I do not own any of the characters in the Twilight series.

They belong to Stephenie Meyer. D:


Renascent: adj

Being reborn; Springing again into being or vigor

Hard, metallic, bitter.

Running her tongue gently across her chaffing lips, she probed the broken skin before leaning back from the mirror. A slender hand brushed gently against the blood-stained lip. Standing alone in the bus's tiny bathroom, she stared at her reflection and thought over the past several days, weary eyes set in a tired face staring back at her.

--

Slurred thoughts whirled sluggishly in her mind, a red plastic cup still clutched firmly in her quavering hand.

'Hooooome is where the heart liiiiives. Isss? The heart is hommmme.'

Hiccupping with a slight smile, she stumbled up the steps of her porch, knocking on the door.

After a few moments, and with fluttering eyelids, she knocked louder.

'Sleep sounds nice... so niiice.'

And then, actually speaking; "Momma? Ooooopen the dooooor, Momma!" The lilt in her voice sounded flat and dull, even to her own ears.

The door swung open. A woman's tear-stained face came into view. Her lips moved, her eyes closed. Shame washed across her features.

Stumbling back, the girl unconsciously scrunched the cup in her fingers, crinkling the already dented plastic even further.

"I'm Sorry, sweetheart."

And then she was at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a backpack and two Wal-mart bags. Tears leaked from the corners of her drowsy eyes.

She looked around, confused.

"S… sorry?"

--

"A bus from L.A. to Seattle, on foot to the Edmond ferry, on the ferry to the Kingston port, a bus to Port Angeles." Shaking her head silently, she stepped back and counted on her fingers, again, the different stops along her journey. "And now, just one more to go. La Push."

Back at her seat, she buried her nose in the cheap paperback she'd bought in Edmond, ignoring the odd glances of the few other passengers. It was midnight, though, and she was a girl traveling alone into the least sunny place in America. What were they supposed to think?

Hours passed, rough pages turned every few minutes until, at last, she closed the book. Her hands rested, fingers clasped, on the slick cover. Turning her head, she looked out the window, the passing trees coming together in one never-ending blur. She let her eyelids drift shut.

--

The rhythm of her footsteps against the soft earth, the pull of the mud against her sneakers, kept her company as she walked slowly along the main road towards the reservation. She'd emptied her thoughts miles back, the angst of expectations now dulled to nothing. She couldn't afford to hope, not on this particular day.

--

Miles of asphalt stretched behind her as she approached the cluster of houses. Asphalt, and more recently, dirt. Plucking gently at her clothes to rid them of the dust and grime, she moved slowly towards one of the homes, a merry light shining through a curtain-covered window. The others were dark, quiet at this time of night; it seemed a party was occurring, the whole community involved.

--

Slow steps, agonizingly careful steps. The girl could stall no longer, already standing on the porch.

Raising a hand, she knocked slowly and softly. If she wasn't received, she couldn't be rejected.

The porch light flickered on and shone down on her with a comforting glow. The door eased open.

A man, tall and dark and undeniably Indian, stood there, looking down on her for a moment, before his eyes snapped brightly and a smile cracked across his face.

"Welcome back, Addison."