and all you can think about is your fingers? Jake was right. You are ridiculous sometimes.

There were tears coursing down her cheeks now, as she reached a weeping willow, it's branches hanging bare and sullen, draped in the snow. Her heart hurt to look at it.

He would be buried here.

She couldn't take it anymore. She dropped into the snow in front of the willow and started sobbing, the tears freezing her face, and her not caring. How had this happened? She'd gone off on her honeymoon, deliriously happy, thinking everything would be fine here and there, and then she'd come back and he was…he was…

"Nessie!" That voice was familiar.

The man who raised you, you idiot.

She looked up to her father's face. Her cheeks and nose were flushed and her eyes red and puffy from crying.

"He's dead." She choked, as he sat carefully beside her and took her in his arms.

"Jake's going crazy looking for you. You know he can't smell when he has a cold."

She nodded miserably and buried her face into his coat.

"And your mother's back home trying to calm him down."

"He was one of my best friends." She whispered.

"I know, I know…" he smoothed her hair back and kissed the top of her head. "But… Nessie, he was bound to go sometime."

"That's not fair!" she burst out, pulling away from Edward. He pulled her back again, and she started crying once again. "I grew up just as fast as he did!"

"Renesmee, you're a half vampire."

"So what?" it wasn't fair at all. It really wasn't. Was he just here to rub it in? How could her own father do that to her? She'd loved him, and…

"You're not going to die when a dog does."

"But it's not fair." She sniffed. "He had just as much right to live as I did."

"Shh… come on now. All normal living creatures will die, love. We all have to accept it."

"I suppose we don't have vampire dogs, do we?"

"No, sweet, we don't."

"And no one's ever tried to make one?"

"Do not try to make one." He told her firmly.

"Yes, I know." She sighed and pulled her head up, so that she was still looking at him, but in his arms. "Do dogs have a heaven?"

"I've no idea." He admitted quietly.

"Think Poe's happy where he is?"

"I'm sure the grass is greener."

"I must sound so stupid right now, asking all these questions…"

"You're only eighteen, Renesmee." He told her gently.

"You're younger!"

He snorted. "Maybe. Younger to whom is the real question."

She smiled shakily. "Thanks, Dad."

"I love you, Nessie."

"I love you too."

"I told Jake I'd bring you back in one piece…"

"Oh, yeah…" they both stood absently, and she swung her arm over his shoulder, and he did the same. And they walked back to the cottage slowly.