All things Twilight are the sole property of the divine Stephenie Meyers. This fan fic is purely for entertainment (mainly mine!) with no other gain. No copyright infringement is intended. Think of it as an homage
Introduction
My fic "Moonshadow" followed the 'natural path' Jacob referred to in Eclipse; that is, what would have happened in Bella's life without the return of Edward and the Cullen family.
Edward's story did not end just because he left Forks, for good as far as Bella knew…Of course, not all was as it seemed.
Inspired by reviewer requests and because, die-hard TJ that I am, I still do love Edward as well and wanted to acknowledge his suffering and sacrifice so that Bella could have the life she deserved.
Hugs to leelator (you're all reading her wickedly funny How to Seduce a Werewolf, right?) who never lets me geta away with anything (pout) and to sfiddy (check out her insightful fic Sublimation here on ffnet - beta'd by yours truly) for prereading & asking questions!
As a sort of preamble, I suggest reading "Save Yourself" by the talented SubtlePen and Stephenie Meyer's own haunting outtake "Rosalie"
("Save Yourself" is as yet unfinished, perhaps suitable…encouragement may inspire Ms. Pen to continue; it is a parallel fic to her outstanding O/S "Finally Mine", a selection in The Bella and Jacob Chronicles, the series I created on .)
The Fractured Angel
Prologue, March 2006
Automatically, my thumb pressed redial.
In another hemisphere the phone rang four times; a click, fumble and a husky voice said, "Swan residence. Leave a message for Charlie or Bella at the beep. If this is an emergency, call 911 or dial the station direct at 555-4321." The long message tone sounded and my thumb hit 'end' and then redial once more.
"Swan residence. Leave a message for Charlie or Bel-." I pressed 'end' one last time.
Frozen, I stared at the bit of plastic and programming in my hand. For the months since I had left Forks, since I had left Bella – oh, dear God! - in the darkening forest, the phone had never been more than a few inches away from me. At times I would hold it lightly in my palm, gently stroking as if it were the face of the girl I loved.
At other times I huddled across the room from it, eyeing the phone warily as a would-be suicide might regard a purpose-bought gun or a vial of poison; or as a junkie might look at his drug of choice: hating it, wanting to be free of the hell of addiction; all the while loving it beyond sense and reason. Knowing that to succumb would mean blessed release from suffering – followed by certain damnation.
One last thing this bit of technology could do for me; a few touches, some shifting of screens and the information I sought appeared.
Without a thought to where it might land, I tossed the instrument away and sped across the squalid favela where I had gone to ground. Perversely, I had achieved a measure of bleak comfort amid creatures as desperate and wretched in their way as I.
A fragment of grim humor floated through the wastes of my mind: how odd that Rosalie, who never did anything without first calculating the advantage to herself, should unwittingly become my benefactress, the means to my salvation. It was an irony that would have been lost on her.
None of these things mattered now; a flight leaving Galeão International Airport at ten o'clock would be the first leg of a journey that would bring me peace at last.
Part 1: Petition March 2006
The heavy wooden door swung open at the command to enter. The hands that gripped both my arms thrust me into the room, not roughly, but not gently either. I fell to the floor, landing heavily on my knees. I had no will to resist my own momentum and toppled over to lie on my side. And there I stayed.
The other being in the sunlit room made no sound, was completely motionless, his intent gaze was almost palpable; a confrontation of sorts was inevitable, but I found I could not summon the energy to care.
I lay inert, my cheek was pressed closely into the nubbly wool rug beneath me; the cool light of the spring day outside fell on the uppermost side of my face and glowed through my eyelids, making a sort of reverse image of an old time magic lantern show…
(.)(.)(.)
Night had just fallen, there were a few lingering streaks of gold and russet in the Western sky, yet the way into Volterra was oddly crowded; I had not anticipated this. The winding, narrow road up to the city proper was blocked by a temporary barricade, which was manned by a pair of overly officious men in uniform, haughtily waving cars to a make-shift parking area. Choosing not to engage, I meekly did as directed and effectively abandoned my rented car.
Casting about with my mind, I learned the reason for the throng: the eve of a saint's day festival celebrating, irony of ironies, Saint Marcus' heroic banishment of the vampires that had once plagued the town. Maybe there was a God after all, one with a peculiarly twisted sense of humor.
The notion of a God brought a memory of Carlisle and our many conversations on the matter, thoughts that turned to a vision of Esme and her sorrowful face when I parted from my family that last time. And Alice…Quickly, I crushed these thoughts; my plans were made and I would tolerate no interference, especially not from my own imagination.
The human contingent, hoping to obtain advantageous places for whatever festivities might be presented, trudged their way up the steep road. I darted through and beyond the loose procession, absently hearing snatches of conversation and thoughts: anticipation of wine and all-night revelry from clusters of students; families considering sleeping arrangements and mealtimes; mixed boredom and irritation from more capped and gauntleted guards placed along the route. To the mortals I was but a brief chill breeze, felt in passing and then forgotten.
No more than a shadow, I slipped through the ancient gate in the city wall, overhung with a portcullis like jagged teeth, and finally considered how best to bring myself to the attention of my hosts-to-be. In all of Carlisle's reminiscences of what he referred to as 'the nighttime patrons of the Arts' he had never actually mentioned how he had made their acquaintance in the first place.
I needn't have wondered; once through the gates into the fortress itself, my skin veritably prickled with the heavy awareness of others, many others, of my kind. The shock of contact with the acute, crystalline minds of predators gave me, for the first time, a tingle of unease; a reaction that radiated from what had once been my heart to my extremities, almost as if blood still flowed through veins in my body. The undead were everywhere.
The darkness of the little town was broken by irregular pockets of light from oil lanterns, old fashioned torches and prosaic electric lights. Dimly I perceived the voices of the merry makers, the clink of dishes from inns and restaurants, the popping of the firecrackers that are inevitable in any Italian celebration. These details sank to mere background as I focused on the eternal residents of this place.
There, and there, and over there. I had been noticed.
Curiosity, mistrust, amusement, anger, suspicion; waves of feeling carried on the medium of thought swirled around me. There would be a flicker at the corner of my vision, a ghost of a mocking laugh, the susurration of whispers, so faint as to be unintelligible. I would move toward the source of such attentions to find that it had moved; then another mind, different in its signature but with similar sentiments, would beckon figuratively, only to fade away in turn.
On and on, these will o' the wisps drew me through the twisty cobblestone streets, seemingly at random but I could discern the intent: I was being corralled. As subtle as smoke, a figure seemingly materialized beside me.
"You are summoned." The strongly accented words were spoken quietly, in a tone that would allow no objection; not that resisting entered my mind, I had come here with a purpose. There was nowhere to run, even if I had wanted to; walls of massive stone blocks formed sheer canyons around us. Climbing them was no obstacle, but the shadowy figures converging on me most definitely were.
"Our master would have words with you." The terse sentence was in answer to my questioning look. In size, the speaker reminded me of Emmett, but the mind was a far cry from my brother's fundamental bon hommie; this being radiated intensity of purpose, implacable loyalty and a craving for the approval of his director, as well as malice in abundance. "I am Felix, a trusted agent of my lord Aro. You are summoned," he repeated with a touch of impatience.
A curt nod was my answer and I was guided some distance further, till the hulking being at my shoulder indicated a discrete opening, behind what appeared to be an empty niche in the wall. It was a space designed to house the figure of a saint, the aperture would have been invisible to one without preternatural vision.
My taciturn companion was joined by another; Demetri was the name I plucked from his mind. Both wore flowing cloaks of deep grey, making them appear to be no more than the shadows that deepened and lengthened as we moved away from the feeble light allowed by the concealed entrance.
Through corridors and passages, up ramps and down stairways I was led. I suspected strongly that I was being taken on a purposefully meandering course with an end to confusing me. No matter, I wouldn't need further knowledge of the fortress.
We halted before a massive pair of doors, one standing ajar. Felix made a mocking flourish and gestured for me to precede him in to a cavernous room, lit from above by unglazed slits. I judged the walls they pierced to be at least two feet thick; this must be the very heart of the citadel.
In the shadows of the far side of the chamber a door opened and shut. "Ah-h, a visitor, I see," came a feathery voice. "How charming."
The speaker drifted forward, every movement one of surreal grace, even to me. The figure of a young woman followed him, as silent as a shadow and as unnoticed; a body guard of a most unusual and effective sort, I sensed.
It took no gift as a mind reader to know that this was Aro, the oldest, most powerful vampire on earth; our ruler for lack of a better word.
He circled slowly, almost languidly. As we appraised one another, I took in his shoulder length hair, the glossy black of a raven's wing; the eyes were a burgundy color, hazed with immeasurable age; the skin was a translucent white, with a slightly dusty appearance, as if it had been hastily powdered. A cloak like the others wore, but black rather than gray, was thrown back over the shoulders, revealing an exquisitely cut jacket of black velvet, trimmed with a subtle edging of gilt lace.
The oddly colored eyes flicked over me, absorbing my appearance in silence. For the first time in months I considered how I must look to others, unkempt, no doubt; I could not remember the last time I had bathed or put on fresh clothing or even combed my hair.
My eyes narrowed as I strove to assess the nature of the man examining me - faces, emotions, landscapes, smells, colors, voices, memories, and tastes – a bewildering array of thought and impression. I was unaccustomed to a lack of certainty when it came to the minds of others, only just the one…a shiver passed through me as I suppressed the memory.
A slender hand was extended, the gesture the very definition of refinement; I stared at it dumbly. I could hear from his mind that he expected me to take it – along with a surge of rapacious curiosity - but I was at a loss for what purpose. The thoughts of malicious anticipation pulsing from the few other occupants of the room were…disconcerting. Aro raised a haughty eyebrow, a shove from behind propelled me forward.
Thus encouraged, I gingerly placed my own hand in the one offered me; the tapering fingers curled listlessly around mine…The air of enervation was a sham: in an instant the delicate handclasp changed to a wrenching grasp from which I could not withdraw and the burgundy eyes hardened, compelling mine to meet them. I could not suppress a gasp at the sensation that assailed me.
No wonder I had found Aro's mind difficult to assess! He made no attempt to conceal his thoughts, but the centuries of experience woven through with the varied realities he had gleaned from countless minds through the years, gave a multi-layered richness and complexity to his mental processes that I had never encountered before. Nor would again, that was nearly certain.
Seemingly, Aro absorbed every detail from the lives of those he encountered, as well as those of his…meals. Indeed, it seemed as if this element of the life force was as vital to his being as the other.
His power was almost unfathomable. The secret, partly unconscious, pride I had always taken in my ability to read thoughts was revealed; my skills appeared quite meager in comparison to the strength of this entity and I felt myself shrivel as he examined every moment of my existence. My thoughts, my past, my hopes and disappointments, all were laid bare for this ancient and ruthless being onto whose dubious mercy I had impulsively thrown myself.
The contact of mind to mind was a gentle as a sigh, yet as brutal as a chainsaw. I found myself wondering if those whose minds I touched had felt this awareness – I hoped not, the sensation was akin to violation as Aro pulled every secret from me, as he wrung each memory of my Bella from me in pitiless detail.
"You astonish me," he murmured silkily, "and that does not happen often, my young friend, I assure you. Such a gift; la tua cantante!"
The translation, your singer, flowed from his mind to mine, yet the meaning was considerably more charged than the simple phrase would suggest. I got an impression of mingled avarice and reverence, spiked with a sharp, nearly painful, eroticism.
"If I hadn't experienced this through your memories, I wouldn't have believed the call of anyone's blood could be so strong…and yet-." The deep red eyes widened as the story of my doomed love unfolded from my mind to his, "- you did not avail yourself of this prize…." Incredulity colored his voice and thoughts.
Abstruse as his mind might be, there was no mistaking the wrath growing in the Immortal before me as the extent of my involvement with a mere human became clear.
"The girl knew, and was left alive?" Outrage quivered in his light, melodious voice.
"It should need no explanation to you…my lord," I said wretchedly, "I am here precisely because she no longer lives. I resisted, r-ran away even; but I destroyed her as surely as if I had …"
"By rights, the law should claim you for this hubris…" he murmured thoughtfully, as if to himself. The wine-colored eyes regarded me speculatively; I could feel his mind turning over various possibilities. My hand was released with an artificially negligent air, followed by a whisper light touch of a finger on my cheek.
"Such beauty," he breathed, "such talent, too much to be wasted! A place could be made among us for one such as you."
A cynical huff sounded from me at this statement; he spoke as if I had a future, as if I could be swayed from my purpose the way you could distract a fretful child with a treat.
"I fear I must decline your…kind offer." It was a struggle to keep the irony from my tone.
With a sad shake of his head, he murmured, "I have not much will to grant what you seek, my young friend, but I will present your case to my…associates and together we will decide."
At least he had known what I wanted, I didn't have to make a plea or a sales pitch. Aro glanced over my shoulder. I had been peripherally aware while my brain was being scoured that Felix had left the room briefly; now he was back and behind him floated two more black cloaked men. Both looked very much like Aro, ancient, powerful, menacing; from Carlisle's descriptions I knew the white-haired, sour-faced one was Caius, the bored looking man with the flowing black hair similar to Aro's must be Marcus.
A few other vampires, some in ordinary street clothes, some in robes of varying shades of gray, drifted wraith-like to cluster near the trio, but kept a respectful distance. Consciously or not, the three leaders struck a pose very like the one depicted in the painting that hung in Carlisle's private stud. I wondered how long the conferring would take; I had no concern as to the means of my release, so long as it came soon.
"When?" my lips formed the word but no sound came out. Trying again, I said more strongly, "When? When will I know?" The faces, and minds, of the others in the chamber reflected shock at the bluntness of my query; evidently certain formalities were to be observed here. Hastily, I added on, "My lord," as a placatory measure.
Aro and the other members of the triumvirate regarded me with condescension, before exchanging a brief look among themselves. "Dawn," came the terse reply and the black-clad backs were turned on me; plainly I had been dismissed.
A well modulated voice sounded in my ear. "Allow me to show you the view from the tower," said Demetri in a gravely courteous tone. I stared from surprise, he not spoken until now. Unlike the coarse and threatening demeanor of his companion, Felix, Demetri's voice was cultured and smooth, his manner courtly.
"Please," he urged, with a meaningful look, "the lords don't take kindly to…lack of privacy." I suffered myself to be guided solicitously up more flights of stairs.
"Mmmm, yes, magnificent," I mumbled automatically when we emerged at the heights. In reality, I had no opinion; I had surrendered all interest in a world where Bella Swan no longer existed. I did feel a flicker of ironic humor that the courteous habits of an unnaturally extended lifetime could still surface this way.
We spent the hours of that night, surely the longest ever, walking the battlements of the ancient castle. My companion (or was he a guard?) kept up a steady, yet low key, commentary on the history of the fortress, but mercifully expected little in the way of response from me. By preference, I would have been alone with my thoughts, dreary though they were; nonetheless, I felt a flicker of grudging gratitude for the soft, steady rumble of his voice as I struggled to keep my mind from drifting to the deliberations in the great hall.
The curiosity of my escort was evident from his thoughts – in the tightly constrained world of Volterra any novelty was more than welcome – but he maintained a respectful silence about my mission. Demetri's was a mind of discipline and restraint, detached yet kindly in its way- a restful mind.
At last the sky began to lighten and my guide led me back to the audience chamber…
A brief time later, I staggered from the hall, hearing taunting laughter as I fled; my mind was reeling in shock and despair. I had been so sure my request would be granted, indeed I had not allowed myself to consider any other outcome, that I felt as stunned as a mortal might after a brutal blow to the head.
My plea had not availed, but there must be some way to provoke the outcome I desired. There was only one real law in our world and only one form of punishment for its violation. A montage of egregious actions flashed through my mind, acts of inhuman strength with witnesses or blatant attempts at self-destruction, also in front of mortals.
Perhaps a hunting rampage through Volterra.
That much I did know about the resident undead; they did not foul the nest. No hunting was permitted among the local populace, for obvious reasons; instead 'supplies' were brought in for the residents of the citadel.
I dismissed the surge of shame and guilt at the thought of backsliding on my commitment to Carlisle's vision; petulantly, I rationalized that such self-denial had availed me nothing in the end.
Still turning the matter of a public blood feast over in my mind, I emerged from the stone passage into full morning light. The expected bustling morning activities of a town coming to life were multiplied by the addition of numerous eager tourists, getting an early start to the day's revels. Instinctively I shrank back to the shadows, not wanting the rays of sunlight that were now making their way over the high city walls to reveal my…Ahh.
(.)(.)(.)
My mind wanted to shut itself down and deny the memory of my ignominious failure to suicide; my bitterness at the ease with which it been prevented seared my consciousness. Only one step away from disclosing our existence to the multitude gathered in the clock square and they had surrounded me, Felix, Demetri, some others I had not bothered to identify.
And Jane.
So dainty and fragile, she made Alice look almost coarse by comparison. Her girlish voice was like the edge of a razor, it left a cut so fine as to be immediately unnoticeable, followed by the exquisite shock of pain.
A thousand fiery mouths tore at me and ravaged my flesh, even as it withered from the searing blast of breath from those burning orifices. The torment of endless eons in the core of hell consumed me - then it was gone, vanished. The ruby-hard eyes of the little witch regarded me with triumph and silently challenged me to provoke her again.
Demetri's face had been emotionless and closed, his mind all but silent, filled with a landscape of a windswept hillside. Felix, in contrast, had looked upon my humiliation with peculiar blend of eagerness, revulsion, triumph and disdain. It came to me that all the Guard had felt the taste of Jane's discipline; they all feared it, yet Felix also envied it: the pain, the power, and the perfect ruthlessness that wielded them.
Unable to defend myself, too spent from the onslaught even to react to the cessation of the torment, I found myself once more inside the fortress, tumbled on the floor of an unfamiliar room, the harsh wool of the costly rug pressed into my cheek.
A sigh.
"Ah, Edward, what will we do with you?" This was said in a gentle, chiding tone, as if addressing a beloved pet who had misbehaved in an entirely expected manner.
"Let me die, Aro," I groaned feebly. "Make it easy on all of us, I'll just try again."
"And you know that I, we, will simply not permit it. I do not approve of waste." The voice of my tormenter - my last, lost hope - was silky, refined, implacable. "Get up." The voice was sharp now, and impatient. When I failed to respond an elegantly shod foot prodded my shoulder.
The gesture was intended to be provocative, indeed, the man I had once been would have responded with ire. The man I was. The months of despair, followed by the more recent shattering grief, had burned away all the old notions of honor and masculine pride. I found it hard to believe that once they had been the very definition of my mortal life.
Long silence; then an aristocratic sniff of exasperation, a muffled scrape and a shuffling noise I could not identify. With my eyes shut and my face pressed into the rough fibers, sounds took on greater significance, surreal in their lack of visible cause. The complex, interwoven patterns of Aro's mind revealed little.
Steely hands griped me and I was roughly hoisted to a sitting position. I flinched as his hand reached for my face; he paused and allowed me to see the glove of finest kid leather that he wore. That had been the mysterious sound, the opening and shutting of a drawer.
Ironically cocking an eyebrow, Aro murmured, with a touch of rueful bitterness, "A necessary practice, I'm afraid. I'm not a voyeur you know; I do what I can to protect myself, and others from…shall we say, contamination?"
He sank to his knees, gracefully, of course, and sat back on his heels; now at eye level with me, he remarked conversationally, "I know you hate me."
An apathetic one-shouldered shrug was the best answer I could muster; I lacked the energy even to feel the despite he expected.
The ancient eyes regarded me solemnly, the patronizing manner of our earlier encounter all but gone. "It pains me to see one so new to immortality so ready to throw away all that life offers," he said gently. With a little shake of his head, he continued, "would your Bella really have wanted you to give way to grief and guilt this way?"
The sound of that name unleashed the thing that was clawing inside me – a pain that knocked me breathless and astonished me with its force.
"Grief?" I rasped out, "Guilt? You think that's what motivates me to…ask for oblivion? If only that were all! I…I cannot exist in a world were Bella is not-." I choked, unable to go on. There were no words equal to the bleak, echoing desert of despair inside me.
"Don't forget, Edward, I've been you," the already light voice dropped to a reedy whisper. The burgundy eyes held mine commandingly, and yet…there was an expression of sympathy, of woe even, that almost mirrored my own. I was appalled and repelled and enthralled as my emotions were reflected back at me. I could feel his longing for her blood, the fathomless depth of his love, the searing bitterness when she was taken from him – from us.
"My dear boy, I have been alive for over three thousand years – I have seen things beyond all imagining… Yet one thing remains the same through all ages: humanity. The seductive, heartbreaking, living flame of them, they burn so bright in their short years; the quality that draws us like the moth, so much more than the sustenance we need." I made a sharp noise in my throat at that; Aro gave an impatient motion with his hand. "I'm not trying to violate your principles, boy, merely saying that I understand the fascination of the…flame.
"Do you think you are the only being who has loved greatly and been denied, by whatever means, the fulfillment of that love?" From the clamor of his mind emerged a clear vision of a dark haired woman in a simple homespun linen shift, a fragment of a memory from a distant life.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" I asked dully, uncaring of what the answer might be. The response did, however, take me by surprise.
"Let me make a proposal." This was said with an air of barely suppressed eagerness, "Give me some time, not much; let us say...the pathetic span of a mortal life. Give me until your beloved would have died of natural causes anyway. If you are still of the same mind then, well…I will…give consent to your wish."
I pretended to consider, as if there was any question as to how I would feel in that all too remote future. He knew, of course.
"I'm am hopeful of being able to convince you otherwise. In the meantime, why should you throw away the opportunities for-", a tiny breath of a pause as he accessed his knowledge of me and formulated the argument he reckoned most likely to sway me. Smoothly, he continued, "-for learning and study, for pursuing the highest arts…Just think of the proficiency you could gain at the piano forte with the tutors we could recruit!"
"Music." I nearly gagged with the bitterness the word raised in my being: I had not been able to play, or even to look at a piano, since that day I had left her. Even Esme's gentle requests to give her the enjoyment of my playing had gone unheeded.
"If that doesn't suit, there are many other…diversions. You have remarkable talent, one that I would like to explore and perhaps there are things about our not dissimilar gifts that I could teach you."
His inviting smile was nicely calculated to convey friendly interest, appeal, sympathy and understanding. But beneath all this was a smug satisfaction that I had played so nicely into his hands. With a shock of dismay, I realized that Aro had anticipated my actions, and had stationed the Guard – and Jane – to intercept my mission of exposure. So much of my basic nature been gleaned from our few moments of communion.
Experience was giving me some familiarity with the intricate patterns of Aro's mind; I schooled my face to conceal just how much of his thoughts were now revealed to me. His hunger for me, on many different levels, was…remarkable in its intensity.
Already I was learning things: no words at all were required to point out that I had little choice in the matter.
(.)(.)(.)
A/N: This fic has been in the works for, well, it seems like forever. All I can say is that life has been…challenging of late.
Those challenges have added up to some pretty severe writer's block, with which I am still struggling. A few strokes for the Muse (in the form of a review *gives meaningful look*) would be greatly appreciated.
PS: I have a lemon-fresh outtake that I will be offering to regular reviewers in the near future…
Next up
Part 2: Dissembling