Disclaimer: Twilight isn't mine. Like anyone would actually believe me if I said it was.
A/N: First, to everybody who left a review, thanks! I also wanted to warn you guys that this chapter and the next one are a little angsty. I'm trying to walk a fine line here between keeping Jasper in character (which, at this point, means depressed) and keeping the story from becoming pure angst. (Blah. 100 percent emo stories leave a bad taste in my mouth.) I promise you, it gets MUCH better once Alice shows up.
Since I wrote this story totally out of order, and most of it's finished, I'll probably post pretty frequently. But reviews might encourage me to post even faster…
One more thing. I'm honestly curious. Does this portrayal of Jasper work for you guys? These are just my ideas, based on what I could glean from the books and things Meyer has said in interviews, and I know other people might see him differently.
Peter and I cleaned up the remains of our meal, while Charlotte explored the house, searching for a new blouse and a book that she could convince Peter to read. By the time he and I returned, the sun was well over the horizon, and most of last night's cloud cover was gone. We decided to spend a day or two in the farm house, especially now that we knew visitors wouldn't be a problem.
It had been a while since we had been lucky enough to stay in a fully furnished house, so I was sure my companions would enjoy a little privacy. Or as much privacy as is possible when all inhabitants have a vampire's sense of hearing. At least, this was what I told myself when I grabbed a handful of paperbacks and headed down to the cellar. Maybe the truth was that I was the one who wanted to be alone. Those two were always distracting me, trying to cheer me up. I knew they meant well, but playing along with them was a bit exhausting after a while. I wasn't used to so much lighthearted interaction. It felt… unnatural, almost.
There wasn't much in the cellar, only some dusty cardboard boxes stacked on the dirt floor, a small stash of revolting human food, and a solitary light bulb that hung from the ceiling and emitted a feeble glow when switched on. Had I been human, the pale light from the dingy bulb would not have been enough to read by, but my eyes were designed for seeing in the dark. I picked up the most promising of the novels and cracked it open.
After three pages, I realized I had no idea what I'd just read except the first couple paragraphs. So I flipped back and started over. But once again, nothing sank in. I would keep reading the same sentence over and over without absorbing a word of it. The main character was a young soldier named William, I knew that much. But I couldn't prevent my stubborn thoughts from drifting to a different soldier in a different war…
He should ride, he should ride away as fast as he can. But instead he stops his horse and dismounts. Stupid boy, pathetic human. He seems almost hypnotized by the three pale women approaching him. His blue-grey eyes widen in wonder at their beauty. He even thinks he ought to help them. Pitiful fool.
Two of the women run towards the city, moving much too fast. The third, the smallest of them, asks his name, approaches him. He should run, the idiot, he should run! But he doesn't run. He doesn't struggle. He doesn't even move as her razor-sharp teeth pierce the skin just below his left ear.
Now, far too late, he moves. Or tries to. He lets out a gasp of pain and surprise, and jerks away instinctively, but her cold white hands hold his arm and head in a vice-like grip. She swallows once, twice, her eyes closed with pleasure. He punches her with all his strength, then curses when his own bones shatter from the impact. But she doesn't budge. Instead she lifts her head away and laughs. The sound is as beautiful as it is terrifying.
Her hand moves too quickly to see. One second she is gripping his arm, the next second her index finger is at the base of his throat. A warm line of thick red blood has trickled down from the open wound below his ear. She slowly wipes the blood away, tracing her finger up his neck. Then she grins and sticks the bloody finger in her mouth.
"Mmmm," she purrs, "delicious."
Now he is screaming, clutching both hands to his neck. He is on fire! He is burning! He yells, and doubles over in pain. He sinks to the ground, clawing at his throat. The fire! He has to stop the fire! The girl giggles again.
"Yes, stings a bit, doesn't it?" she mocks.
But he barely hears her over the sound of his own shrieks. The fire is spreading now. It reaches his ear, his collar bone. The girl sighs and delivers a swift blow to his forehead. He collapses silently.
The pain is gone for now. But later he will awake in a dark room, bound and gagged, with the white hot pain shooting through his head, his left arm, his shoulders. This time, no one will knock him out. There will be no escaping until the fire, having consumed his whole body, finally burns out. Then he will discover he can break his bonds with ease, and the girl with the haunting smile will reappear…
I felt his concern before I heard his footsteps approaching quietly. The sensation brought me out of my memories and back to the dank cellar. I was lying on my back, both eyes closed. One arm was beneath my head, and the other was unconsciously fingering a small curved scar below my ear. I had given up on the book completely.
"So," Peter said, sitting gracefully down beside me, "how 'bout a rematch, then? Try this one. Always moping, always sighing, always mourning, never crying, not quite living, never dying."
I opened one eye to gaze critically at him.
"That's a horrid riddle, Peter," I replied, smiling slightly.
"All right," he grinned, "maybe so. I suppose the answer's too obvious."
"Yes, you could even say the answer's staring you in the face," I agreed. Peter chuckled, then turned suddenly serious.
"The real riddle, though," he said, "is why?"
His concern washed over me again, so I sent a wave of calm his direction.
"None of that now!" he frowned. "Nothing wrong with me, you keep those warm fuzzy feelings for yourself."
"You know perfectly well it doesn't work like that," I sighed. "And there's no reason for you and Charlotte to be unhappy on my account. You wouldn't be worried in the first place if not for my ridiculous mood swings."
"Jasper, we wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for you."
We fell silent for a few moments, remembering the dark past that Peter had alluded to.
"I was sure you'd be happier here," Peter mused. " 's why I came back, you know. You put on a brave face, but I could always tell you hated it there, all the fighting. And here, sometimes you act happy, but I've a feeling it's just that: acting."
I smiled to myself. Without having any kind of talent like mine, Peter was still amazingly perceptive. He had a knack for seeing through people, understanding how they worked and even, to an extent, how they felt. It was one reason Maria had decided to keep him.
"I thought I'd be happier in the North too," I murmured. "I don't understand why I'm not."
"You need to find yourself a girl, mate," Peter snickered.
"You could always lend me Charlotte," I shot back, rolling away a split second before Peter's fist came crashing down on the spot where my head had been, leaving a small crater in the dirt floor.
"Some Southern gentleman you are!" he roared, but was unable to hide his laugh.
"What can I say?" I shrugged. If I could convince him that I was in reasonably good mood, he might leave me alone. "I'm a lady's man. Can I help it if I'm bombarded by waves of passion every time Charlotte catches my eye?"
Peter snorted at that.
"Stick to your manipulating, Jasper," he retorted. "You're a pathetic liar. No, forget that! Don't you dare manipulate her or I swear I'll tear you to pieces!"
I laughed. I could only hope Charlotte wasn't eavesdropping on this particular exchange.
"Ungrateful wretch," he growled, though there wasn't any real malice coming off him. "She never even wanted you here to begin with. Nearly slapped me senseless when I mentioned going back for you."
"No doubt she was remembering how I planned to slaughter her," I sighed, my lightheartedness suddenly evaporating.
Peter's crimson eyes met mine.
"And I was remembering how you let us both escape."
We fell silent again.
"Well, defeating you would have been much too easy," I finally said, forcing a smile. "Where's the fun-"
This time, I didn't dodge his fist quickly enough. His punch landed on my shoulder with a thunderous smack. But my retaliation caught him completely off guard. In less than an instant, I had my teeth at his throat and both his arms pinned behind his back.
"I rest my case," I chuckled and released him.
"Show-off," Peter grumbled, rubbing his arm.
He felt genuinely aggravated, so I placated him a bit. He didn't seem to notice this time.
"Anyhow," he continued, changing the subject. "I've a guess 'bout those mood swings of yours. I don't need to be talented to notice you're always moodier after a meal. Indigestion, maybe?"
I didn't even try to force a laugh. The more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. He was absolutely right.
I struggled to find an appropriate response to Peter's observation. Thankfully, at that very moment the cellar door opened and Charlotte glided inside. She now wore a silky lavender blouse that was slightly too large for her slender figure. Though her expression was perfectly composed, I could sense she was highly irritated. Without so much as glancing at me, she dragged Peter away, alleging that she needed his input to choose a new outfit.
Alone at last, I considered what Peter had said. It was true, all right. But why?
I had always hated feeling weaker than those around me. Who doesn't? Even as a human, I had delighted in my position of authority. In Maria's coven, I relished the command she gave me over the rest of our little army.
I rolled back my sleeve, revealing the pattern of overlapping scars on my pale skin, so faint in this light that even my sensitive eyes could barely discern them.
I had fought countless battles and survived them all. Yes, I disliked the fighting. I'd been sick of it all long before Peter had returned for me. Nevertheless, I knew that I was strong, formidable, not easily overpowered. And I clung to that knowledge. I suppose, after my transformation, I desperately needed to understand what I was, who I was. I could no longer be human. But maybe I could be much more than human. I could be nearly invincible. The night I met Maria was the last night I was human, and nothing could ever change that. But at least it was in my power to ensure that fateful night was also the last time I would be weak.
And yet, each time I took another life, especially a human life, I felt all the fear and horror, terror and panic, pain and helpless rage of my victim. Against my will, I was reminded again and again of what it was like to be powerless. Again and again, I was reminded that once, I had also been helpless and terrified and in pain. I had not always been the strong predator. I had also been the defenseless prey.
Every time I killed, in my memory, I became a victim again. I saw the mesmerizing faces of Maria and the others, I heard their musical voices, I felt the teeth, the icy cold hands, the fiery venom. Every time I proved my strength, I relived my weakness.
To make matters worse, I was reminded of more than my frailty. I was reminded of my… humanity.
I pushed my sleeve down again, and leaned back against the cold cellar wall.
It was so easy to distinguish between my kind and the humans. My kind was inarguably superior in every way. We were strong, they were pitifully frail. We were too fast for their sight to keep up with us, let alone their bodies. We thought quicker, spoke faster and remembered better. And they were so ridiculously fragile. Anything from a germ to a fall to a bump on the head would kill them. The two that we had hunted tonight, for example, would most likely have died within a few short years.
We were nothing like them.
I was nothing like them. There were no similarities, none whatsoever.
Except… except for the torrent of emotions I felt around them. Except for the long-buried memories that those emotions brought to the surface. I should not identify with humans. Humans were weak. I wanted to go on believing that I had nothing in common with them.
But I couldn't escape the fact that once, an eternity ago, I had been one of them. I could not escape the emotions that had once been mine. And I could not escape the memories I still carried deep inside from that other life.
