A/N: I have to confess that, while this book is one of my most favorite books OF ALL TIME, I never intended to write for this fandom. Mostly because the characters are all so amazing and completely beyond my skills to capture adequately (especially Jane and Mr. Rochester) that I felt I'd be doing some kind of injustice by writing them. But then I saw the new move (Michael Fassbender... omg... I loved Mr. Rochester as soon as I read the book, but OMG. If I hadn't loved him before the movie I sure as heck would now) and re-read the novel and this just kind of came to me. I'm fairly certain that it's OOC and very much have my doubts about posting it, but as I hate letting things wither away on my hard drive and didn't have the heart to delete it, I decided to go ahead and share it, come what may. It is mostly book-'verse, but I was totally picturing Michael Fassbender as Mr. Rochester while I wrote it, so he may come across as more movie-'verse.
Disclaimer: I don't own Jane Eyre or any of the characters affiliated with it. I do, however, own a heart that loves it, and will always be very respectful of the story, its characters and values, and will return them unharmed once I've finished with them.
Edward Rochester had searched all day, across the roads of -shire, in Millcote, everywhere. He had ridden until Mesrour was shaking, until the midnight-colored horse's sides heaved and his flanks were slick with sweat. He had charmed, raged, bribed, and done everything short of pleading to find some sign of her. But the last anyone had seen her, Jane Eyre had been climbing aboard the stage, bound for no one knew where. The coachmen could tell him nothing either. She had disembarked and gone away, the only sign that she had even been was her small purse, left behind in her seat as though forgotten in her haste to get as far from him as possible.
His bird was gone; in spite of all he had done to keep her near him she had flown, high and away until he could no longer find her, reach her, touch her.
He raced through the halls of Thornfield. How hateful that old manor seemed to him now! How the life had left it since Jane had fled. Fate had dared him to be happy at Thornfield, cursed his chances at ever being so; yet he had defied it, sworn that he would find happiness here. And for a short, sweet time it seemed that all the wrongs in his life would have been made right through her. He would have been content to never leave that old house again, if only Jane had stayed.
The servants all but fled as he stormed through the house, through the grand hallways and past the splendid rooms that boasted of all his wealth. Wealth that he would have given away with pleasure, for it meant nothing now.
He passed all this, choosing the smallest of rooms, the most plainly furnished, as his destination. Her room, the place where his little elf had lived, where she had dreamed, where she had kept her inmost secrets.
She had taken almost nothing when she'd gone. Her dresses still hung in the wardrobe, her books and trinkets - the ones he had given her over their brief courtship, all were left behind. Even the little doll that she kept was there, discarded hastily on the untouched bed.
Her drawings were gone, though. Of all the things that would have really brought him comfort, those things that spoke deeply of the heart and soul that he had come to love, none remained. Nothing of worth remained to remind him of her.
He pressed his hands to the smooth wood of the writing table, his mind involuntarily imagining her as she sat there, writing letters or perhaps drawing, or doing whatever else strange little birds like she did behind closed doors.
"Jane. Jane!"
He turned, his head in his hands as he moaned her name. It was by mere chance that he caught sight of the little box; or perhaps it was Fate, making some small amends for all the hurt and ill-will it had brought him. He lifted it gently, wondering what sort of things his bird had kept within. He pried open the lid, his breath catching as his eyes skimmed over the meagre contents.
Alone in the box were two small portraits, one on a smooth slate of ivory, the other on a slate of chalk. Both of these he took in hand, casting the box aside now that it had been emptied of its treasures.
A bitter, agonized smile twisted at Rochester's lips as he took in the portraits. The one in ivory was of a woman he knew, beautiful by all standards, the painting expressing all the life and color of the real woman and then some, for there was a softness and warmth of feeling in the face that had not belonged to the subject of the painting. 'Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank' the title read.
The other portrait he then looked over, and it was this one that drew him most. Drawn in crayon rather than paint, with colors more dim and simple than that of the ivory portrait, Mr. Rochester saw that the artist had been firm in their portrayal. No defect had been softened, no harsh line omitted, no displeasing irregularity smoothed away. It was a plain, unlovely face, incomparable to the face painted on the ivory in almost every way.
'Portrait of a governess, disconnected, poor, and plain,' was the title of this painting, and Rochester laughed, though it was half a choke, for he could have thought of a thousand names more suited to match her face than this. Lovely names that spoke of her soul, which made up for what was lacking in her outward features.
Mr. Rochester knew what turn of thought had led to the creation of these portraits. Her soul had been so pure, so easy to read yet impossible to fully know. Jane, his Jane, had made these, probably to remind herself that he would never love her, that her feelings for him were foolish, naive, in vain. Sweet, level-headed Jane had worked hard to be sure that she didn't allow her heart to slip, to love him. Yet she had loved him, and he had crushed her, broken her heart and battered her pure, spotless soul with his lies.
How could she have ever compared herself to Blanche Ingram? How could Jane have ever believed that he would be so foolish as to choose a woman who didn't love him over the girl who had brought him the first taste of true, pure joy in nearly two decades? Blanche Ingram was nothing compared to Jane Eyre, a mere shadow compared to Jane's pure sunlight.
She was his everything; with her left his happiness, his soul, and his heart ached as though that string he had once told her of was pulling, pulling, pulling until he knew it would snap if she moved any further from him.
"Jane! Jane!"
With a moan of agony, the sound of a man dying, Mr. Rochester cast the ivory portrait away. What did that shadow mean to him? Nothing!
But the small chalk portrait he kept, pressing it to his heart as though by clutching it close enough it would bring her back.
"Jane... Jane... Jane!"
In the privacy of the room that had once been home to his heart, his one true match, Edward Fairfax-Rochester sank to his knees, his body doubling over in despair as he pressed the tiny chalk portrait even tighter to his chest.
"Jane..."
For the first time in his life, Fate had dealt him a blow too heavy to bear. He had lost his bird, his heart, his Jane.
And for the first time in many, many years, Edward Rochester wept.
Hope someone enjoyed! Thanks for reading!