Chapter summary: February, 1934, Rosalie takes Bella for a stroll and gives a cryptic answer to every question. The gist seems that Bella now needs to die. Bella disagrees.


Sense returned to me slowly. The first thing that came back was sound. I heard something that sounded like the wind, a whistling sound. The next thing that came back was touch: I was bundled up in a blanket or quilt, even my head was covered, but not my face, so I tried opening my eyes.

What I saw still didn't make sense. The world was moving away from me in a blur of brown and green and white. I noted that my arms were pressed to my sides under the blanket. I tried to move them, but they seem to be pinned. My head was resting on a velvet cloth that covered some smooth stone.

As the world moved away from me, I noted that I didn't feel movement, or anything that went with the feel of movement. I wasn't on Dolly, so ...

Dolly!

The last things I saw before everything faded came back to me in an instant. I tried to categorize the memories into something I could piece together. The world, not waiting on me, continued to flash by, and things began to fall into place. Dolly. Blood. Lill—... Rosalie!

I dared to shift my head ever so slightly. The velvet cloth my head was resting on was red. The stone beneath it was Rosalie's shoulder. My nose grazed against her pure white neck. It was smooth, cold, and hard. Just like marble, I reflected, and then added belatedly, just like skin shouldn't be.

My head filled with a million questions, and I had to quiet my thoughts to concentrate on the most important ones. What to do?

Pa sometimes told me stories. These weren't the kinds of stories most fathers would tell most daughters; you know, the ones about princesses and dragons and suchlike. His stories were more practical: how to avoid collateral damage during gun play in a crowd ("hit the dirt, lie still, and cover your head with your hands and arms"), how to break out of a choke hold ("slam your heel to their knee, then scrape the shin when you stomp on their foot, hard" — I didn't have time to put that piece of advice to good use! I reflected with regret), how to survive a hostage-taking ("Never give up hope, plan the escape to safety, not from danger, find the weakness, and save the fight for that point"). He told me of one story where a bank job went bad: the hostages were lined up on the floor and shot one by one. The moral of his story: "Bells, maybe number one nor number two saw what was coming, but if I was the third guy in that line, I would have been running, or kicking, or grabbing the hot barrels or something! Six people died that day in a neat little row. Remember that, kiddo, and fight for your life if it comes to that. You're not a sheep, so don't be herded to you death like those idiots." Pa never used harsh words, and this one he spat out. "You only get one shot at life, so never give up on it, 'cause there's no second chances in this game."

His law enforcement training wasn't what you'd call top-notch, but I was grateful for those stories now, because now I knew I had to plan. And, in order to plan, I needed to know where I was starting from, how long I had, and what the weaknesses were.

Where I was starting from was that I was alive, which is more than I could say for Dolly. A gun wasn't pointing at my head, so I didn't need to fight right this second, I guessed. I tested my arms again: pinned, so there wasn't much in me that could fight anyway, but when the time came down to it, I was going to be free, or I was going to make Rosalie pay dearly for whatever she was doing to me. I swore that for myself and for Pa: I'm not going to waste your words, Pa! I didn't know how long I had, but I could find out better if I knew her plans. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"So," I started conversationally, "why am I still alive?" I asked. That sounded reasonable: criminals often had God-complexes. I guessed Rosalie would want to tell me her plan if she felt smug in her superiority. And, my question was innocuous as well; it didn't reveal anything from my side other than curiosity: the more helpless I sounded, the more likely her guard would drop.

"Ah! You've decided to skip the usual inanities of where am I? what is happening? why did you attack me? and dive right to the heart of the matter. Edward was right: you are a smart girl, aren't you?" Rosalie responded evenly. There wasn't a hint of strain in her voice from carrying me, just over two hay bails' weight, nor from running flat out for who knows how long. In fact, she kept running as she answered, not even breaking stride. "It's a fair question, but there are several different ways to answer it. The pragmatic response is that I finally made use of a year's worth of practice on swine. I'm rather pleased with my control: not only did I avoid twisting your head right off your shoulders, but I also didn't crush your delicate wind pipe. It would have been so much more difficult for us to have a conversation in either of those cases, don't you think? ... And I thought I had wasted a year because I didn't need to drag any of those monsters elsewhere to deliver their just retribution. But I did get to use what I learned after all with you, and so here we are. Isn't that wonderful?" She sounded pleased with herself. I had heard and understood every word she said, and was grateful she was talking to me — it's much harder for kidnappers to act against hostages they've developed a relationship with — but the sum of her words were confusing. She was happy she didn't kill me so we could talk?

"And we're going to talk about ...?" Keep her talking, develop the relationship. Keep her talking, develop the relationship. I chanted to myself.

"Oh, whatever comes to mind. I had already mentioned we have so much to learn from each other, and I'd like to have a few answers. I need to know who you really are. Not who Edward thinks you are, not who you think your are, as both views are obviously very flawed, but know who you really are." She said this so casually, as if we actually were going to sit over a cup of tea as I thought we would be doing at the Hale's house, not running soundlessly across a snow-covered forest. One inane set of questions refused go away from my thoughts: how did she run so fast and so quietly? Shouldn't her weight and mine break through the snow's crust? Where was the crunch of her feet on the snow? I pushed these thoughts aside.

"You know, I was just ..." I began, recalling a very similar conversation I had had with myself about who I am. But I didn't get to continue, as I was interrupted mid-thought.

"No, I do not know. And, amazingly, nor does Edward. This has never happened before — Edward not knowing — and this alone is interesting enough to explore further. But your silence extends outside your mind. You are utterly other than human. On top of that Edward refusal to eliminate you as a potential threat, and his absolute refusal to remove himself from the situation, along with his ravings about you connote something much deeper going on. I will find out these things."

"And then, when you have these answers?" She still was making hardly any sense to me, but I knew she wouldn't be letting me go; that much was obvious. I was still waiting to hear her plan. Once I knew specifics, then I could start probing for weaknesses. Then I could fight.

She shrugged. "What always happens when mortals associate with immortals? You only need to look to Greek mythology for your answer."

She wasn't helping at all. There were so many different Greek myths about so many different things. I supposed I would have to venture a couple I knew to move things along: "What does Io being turned into a cow or Apollo's son riding his chariot have to do with me?"

"You've actually got it!" she responded. She sounded pleased. "Not so much the former, but the latter has everything to do with you, and that is, from time immemorial, what happens when mortals mingle their fates with immortals. Phaëthon's fate is yours."

"So, you're going to kill me?" I figured if I asked a direct question, I'd have a better chance of getting a direct answer.

She shrugged again. So much for that idea. But then she elaborated: "That is another way of asking your first question, so another way of answering that question is 'How can I kill you if you are already dead?'"

Not quite the elaboration that was at all illuminating, so I responded as best as I could: "Huh?"

"You made a choice, girl. Edward offered you the option to refuse his visit. Once you accepted, you were as good as dead. But even before that, the moment you and Edward met, you should have been dead. I agree: your smell is incredibly tantalizing for me, but for Edward, it complements his essence perfectly. If I hadn't taken your horse earlier, I'd find resisting taking your right here and now nearly impossible. How much more so for Edward, where your every heartbeat should have been an irresistible call. Edward, smug as ever, congratulates his self-control: 'Oh! that deplorable creature I am, I must not give into these cravings for one so pure and fair and ...'" Here her pitch took on a whining tone that nevertheless matched note for note Edward's voice. But then she continued, dismissively: "Well, you understand me: he goes on about you almost as much as he goes on about himself." She paused and grew thoughtful: "I, however, think at first he didn't wish to embarrass himself in front of Carlisle, and later ... it was indeed something about you. This is what I intend to discover."

It seems the more she spoke, the more lost I became, but what appeared clear to me was her insulting view of Edward. I wouldn't let that stand: "I beg your pardon, but I have no idea where you got such ideas, but I'm sure they are wrong! Edward has always shown me nothing but kindness and been the perfect gentleman. He has never acted in any way untoward! Ever!"

"Oh?" I could hear the disdain in her voice. "Not even the very first time he saw you at the courthouse? He managed to control himself, barely, but he was quite sure he had lost your good graces before ever getting a chance to earn them. And if didn't control himself quite so fiercely, he would be worrying about your graces. No, we would have had to have moved again."

To this I had no response, because she did call attention to that time when this strange boy had acted so very rudely.

She continued: "He worked so hard that next day to earn them back. And the excuses to us to justify attentions, you wouldn't believe! 'I can't hear her mind, so I must determine her character to ensure our safety.' None of us bought his line, or none of us should have, but that Edward, the favored child, can do no wrong in Carlisle's and Esme's eyes. They'd let their prodigal son get a way with murder — or so much worse: you! — just to keep him in the family or to see him smile. The way they favor him is sickening to watch: 'Oh, Edward! Whatever makes you happy!'" Here Rosalie's body vibrated with a growl that would have had me backing away in fear if I hadn't been so firmly secured to her.

"So, he was allowed to call on you — you! — and invite you into our home drawing you further into our world until not even the dullest of eyes could have missed the signs. You certainly didn't. And still he fawned over you like you were some shiny new sports car. As if his own Aston Martin wasn't enough to keep him entertained! He should have destroyed you sooner, rather than later. Unfortunately, Edward claims he has too much will power to execute the sentence. I call his 'will power' his weakness. He's willing to risk everything, and our exposure, for his infatuation. I'm not. So you should have been dead from the first moment, you should have been dead each and every moment you spent with that foolish boy. You are most definitely dead now."

I could feel the air moving into and out of my lungs; I felt my heart beating in my chest. Maybe if I pointed out the obvious, she would stop talking in figures and start making sense? It was worth a try. "Okay, so you're talking 'dead' in the rhetorical sense, then, right? Otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. I don't know any dead people who can talk." Here, I felt her body shake with an inexplicable snort. But I already had enough mysteries from her, so I pressed on with my point, hoping for at least a bit of clarity in the bizarre conversation: "Do you have any particular time in mind for me to go from theoretically dead to really dead?"

Rosalie didn't respond to that. I could almost feel her smile as she continued to run. "You are so calm discussing your fate." My fate? Well, we'll see about that. "Hm, I wonder: are you a little lamb being meekly led to the slaughter? Or is this calmness due to some manifestation of bravery?"

Shucks! I didn't mean to hint at anything other than meekness, but she seemed wise to me. I hoped she was so confident that she would dismiss me as a threat in either case. But, feeling her vise-like grip so casually holding me in place, I wondered if her confidence wouldn't be misplaced, anyway.

She continued after a moment's reflection. "I'd really like to set you down and look into your face to see which one it is. But we mustn't be hasty now; we haven't gone far enough. That glorious scent of yours would leave an unmistakable beacon calling out for miles around — not that that would matter much: even after Edward returns, and even if his infatuation for you is such that he would feel some obligation to try to track us, he's so hopeless at these kinds of things that it surprising to me that he's even able to find food without it walking right across his path! At any rate, we'll have plenty of time to fix your character later. Yes, I must wait."

It sounded like she had convinced herself, but I had obtained my hint, that vital piece of information: she had said plenty of time. Whether that meant days or weeks, I didn't know, but it did mean there would be enough time to find a chink in her armor and expose it. Strong and fast as she was, she had to sleep some time. I could stay awake long enough to make my escape — possibly incapacitating her first, because I didn't think I could outrun her on foot — and save my life.

I masked my victory by closing out this line of thought: "Is this to be a one-sided conversation? Or, will I get 'to fix' your character, too?" I mimicked her rather esoteric way of speaking. A country girl could speak Town, too: I wasn't going to allow her to persist in some delusion that I was some simple bumpkin.

She continued flying silently through the woods. Then she chuckled lightly and answered unperturbed: "A conversation is not a conversation if it is one-sided. I hope you do discover things about me. I'm looking forward to it."

"Yet you're still going to kill me? You talk about it so evenly, but I don't even know why I'm to die. Why would you do such a thing to me if I'm helping you understand me?" I asked incredulously. What? Thanks for sharing and have a nice death?

"Your fate was fixed already. By the time your heart stops beating, you'll understand why. As to why I'm your executioner," she shrugged again, "I've begun to see enough about eternity to know it may or may not be me: I just happen to be able to do this, whereas Edward refuses the task. You've been exposed to too much, and comprehended too much. You should consider yourself lucky, actually."

"Lucky!" I sputtered. She was truly twisted. In what possible world could all this — the kidnapping, the cat-and-mouse verbal games, and my promised death — be considered lucky?

"You love your father, don't you?" she seemed to change subjects on a dime. My head was spinning, trying to keep up.

"What?"

"You love your father, I could hear it in your voice when you two visited. You wouldn't want anything to happen to him, right?"

I did not like the turn of this conversation. "You leave my Pa out of this ... this whatever it is you're doing!" I shouted fiercely. I tried to jerk my head back to give her a death glare to emphasize my seriousness, but I was too securely bound to her to make the gesture.

"Exactly. You knew all this could happen, that's why you came alone to confront me. It would have been devastating, wouldn't it, if he came along? What would have happened to him? He is rather facile — after all, he wasn't the one who so blinded the Cullens with fascination, you were — and I'm not in the mood to shepherd two. He would have been an unfortunate collateral casualty, and I've never murdered innocents yet. You were right and lucky not to take him."

I was outraged: "I knew? How in the world could you possibly imagine that I could have envisioned anything like this happening?" But now that it did happen, I was so relieved that I had left Pa out of this. She was right; I was lucky on that one.

"You didn't know? So you collected the clippings in your back pocket at random, then?"

I stewed. I wondered how long I had been out. Long enough to find out more than enough of my secrets, I guess. And I thought I was being so discreet. I guess I wasn't cut out for that place in the Nancy Drew club after all. Dang.

"But you are lucky in another way." She continued, having made her point and moved on.

Well, if she didn't bring up Pa again, I wouldn't encourage her thoughts in that direction; I was grateful about that, at least.

"How many people simply live their lives as automatons and die ignorant deaths?" she continued. "'Ignorance is bliss'? Why do so many people exist if there's no meaning in their dull and dreary lives. Your life hasn't been dull since our arrival, and it won't be now — I can assure you of that! — and you will know who and what you are in its completion."

I remember my Pa quoting a Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. I recall looking that one up, as people were always quoting at face value what they heard. The real quote went something like: 'The times produce the heroes.' I wasn't particularly interested in being a hero, but if that's what it took for me to make it out of this, then that's what I would become.

I didn't see her justification, though: "I don't see how me finding out that you faked your death to avoid getting married equates to my own death sentence."

She was silent for a moment as she ran. "You play the innocent very well. I wonder if you've gone so far as to believe yourself. We do have much to learn from each other. Perhaps you have some things to learn from yourself, as well." she finally stated.

"Okay, but I also don't see how having my life snuffed out just when it's really starting makes me lucky either." If I was going to be the hero, I might as well start fighting now.

She snorted: "Do you think you have some special allotment on the number of days you can live? Babies die in their first week: Esme knows that. Children your own age die of flu: Edward knows that ... I know that too, but not because of flu. And people die in their old age, or at any age: Carlisle seen that in and out of the hospital. You're never too young to die today, and you're never too old to live another year."

She had given me much to think about. Apparently, from what she had said earlier, the 'Hales' were the 'Cullens', after all, and apparently, they had had some tragedies in their own lives. But that didn't mean I would take the sentence on my life from this girl — this amazingly powerful, fast and enigmatic girl — lying down. I was not going to give up hope. Pa, I'm never going to give up. I'm going to fight, and I'm going to get free!

As we continued to glide silently through the forest, a heavy and sudden snow squall whirled large, fluffy flakes around us, blanketing the already fallen layer on the ground. Silence meeting silence.

I saw the flakes covering our already imperceptible trail. It was going to be absolutely impossible to track us. I would be getting no outside help in my predicament; everything now depended on me.


Chapter end notes:

Rosalie refers to training she received from Edward on how to use her strength delicately enough to handle humans so as not to crush them (accidently, that is). "Rosalie's Revenge" by the author Consultant by Day relates this training (they used pigs) and the rest of Rosalie's origins. Please read this story, it's a wonderful piece of fan-fiction.