Here we are, All That Glitters (do not look for any reason to have that title, there isn't one). I wrote this for a challenge, and there will be these following things mentioned in the story:
-cat
-pomegranate
-socks
-ice-blue (colour)

Three other people will be writing a story with these four things.

Lord of the Rings: .net/u/2587121/Lou_deadfroggy

Doctor Who: .net/u/2501657/dee_the_deer

Harry Potter: .net/u/2568735/Lucinda_Green

Not all of these stories will yet be up, or they might, I am not sure. But they will be up... eventually.

Probably.

The Lord of the Rings one will most likely be up. Not sure 'bout the others.

All that Glitters

"Edward?" Sitting there, in the sand, waiting for me as I approached. Her dress, of the deepest red, was almost billowing out around her, producing a sharp contrast to the white sand beneath her. And then her shoulders, a pale, creamy, yet beautifully dark brown; a swarthy skin tone, crowned by the long, silky black waves of carefully, painstakingly arranged locks of almost straight hair, curling into perfect, smooth, shining ringlets. Ringlets which I wished to run through my fingers, to watch as they fell through my fingers, falling carefully back onto her faultless shoulders, and rolling down her back, meeting the cut of the dress in a graceful, and yet excruciatingly slow manner.

And so I walked up to her, my feet standing about a metre away from hers, although the toes were pointing to the sky, heels lying back onto the pale sand. Her bare toes, every now and then dipping into the coarse grains.

And so I walked forward, closer, and to her side. Sitting down, now lying by her. His head at the same level; and yet, where she was gazing at the twilight sky, his head was turned towards hers, gazing at her unblinkingly. And then, painstakingly slowly, her whole body turned towards me, the hem of her dress rising up, settling just below her knees.

"Edward…" her voice was low, deep, and oh-so-slightly hoarse. My eyes drifted towards her own, deep, ones. Eyes with a shadow, a place I hesitated to go; that depth, a little too shallow.

"Miss…" and as I attempted to utter her name, a long, slender finger was rose to my mouth, and I heard a soft usher of silence leave Bertha's lips.

"There is no need, Edward…" and so she slid closer, slender fingers sliding away from my lips, and up behind my neck, tangling into my knotted hair. And closer she slid, until all I could see were her dark, deep, shadowy eyes. And then her lips met mine, and my eyes closed, although hers stayed wide open, and the shadow, if it was seen, took over the entirety of the eye, as the consciousness drifted away, forming that distant glaze which I would grow to know so well.

That glaze which would soon become a permanent part of her visage.

And slide closer did she, and the kiss deepened, but I knew this shouldn't happen, I knew we should wait, and I attempted to pull back, but pulling back wasn't so very easy.

I opened my eyes, and stared back into her eyes, the dazed look still present, and so appealing.

We were getting married in the morning, and as we lay in the sand, her stockings slid down her legs, and got buried in the sand as the sun continued to set.

Miss Bertha Mason. Nineteen years old. And exotically handsome…

NEXT!

"Dandrae…" the door to my room was pushed open, and two people walked –or rather fell- through. "Dandrae." Once again, the name passed through the woman's lips, just as they were almost swallowed by a servants'.

I pulled my wife away, and took Bertha through to her personal chambers, wherein I sat her body down on a chair, and met her eyes with my own.

"Bertha." I said, firm and secure, attempting to settle her diseased mind. Then I stood up, left the room, and locked her door behind me.

"Dandrae." My voice was flat, emotionless, and as I saw him turn round, after almost at the door, my eyes hardened. He was there, perfectly calm, perfectly smug, and perfectly confident. "I advise that you leave this house." Fire burned in my eyes, and I saw as his grew cold.

"I have no desire to leave," he uttered the words in such a slow, cold manner; it was all I could do not to step forwards, not to loosen the restraint, that which held back the fire in my eyes. I stared across at him, not tall enough to stare down. But I would not allow this height to make a difference. He couldn't be older than seventeen, but he was taller than me. Although, it was only slightly, and I was older. I was married! Married to the woman he had seduced!

But how often had I done this. How often had I found my wife in such positions? We had only been married a month, and I was not able to trust my wife with anything. And how easily she was angered! There was something wrong. Something didn't add up, and I couldn't rest until I knew what.

"Get out." Once again, my voice was calm, low, ice cold. I would not lower myself to raise my voice with this boy. He would get out of the house, and nobody would know what had happened.

"No thank you." His voice was just as cold as mine, just as low, but with the slightest lilting quality. The slightest accent. And with an edge of fire, one which I was holding back from flooding my eyes. "Who are ya, anyway? Wha' is it your business 'bout me and Bertha?" all trace of education slipped from his voice, and he was just a local boy, caught with Mrs. Rochester.

"It is certainly my business what you were doing with my wife!"

"Your wife!" he was shocked. I could se he was shocked, it was blazoned in his eyes, forming a new lilt to his tongue, a new shade of skin to paint his cheeks. He was backing away, slow and steady, careful with every step he took, and then there was a banging on an unseen door, and he ran, sprinting out of the villa, into the shade of the pomegranate trees. But he didn't know, and this still haunted me. He didn't know, and this could do nothing but excite my interest in the mystery, the mystery that was my wife.

Mrs. Bertha Rochester. Twenty years old. And an unsolved mystery to all involved…

NEXT!

"Bertha! Stay still, please," I was disgusted with the begging quality in my voice. Was I really this desperate? As desperate that I had called in doctors? But yes, I was that desperate. Yes, I was in that much need that I had stopped attempting to figure out my wife myself, and called in outsiders. Asked other people to tell me the problem. I was disgusted with myself, but it had come to this much, I had been pondering the problem for years, living with it for so long, I could not keep a house in such a manner. I was a disgrace. A disgrace to myself, and everybody connected with me.

And now I had called for help. I had cut my knee, and gone running to my mother, just as every child must. And still the graze stung. Still, it rebelled.

"Bertha." I covered up the pleading with a cutting edge, a harsh voice that I hadn't used for years. Not since Dandrae. And then I held her down. Moving behind the chair, and took her arms, trying not to be too harsh. But any love I might once have had for Bertha, that had dissipated a long while ago, and now it was all I could do to find out what was wrong with her, however unwilling she was.

I stood like this for some time, holding her steady, willing her to be alright. She needed to be alright. I needed her to be alright. She was my wife, and she wouldn't even look at me. Another thing that stopped after the Dandrae incident, acknowledge of my existence. All she would do is scream, shout, cry, and now I was desperate. For I had once loved her, I am sure of it. I had been in love with my wife, at some point, and I had believed her to be in love with me. But I could never be so sure. She could not even remember me anymore; she was just a distant spirit.

And then she slumped, and stayed that way. I released her arms, and walked round to the edge of the chair. She was sobbing, quietly. Tears were streaming from her eyes, falling from her bent head, and splashing down on her lap. And I looked up to thee doctor, seeing a sorrow in his eyes, and wishing it, with all my heart, away.

"Sir, your wife is…" he broke off, attempting to meet my lowered eyes as I turned round. Bending down, I took myself to Bertha's level, taking her face in my hands, and willing her to know me. I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of recognition, before she tore her head away, and stood up. She gave out a single, sorrowful, quiet whimper, and then ran to her room. She would not be followed.

I did not need the doctor's evaluation; I had known it for four years, since soon after the marriage. But acceptance of this was not possible. It could not be true. Bertha Rochester née Mason could not be… no, it was not possible.

I turned round once more, and met the doctor's gaze. "Her mother?"

"Has been in an asylum for many a year, sir."

Mrs. Bertha Rochester. Thirty years old. Mad…

NEXT!

"Bertha!" now, there was no hiding the pleading quality of my voice. It was there, and it would always be; it would always be there, whenever I said her name. For whatever she had done, she was my wife. However many times a bed could burn, a knife could cut, a tooth could tear, she would always be my wife. Jane had taught me that, that there was no escaping the past, it would always haunt you, and show itself to all when it knew it could hurt you most. For that was the business of the past, that was how past worked. And hindsight would never be enough. Because I did marry her, and there was no going back after that. There was no chance of repentance, of love, of forgiveness, of recognition, so all I could do was protect her, be good to her, treat her as I never did.

I had acted as though she was a science experiment. As though she wasn't human. I had spent years, watching her, testing her, attempting to find out what was wrong with her. And then when I knew, it still wasn't enough, she was still only there to be imprisoned. There was no humanity in my behaviour. I had regretted her from the moment she fell into my room, connected at the lips to a local stable boy. And then I had paid. I had returned to Thornfeild, after so long travelling, expecting for it to be as ever, and yet here was a little fairy. A little fairy was all I had been looking for, and I had never known it.

"Bertha! Please!" and then she turned, regarding me with her foggy eyes, her head tilted to the left, dark hair covering her lips. She looked oh so peaceful, calm, sane. She looked as though she recognised me. And then she did, I could see it in her eyes, they cleared, and she was there once more. Bertha was back, there was clarity in her expression, as though she was resolved for something.

And I knew what that something was. "BERTHA!" I screamed, holding out my hand, although there were metres between us. And so I closed the gap, I took one long, steady stride, and looked into her eyes, willing her to understand. Willing her to stop. And then she stepped. And I thought she might have come towards me. Just, for the slightest second, she had stepped, and I had held out my arms, ready to catch her; but she had stepped in the wrong direction, and there was no chance that I could catch her now.

Taking that last step towards the edge, I bent over the battlements, and watched as she fell, barely even feeling the fire licking at my legs. But I did feel it. It did burn, and she did fall, and she did hit the bottom.

And then I ran, back in the direction I had come. Down the stairs I went, across the hallways, and it was a wonder the fire hadn't blocked my path, but it hadn't. And it was clear, until I reached the entrance hall, and I saw the collapsed ceiling. A wall of flame, blocking the main entrance. And then I attempted to make it back through the halls, to an alternative exit, but just as I was in the doorway, it too collapsed, and now I felt the full extent of the flames.

I lay there, my surroundings burning, trapped under more fire, and only then did I black out.

Mrs. Bertha Rochester. Forty five years old. Lying ice-blue on the pavement below.

NEXT!

"Jane." The word was muttered, and still pleading. For I would never be forgiven. I would never have my Jane, I would always be alone.

And then there was a slight tapping, as though of pilot, and yet lighter. A purring sound, deep and dangerous. It warned me of what was to come, and I braced myself. Not for the feeling of the cat, leaping onto my lap, but for the childish cry that was soon to follow it. And follow it did. I very rarely heard that cry and, although it was joyous, I didn't not share that emotion. I knew who it was, even if I couldn't see the culprit.

"Mademoiselle?" I questioned. If you were only judging by my voice, you would believe me to be pleased, if hiding it, but it was displeasure that the formality hid.

"Monsieur!" once again, the joyful voice, and yet totally artless. My ward was sincere, and I hoped she would always stay that way. She was one thing that I may not yet mess up. She had not had a present for some time now, and had long since stopped asking for them. In her manner, there was no trace of Celine, even if it was evident in appearance. But appearance would no longer bother me.

And now she had a gift, but one which craved responsibility. She very rarely visited me, but occasionally there was reason to see her, and so I should be grateful yet. He had received letters from the teachers of the school, ones which recounted little attention, day-dreaming, and lack of discipline, but I knew the little French girl hadn't owned these traits for some time. I knew that, if she was acting in such away, it would be a reflection on the environment surrounding her. And so I called on her, calling her to my new home.

And waiting at the place was a kitten. I had had it purchased not a week ago, and since then she had been bothering me. She was the perfect pet for her new mistress, reflecting Adele's character completely.

And so I did my best to hide a sorrowful expression. The one which I was loathe to adopt, but had become common to my features. I felt Adele kiss me, as she was wont to do, and then picked the frightened kitten up from my lap, passing it to her new mistress.

"Jane," I begged, the sound coming from my very heart. I needed her, and as I looked back on this event, of but a fortnight ago, I felt foolish for that sorrow. There was no reason for me to be sad, not then; only now was true depression justified.

Then, I had hope. There was no proof that Jane was gone, only chance that she might come back. Now, there is conclusive proof. There is evidence that she had gone, died in a ditch, evidence in that cry.

Four nights ago -or maybe four years- I cried out, the pain being too much to bear, and I cried out for Jane. I screamed her name, repeated it, three times, every word punctuated by tears. For I had given up on ever finding her. And then she replied. She called that she was coming, but this I could not believe. She was nowhere near Ferndean, so her crying out could only mean one thing. And only then could I truly know sorrow. Only then did it hit me. And then I died.

But yet I was still living. I should be gone, drifting to my love, but it never happened. I still lived, whatever it felt like.

"Could somebody bring me my candles!" I cry out, letting my voice pull me out of my reverie. And I rang the bell, and then waited for the footsteps. And so they came, along with a slight swishing of water, and the clattering of the glass against the tray. The candle was set down on a nearby table, and the half empty glass of water brought to my lips. But the hand was small, the touch gentle, and the skin soft.

"John?" I questioned, wondering at the imposter.

"It is not John, sir," a voice I knew all to well replied. And so I grabbed hold of the hand, spilling half the remaining water in the process.

Miss Jane Eyre. Twenty years old. And standing in front of me, wondrously alive.

There, finished, hope you enjoyed, and possibly went to read some of the others, if they are in Fandoms you like...

Awquard

Well, anyway, please review.

And I did spell it right!