Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Twilight characters or the rights to "Timshel" as performed by Mumford & Sons, and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.
Chapter Three:
He Is More Than Me
You have your choices, and these are what make man great, his ladder to the stars …
Timshel – Mumford & Sons
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Now
"Miss?"
She is stiff, hard and knotted, when her head rises, bleary-eyed, and she wonders how long it's been. She blinks.
"Yes?"
He pulls at his white coat, thumbs the plastic and paper in his hands, and drops it with a dull thud into metal.
"His condition has shown no change. It would be more conducive to hospital policy …" he hesitates. "Visiting hours are over, ma'am."
Fingers, red raw and thinly pale, clench around a calloused, limp limb.
"I've been here for three days."
He sighs, brow lined with death and fingers with foreboding.
"We know. We don't want to have you forcibly removed, but without consent and cooperation, we can no longer allow you to –"
"Fine." Thick sand on her tongue, ground out by her teeth. "Call him. I'll cooperate."
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Then
"You know, you're not very cooperative."
Her eyes angle up at him, incredulous disdain snagged in the corners. The bowl slips across the table; narrow, clear liquid dribbles down the side. He raises an eyebrow.
"Thank you." Her gaze is curt, flinching back to the bowl, hands itching to pull at the cotton slung low around her hips. It's rough and banal, and she longs desperately for the silk, the satin, the lace of captivity. Better to be well kept than common dishwater.
They eat in silence. Well … he eats in silence. Noodles swirl in her bowl, sliding against the crimson edges, the chipped china cow missing one eye. It's sodium inebriated and she can feel arteries clogging, veins slowing, as she nibbles at the carbohydrate-laden dish.
"You don't eat much, you know." He catches her eye, smiles a little.
Her bowl slides away from her, hands drop to her lap, vision to unfinished wood. She is folded, gracefully, pleasantly – servile. He sighs, the shift stirring her hair.
"You can get up if you want. You don't have to wait for me to order you."
No motion. She can't understand … he ordered her to stay, authority and strength a live wire in his voice. His commands are contradictory, cascading her thoughts into confusion. Wood scrapes against tile, squealing, her ears flinching from the sound. Heavy steps halt beside her.
"Isabella …" His hand brushes her hairline, lifts her chin. Face to face. "Izzy …" Lines crease behind his eyes. "No," he whispers, a stray lock of hair falling halfway across his forehead. "Bella." Satisfaction. "I'm not your master. And I never will be." Sadness reflects her disillusionment. "If you want freedom, you have to learn to take it."
Eyes closed, expression open. He brushes a thumb lightly along her cheek.
He is gone. Bright blue depths greet her flashing eyes, retreating to sanctuary. Her mouth opens, a tiny, round, pale pink "o".
Two weeks, a hundred words, and she burns at his touch.
Can she become more than herself?