Author's Note: I'm very sorry about the wait. The thing is, I was planning on meshing Edward's tale into a single chapter. One month into this plan, I realized that my attempt was taking far too long, and that it would be much more logical to cut our favorite bronze-haired assassin's story in half. This is the first time I've ever written Edward's point of view--though, mind you, the teenage Edward's perspective is quite different from that of the jaded 23-year old one. So please favor me with your feedback, and enjoy.
--Poola
Chapter Six—Edward's Story, Part One
Edward, seven years ago
"Go ahead and play, son," prodded Edward Masen Sr. with a smile. "I know you're itching to try it."
"Thanks," Edward mumbled absently. His fingers trailed slowly over the varnished mahogany of the lid of the grand piano. The wood was like silk against his hand. He moved to run his fingers over the keys and then halted, uncertain.
He turned to appraise his father. "Dad, you're sure? Do you want me to pay you back? A smaller one would have been fine, I don't need a grand—"
"Of course I'm sure. And what kind of idiot offers to pay for his own birthday present?" The man shook his head, running a hand over his short-cropped bronze hair.
"I'm not sixteen until the 20th," Edward pointed out, reasonably.
Edward Sr. smiled again, undaunted. Edward had always noticed that when his father smiled, his lips only tugged up a little at the corners, giving him a wistful sort of expression. His eyes, however—exactly the same shade as his son's—expressed sincere enjoyment. "An early birthday present, then. And even if money was an issue here, I'd have done the same thing. A kid with talent like yours needs a proper instrument."
"Wow," said Edward breathlessly, turning back to the piano, drinking in the luxurious beauty it conveyed. "Thanks. Wow."
"I'm going to make dinner," his father said pointedly. "And if I'm not being serenaded within ninety seconds, I'll come back in here and perform myself. Which could possibly break the piano."
Edward laughed. "Alright, alright, I'm going." He sat down on the bench and placed his hands on the black-and-ivory surface, caressing the keys. He nudged the individual keys down slightly, a quick test of the piano's pitch.
Perfect.
Finally he began to play, and there was no wistfulness or uncertainty in the notes that capered between his fingers. His hands shaped themselves around the music, not creating it but carrying it from one place to another, from the belly of the piano to the incorporeal air that now sang around him. Edward felt welded to the instrument, as he always did while playing. Felt as if he was nothing more than an extension of the keys, as if he was one of the notes himself.
People always congratulated him after his performances, beaming at him like he had done something special. It wasn't him that they should be paying attention to. It was the music—music, which was larger than him—music, which more than the manipulation of an instrument—music, which could express everything that anyone had ever wanted to say in a single scale.
As he ended the song, his hands lost their feverishness, and he retreated back into himself. He let out a low murmur of satisfaction.
"Well done," Edward Sr. praised from the next room. His words were simple, but neither he nor his son had ever indulged themselves in flowery speeches of approval. To the boy, Edward Sr.'s brief affirmation was something like a standing ovation.
Edward smiled, his glance flickering towards the window. A murky Oregon sunset was sinking under the mass of buildings and mountains that covered the horizon. His gaze shifted to the clock hanging from the wall behind him, and registered that it was seven thirty-two P.M.
At seven thirty-three P.M, something changed.
Maybe it was the effect of the piano, or maybe it was an inherited sort of sixth sense that alerted him. When Edward thought about it afterwards, he decided that it was probably the latter. But whatever it was, it caused Edward to quickly rise from his bench, panic expanding in his chest, his head cocked for a whisper of sound in the silence.
"Dad?" the name tumbled from his lips, childlike, the way it always had in the past when he had needed comfort and assurance.
His ears picked up the familiar, eerie snick of a knife being removed from its slot. A moment later, a muffled sound of collision came from the kitchen, ringing with the protest of pots and pans clashing to the floor. He heard a low laugh that was not his father's.
"Dad," repeated Edward, more quietly but also more firmly—a summons rather than a question.
"Edward—go—" Edward Sr. wheezed from the next room. His voice had a choking, gurgling quality that made the hair rise on the back of Edward's neck. Refusing to heed the warning and acting instead on the instinct to help his father, he moved away from the bench and darted toward the kitchen.
He had only made it four paces when he felt something cool and sharp shoved against his pulse point.
He gasped wildly and turned, the knife still at his throat. As he did, as he turned to face the man that obviously wanted to kill him, the Lord's Prayer ran desperately through his mind, dredged up from the memory of the day in preschool that he had first listened to it with hungry ears. Edward Sr. had never been extremely religious, which meant that Edward hadn't received much of a spiritual education. The words of the prayer, however, were now clear in his mind.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name—
The man who held him now at knifepoint was the owner of a bloody tux, medium build, dark hair, commonplace features, and hazel eyes that bespoke little intelligence. Edward stared at him, silently defiant, even as he gritted his teeth against the stabs of apprehension, he had heard a knife being drawn, heard fighting—clamped his teeth shut against the panicked words that threatened to rush out, even though it was probably just a matter of time until he asked—
"Where's my dad?" Edward blurted.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven—
The Man looked down at Edward with his lightless, bloodshot eyes and began to smile tightly, with bitterness. He shook his head. "Nah, kid," he disagreed, "you don't want to see him." The words seemed to slither from his mouth, leaving ghosts in the air between them; Edward felt himself beginning to pale. The rising adrenaline had subsided into a horror that raked against his insides.
"Dad!" He shouted, his throat raw with panic. He started to thrash in the man's arms, heedless of the knife that bit at the side of his neck and spread dampness across his collarbone.
"Fuck, kid," commented the intruder. His eyes were slightly nervous as he gazed at the boy's dripping neck. "I'm not supposed to kill you. Here, you want to say goodbye to your father? That's fine. We have a while to wait, anyway." He flicked another glance at Edward's neck.
"That's fine," he repeated, and steered Edward toward the kitchen. "Just don't blame me for your nightmares. I warned you, remember that."
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses—
The second Edward (who was beginning to feel the tiniest bit tired) entered the kitchen, he knew why the man had warned him. The image that met his eyes now would be engrained clearly in his mind until the day he died.
Edward Masen Sr. lay sprawled on the kitchen floor, his body rocked with erratic spasms. His face, pale as marble, was hideously contorted in what could only be agony. A puddle of blood hedged the kitchen knife that was embedded in his stomach.
Several months later, Edward would be told by an over-helpful and certainly hypocritical assassin to only remember his father as he had lived, and to forget the way he had died. "Sometimes you've got to lie to yourself, son," he would say.
But how could he do it? How could he do it? Every single memory he had of his father would lead to this hideous, crowning vision: the sight of the only family he had ever known, not even able to scream, gurgling and undulating with pain and terror as his life's liquid seeped out onto the hardwood floor.
As we forgive those who trespass against us—
Edward's body sagged with shock and repulsion. His analytical mind, sluggish with shock and slight blood loss, fought the automatic swell of denial. He heard violent, ripping sobs coming from someplace near—he knew they were his own, but knew it in a vague sort of way, similar to the dreamer's hazy knowledge that he will wake up eventually.
"Disgustin'," the man said, loosening his hold on him gingerly as if afraid of becoming contaminated. "Pathetic. Esme never taught you a thing, did she? Of course not. Quit crying, kid, for fuck's sake."
The sobbing sound gradually ebbed, and Edward became aware of a desire to lash out at this man, to cut him down, to rip him until he was no longer capable of stabbing people's fathers…
He settled for words. Childish ones.
"You worthless bastard—who'd cry for you?" He resumed his struggle with The Man's arms, weakly. The arms curled around his easily, instinctively, but The Man was silent for a long moment.
"Wish Jack would get here," he finally muttered to himself, sounding a tad less unruffled than he had a moment before.
And lead us not into temptation—
"Jack?" Edward asked groggily, grabbing at a means of distraction from his throbbing head and blurry vision. The rush of adrenaline that had sharpened his dulling senses was leaving him, steadily, like the firm sweep of a plough through moist turf.
"Yes, Jack, you pathetic little orphan. He's coming to take your hide off my hands." The Man splayed those same hands on the countertop he was leaning their combined weight against, gazing down at the dark granite without much interest.
"Fuck…fuck you." Edward's neck was bleeding harder now, and his head was pounding rhythmically. His lungs were snatching at oxygen desperately, foolishly, trying to replace the precious liquid he had lost.
"Hey, now," The Man said lazily, turning his head to look at him. As soon as he had, the look on his face turned to one of horrified anxiety. "Shit," he whispered. "Aro's going to kill me."
The fact that Edward was the one dying was apparently inconsequential.
"Where am I being taken? And who are Aro and Esme?" Edward asked, ignoring The Man's eloquent commentary. His mind was sinking into a temporary state of beautiful indifference; he asked the questions automatically as he looked down at his father, his father who had laughed with him an hour ago and was now quite nearly dead, with the air of one trying to solve a puzzle.
But deliver us from evil—
Staring at Edward's neck, he mumbled absently. "You're going to the Hot Spot, we'll keep you there till mommy shows up. Aro is my boss, my leader, whatever. Es—" The Man's head snapped up, out of its trance, to glare at him in disbelief. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" said Edward, gasping, bored.
"Kid, are you honestly going to tell me you don't know who your mother is?"
The gears began to move groggily in Edward's brain at The Man's allusion. He answered slowly, "I'm not telling you anything. Might as well return the favor."
But now he was laughing.
"This is fantastic," The Man chuckled, his unremarkable features folding in sarcastic pleasure. "It's even better than I thought it would be. Esme's gonna play right into Aro's hands. She's so desperate to keep you a secret that she never even contacted you—what's she going to do when she realizes we've found her out? How will she feel when her only son disappears?"
(Hallowed be thy name—)
"She won't be very pleased, will she?" replied a lovely, cold, female, displeased voice from behind them.
The resurgence of hopeful adrenaline, feeble as it was, allowed Edward to turn his head as The Man spun around.
Esme lodged a bullet into his brain before he could even reach for his belt.
Amen.
Edward noticed for the first time, as The Man's corpse collapsed on top of him, crushing his pleading lungs, that he was freezing. It seemed to him that the last truly warm things he had touched were the keys of his new—now far too old—grand piano.
Even Esme's hands, tenderly prying him from his spot on the blood-covered hardwood floor, made him want to shiver.
She knelt. Stricken, dazed, Edward looked into his mother's eyes for the first time. They were a young, warm cinnamon color that perfectly complemented her shoulder-length caramel waves. He saw that she was beautiful; he also noticed the gun at her hip.
"Ah, God," she murmured, just looking at him. Seeming just as stricken and dazed as he was. Gently, tentatively, her hands reached out to frame his face.
Edward was clogged with pain and death and his very soul was numb with blood loss, but he sat. He forced himself to hold still…she was his mother.
Words came again, choked and pretty as they met his ears and fought to be understood.
"Edward, my darling, I'm so sorry. God, you're so beautiful, Edward, and I never wanted you to hurt, I never want you to hurt. I tried my best to keep you safe, and I was wrong and I'm your mother, Edward. I'm your mother. You're my son, and call me Esme, and please forgive me. You're so…please, I'm so sorry."
He listened to these words, listened hard, and his mouth tried to reply but he had no voice with which to do so. So he sat, and looked at her, and listened, and thought about what he wanted to say to her.
If he could speak, Edward would say, I know, I know and I've loved you since the day that I knew you existed.
If he could speak, Edward would say, I know, I know and I don't give a damn.
Esme continued to coo and gaze at him, to stroke his hair with incredulous fingers and dab at his neck with healing ones, and still he sat without flinching. And doing so was harder to endure than everything else he had gone through that night.
Then, miraculously, a different voice came from the other side of the room. The voice was familiar and warped, less than half a voice.
"Esme."
Though the word was jumbled and unclean, spoken from the back of Edward Sr.'s throat, it was also unmistakable.
Edward watched Esme move slowly across the kitchen, to the pile of body and blood that was recognizable as Edward's farther. She stood over his body, which was still shaking feebly, and considered him for a long moment. Then she smiled, deliberately and beautifully, and bent over him. "Hi, Edward," said Esme throatily, in a fervent tone that was much more appealing than the harmless coo she had bestowed on her son.
She bent lower, so low that her lips pressed against his bloody cold ones, once, twice. Then she began to straighten, her eyes still locked on his. Edward knew that his father was seeing her, and he knew the picture she was trying to create, an angel bequeathing one last moment of happiness. As she straightened to her full height, he noted that her eyes were rimmed with moisture.
He wasn't surprised when his mother pulled the gun from her hip and emptied her second shot into a precise spot in his father's chest.
Esme stepped away, wiped her eyes once, recrossed the room, and resumed gazing at Edward. Hands on hips, she searched her son's face for revulsion. Finding none, she nodded, as if he had voiced approval. She sat down next to him, absently beginning to stroke his bloody jeans. She made a point not to touch his actual skin, which Edward appreciated.
After several minutes, he felt a gentle tug on the hem of his shirt. Esme looked away as she spoke, but even from her profile view Edward saw that the set of her features was that of a seasoned decision-maker who has made her decision.
"Your father is dead," she began, unnecessarily, but as a prelude to what she was about to say next. Edward's tongue loosened.
"Yes," agreed he, humoring her. As long as he didn't think about what he was saying, he was safe. Time to mourn would come later, when his newly acquainted mother was not present: time to mourn, especially, the fact that his father's last breath had not been used to call for him, his son, who had loved him always. Edward could not have given his father a seraph's parting gift, but he had loved him. This was, perhaps, more than Esme could say.
"In five hours," Esme continued clinically, "news that I have a son will have spread across at least two countries. The failure of your attempted kidnapping will make you an even larger target for my enemies—they are yours as well, now. This will not last very long, I promise, but it makes it necessary for your continued survival that you come with me."
Edward stared at her, and wondered mildly how much more strain his physiognomy would be able to take. "How long would this vacation last?" he asked bluntly. "Indefinitely, I suppose?"
"That is the most probable case," Esme affirmed, her words slow and cautious. "And before you ask me what this entails—I know you will, from what I see you're just like your father—you need to know that you have very limited choices. Either you come with me, adapt to my way of life, or you stay here and they kill you."
The sharpness and volume of her tone deliberately equaled his, intended to pull at him and catch his attention. He almost laughed at her.
"I don't care what it entails," said Edward honestly. "Anything is better than this."
Esme tried to smile at him, but the heaviness in her warm eyes seemed to push any attempt at mirth away. Instead, with a sigh, she expressed her thanks by running a hand once over his already-tousled hair.
"Edward," she whispered, her voice neither the businesslike monotone nor the uncomfortably-gentle babbling, but something in between, "I saw a grand piano in the next room. Is it…is it yours?"
"A gift from Dad." Edward choked a little on the sentence.
"Oh, sweetheart." Esme swiveled a little so that she was facing him, meeting his eyes with her own tired ones. "Don't ever give up your music." Her mouth twisted into a smile, joyless, bitter. "Trust me. From what I know of assassins, I think you're going to need it."
Edward, Two months later:
Of course she brought him into the fucking family business.
