As one ficster said: She's not Stephenie Meyer, who wrote Twilight, because if she was her, she would have published Midnight Sun a long time ago :)
Chapter8/Besotted
[Bella]
Bella was alone for most of the morning and early afternoon.
She sat on her low makeshift bed, her legs tucked under her. She had been amusing herself with her musical box but now she was ready for other, hopefully time-consuming activities.
Ollio has placed her writing tools quietly on her bed after the midday meal. She had begun to write a few lines to her mother and her sister, Angela, but her heart was not in the task. She abandoned the unfinished letters after several minutes.
She eyed the musical box once more. She closed her eyes and heard his voice again - gentle and so very comforting that she felt her eyes tearing.
Edward spoke as if he cared for her.
Or, he pitied her.
She cried this time.
You have to stop doing this to yourself, Bella!
She sniffed.
Perhaps, he felt sorrow for her, and sympathizes with her loss. Within a year, she had buried both her father and brother. With her uncles on the warpath for the throne and bent on shedding her own blood, she had to leave her mother and sister, too.
"You must be brave, child," her mother had firmly told her, the day she left the castle.
One of Edward's uncles was to escort both the queen mother and the younger princess to safety, hidden and heavily guarded in one of Kent's domains.
Bella had squared her shoulders and promised her mother she would make her father proud.
"Bella," she whispered, broken. "Survive this, my daughter, and damned your dead father's pride!" She cried, holding her in a tight embrace.
"Mother," she choked, shocked. And then she was gone.
Bella shot a desperate look beyond the flap door of her tent.
I couldn't lose you, too, Edward.
She could live without him near her, but she could not continue to be when he ceased to exist.
There was no sufficient measure of the depth of her emotions, she thought.
When she was 14, and she heard of his betrothal, she was devastated so much so, that she withered away for about a year.
When his wife gifted him with his first born, she cried for weeks.
He was out there somewhere, was her nightly contemplation of him. He was her first and last thought, almost daily.
She had long since resigned herself into thinking that her unrequited affections would remain so, unacknowledged and unappreciated, for as long as she lived.
She was glad when she was finally able to tell someone of her crucial fixation.
Alice discovered her secret quite accidentally.
The Duke of Kent was in the castle, as he often was. He was the king's favorite and summoned always.
At a gathering, he proudly announced the assurance of his lineage with the birth of Edward's son.
Bella could not say, even now, why the news shook her to her very core. She felt numbed, and the sensation started in her arms, and down her legs.
She had thought that no one noticed her hasty exit from the long hall. She ran and ran until her knees gave up on her and she fell, sobbing her heart out.
Alice found her.
And so she sat back, tried not to move her aching muscles, and told her cousin everything, beginning when she was 10 years old when she first saw Edward right there, in the courtyard, atop his magnificent steed. A bronze-haired god. She remembered gazing fixedly at him, awed, thinking if God has commanded earthbound angels, he was one of these heavenly creatures.
She sighed. She'd never told anyone about Edward, except for Alice.
She closed her eyes, suddenly missing her cousins and fervently praying that they were safe.
"My lady, it is Edward."
She quickly said "Enter" before she changed her mind.
When he stepped inside, his big frame immediately dominated the small tent.
She gulped, now doubting the wisdom of her invitation.
Bella couldn't lie to herself.
She wanted to see him.
She knew something was about to happen. Her life was about to change. Again. She could die or … She crossed her arms. It was no use. She had a dreadful imagination and she couldn't get the thought out of her mind that he could die, too.
Nervously, she invited him to sit on the only stool inside the tent.
He hesitated, eyeing the tiny bench, but gamely sat down and waited.
"Honey wine?" she offered quietly.
Before he could move, she got up and took the pewter cup and the small pot of mead from one of the sack cloth and poured for him.
It was a mere graze, the tiniest of touches, but she must have jumped an inch when she felt his warm fingers brushed hers, when he took the cup.
Her cheeks warming, she lowered her eyes and sat back down on her bed.
She was discomfited when she finally lifted her eyes and found him staring at her, the cup of mead forgotten in his hand.
"You have been crying," he said softly, adding "my lady" as an afterthought.
Bella clamped her mouth shut. She gripped her fingers hard until she felt pain.
Oh dear God!
She wanted so much to fling herself at him and beg him … beg him … fall on her knees and implore him to stay with her. She would give him more land! She could expand his title; build him a castle next to hers …
Why, why do I love you so?
She forced herself to straighten her back and make a huffy sound. She cursed her treacherous tears; she felt one roll down her cheek now even as she denied such weakness.
"The err …" she swallowed. "The dust ..." She shrugged helplessly, feeling foolish and pathetic.
"My lady …"
Edward stopped suddenly. He let out a long breath.
She looked up and she caught the sadness in his darkened green eyes. It nearly broke her heart.
Not knowing what else to do, she indicated his cup of mead. He obligingly raised his cup and gulped down the fermented drink.
Without speaking, she held out the linen-wrapped letters to him and he took them.
"Take these to my mother should I … fall," she said quietly.
He gripped the missives hard. His eyes, when she was sufficiently confident enough to meet them, were blazing.
Her mouth went dry, and she wasn't sure whether her heart had stopped beating, or was beating twice as fast their normal rate.
"If you die, my lady," he said so softly, so icily that her blood was curdling at the sound of his voice. "I will not be there to deliver your notices because I will not be around to do so."
She blinked.
"Explain, Edward?"
He stood up, and she was forced to do the same, watching his lips stretch into a thin smile.
Why is he angry? She thought, dazed. This tall, powerfully-built man was practically spitting fire and brimstone.
"The only way that you will be allowed to die, my lady," he said finally, his tone quiet and menacing. "Is when I die."
She was thoroughly rattled by this man! How could he throw those words in her face. Couldn't he see how frightened she was? She couldn't stand him talking of his own demise.
"I forbid you to sacrifice yourself for this … this crown I can't even put on my head!"
She spun around, unsure of what to do. He made a sound and she jumped, turning to him.
Edward stared at her.
She stared back.
He was standing rigidly, his hands were fisted to his sides.
She saw that her letters had fallen to the ground. Unthinkingly, she bent down to retrieve them. When she looked back at him, she caught his confused expression which he quickly masked.
"Is there a reason why you keep ordering me to renege on my oath of duty to you?"
Her head jerked up violently at that.
"Are you questioning me?" she countered, attempting to adapt a haughty tone.
He stared some more, and finally, he said, "No, my lady, but I will ask of you of one thing …"
He reached out a hand in a gesture of submission.
"You are my queen … but never order me again to leave you for I cannot."
"Why?"
He smiled grimly.
"I come from old Scots' blood, my lady."
She watched silently as he made to leave the tent, tall and proud, a descendant of the savage, warrior Vikings.
"It is not only duty that grounds me here, my liege. It's in my blood."
