Song inspiration: Jeff Buckley's cover of Hallelujah

Censored: This chapter is censored for sexual content. The uncensored chapter (it's just a few sentences longer) is on Fictionpad.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Stephanie Meyers. Aside from a few obvious parallels to the Twilight universe, this plot belongs to me.

The quotations in the first part of the epilogue are from Plotinus' treatise On Beauty, abridged and translated by someone whose name I forgot to record while typing out the quotations.

Hermaphrodites were once numerous, and they were a mighty thing to behold, so impressive in their strength that the gods feared they would storm heaven itself. To protect themselves, the gods split the hermaphrodites in half, separating the male and the female. So now, instead of plotting against heaven, each sex wastes its time seeking out the other, desperate to restore what was once whole. – Adapted from Plato's Symposium

Epilogue

"What makes bodily forms beautiful to behold? On every side it is said that visual beauty is constituted by symmetry of parts. However, if the whole is beautiful, its parts must be beautiful too; since beauty cannot be the sum of ugliness."

His chin. The square lines of his jaw.

She loved his chin.

But then, she also loved his shoulders.

And the curve of his spine into his—

"When one sees the same face, constant in its symmetry, now beautiful and now not, is it not obvious that beauty is other than symmetry, and that symmetry draws its beauty from something else? Clearly beauty is something detected at a first glance, something that the soul—remembering—names, recognizes, gives welcome to, and, in a way, fuses with."

Her lips. Like rosebuds.

He loved her lips. Tongue darting out, lightening fast, he would taste her lips. Then carefully, gently, he would lower his mouth over hers.

He would breathe her air.

"When the soul falls in with ugliness, it shrinks back, repulses it, turns away from it as disagreeable and alien. Thus the soul is akin to beauty because in beauty it recognizes its source and its true substance."

"You make me better," he whispered as she hovered over him.

He remembered the man he used to be. The man he was before she found him.

But she remembered, too. Recalled the things she'd done to him. The person she'd been back then.

And so his words took her by surprise, causing her to pause, mid-movement.

She gazed down at his shape, indistinct in the dim light. "I make you better?" she asked.

She felt him nod, her hand on his cheek.

"But what am I?" she whispered. "What am I?"

Not much, she thought, recalling the vicious, cruel way she'd used him. The things she'd done to herself.

"The woman I love," he replied.

And she wanted to cry and yell at him at the same time, to thank him and to warn him to go, because she could see it out there—in the distance—the possibility that she could hurt him again. Because it was in her, this easy viciousness that would make it so simple to turn on him, not because she didn't love him, but because she did. And she must not brook such weakness in herself.

She knew what leaving him would mean, though. She had seen him miserable and exhausted and—

Yet it was a choice. She could choose to try. She could choose to let herself love him.

"You make me better," she said.

"Take then, an ugly soul. It is dissolute, unjust, teeming with lusts, torn by inner discord, beset by craven fears and petty envies. It is a filthy thing, borne every which way by the allurement of sensory objects, branded by bodily material, always immersed in matter and sucking matter into itself. If he would be attractive once more, he has to wash himself, get clean, make himself what he was before."

Could he remember this feeling? Could he remember ever feeling this—this lighthearted? This sense of gaiety and pleasure?

Desire he could remember, yes. But not real pleasure, not satisfaction.

This was new, this contentment of knowing that his happiness was not contingent on some elusive goal, but within his grasp. Trusting that she would be there.

Yet it was so obvious, so clear, now that he had it within his sights, that he couldn't ignore a sense of recognition. It was too comforting to be so utterly unfamiliar.

Even if he couldn't recall ever having experienced anything remotely like it.

A pretty story—she said it was a pretty story about a single soul halved, and brought together again, lover and beloved, a single soul with its two halves reunited. She said it was a fiction, an allegory meant to express an abstract truth.

She said that lust was a biological imperative. Nothing more.

And when she talked like that, he could see it, the fear in her eyes, could almost sense the words on her lips, could hear the words she wasn't saying, the warning lest he love her too much, because she wasn't a character in a story, she was real—flesh and blood—and she might hurt him.

But she loved him. He could see that, too. Despite her fears, she loved him.

"I remember this," she said, resting her head on his shoulder. "I don't know how or when, but I feel like this is a memory. Being here with you now, like this. It's just so—" She paused.

"Familiar," he said, filling in the word for her.

Maybe it was just a pretty story, this myth about a soul cleaved in half and later reunited, lover and beloved, but it felt true sometimes. Felt true all of the way down to his bones, like air and water and breathing. Easy and real. An unconscious memory of someone he was meant to be, but forgot.

"The soul is ugly when it is not purely itself. If you do not as yet see beauty within you, do as does the sculptor of a statue that is to be beautified: he cuts away here, he smooths it there, he makes this line lighter, this one purer, until he disengages beautiful lineaments in the marble. No eye that has not yet become like unto the sun will ever look upon the sun; nor will any that is not beautiful look upon the beautiful. Let each one therefore become godlike and beautiful who would contemplate the divine and beautiful."

Edward had once had sex with a woman who claimed to be a Satanist. He thought the woman was just putting on airs, what with the allusion to illicit doings. It was a desperate bid to seem more interesting than she actually was, because the conversation—and the sex—was more bluster than action.

But there was a moment—a weird quiet moment—when Edward had been staring up at the so-called Satanist, at the sheen of sweat on her skin and her round wild eyes, the purple smudge of lipstick across her cheek, the riot of hair around her head, her mouth hanging open as she panted, the frenzied pace of her breathing in his ears as she clawed at his chest, and for just that instant, Edward felt like he was outside of himself, like he was somehow seeing himself, seeing what it was like to be him, unsated and beyond satiety, always hungering—starving—lusting for something more.

Then the woman put her head back and howled.

Howled.

It was equal parts comical and horrible.

Edward avoided her after that, opting instead to seek out Tanya who, for all her faults, had depths yet to plumb.

Later, of course, he found Bella and everything changed. He sometimes thought that Bella had saved him.

He knew it would make Bella angry to hear him say as much.

He knew she would complain that he was putting her on a pedestal. She would say that it was unfair to her, because she couldn't possibly keep her balance up there all alone.

But he'd be there to catch her if she fell.

Unfortunately, a person will sometimes betray himself. A streak of masochism will inspire a vicious, angry nihilism. He'll think of stamping out his own native self.

It doesn't make sense. It's irrational.

And yet we are a capricious, illogical and violent race. Sometimes, in our madness, we grow tired of contentment. We become bored.

We wonder if we were not better off after Zeus cleaved us in two.

"Do you want to go?" he asked, the words hanging in the air between them, dangerous and violent. "Go. I'm not stopping you."

"If anyone's going, it's you," she told him. "Pack your things and leave."

And in his anger, not even thinking, he turned to find a suitcase.

And in her anger, she thought of letting him do so.

And they each could see the future in front of them. Cold. Silent.

A void made viable by their own self-doubt more than anything else.

The rejection more a commentary on their own self-loathing than their feelings for one another.

To choose each other, they would have to believe themselves worthy.

It was asking so much—too much, maybe.

Yet when he turned to her—when she reached for his arm—when they crashed together, it was with the furious raging of a soul who would not be torn asunder.

Perhaps it is just a myth. Perhaps it's foolish to let a simple biological imperative be twisted into something that's somewhere between heaven and hell.

But if there is a heaven—or a hell—is it not in a lover's eyes?

CI – CI – CI – CI – CI – CI

Bella and Edward weren't always having sex. They spent a great deal of time talking.

But they were also having a great deal of sex.

Within healthy bounds—as stipulated by their therapists—of course.

It was an expression of their love for one another. And they loved, a lot.

They continued to experiment. Though they were known to drop in on Edward's old sex shop on occasion, and they still enjoyed the intermittent spot of role playing, most of their love-making was devoted just to the two of them, with no gadgets or elaborate scenarios. Just Edward and Bella.

In part, this may have been because Bella took it as something of a challenge to find positions that Edward had never before experienced.

And there was all of the time that they spent practicing conscious touch, becoming experts in stroking, tugging, pulling, twisting, and tapping.

Bella had even convinced Edward to let her test his notions about nihilism. The sensation of Bella behind him, inside of him, simultaneously pumping and stroking and twisting, nearly drove Edward wild with pleasure. She kept bringing him to the brink only to back off again. When he finally came, it was the most powerful orgasm he'd ever had.

Which was why he decided that it was worth trying Bella's latest idea.

Dubious though Edward was, he was willing to give it a go if it meant hours and hours of pleasure.

The beginning wasn't all that bad. Edward particularly enjoyed the part about worshipping the yoni and the lingam.

Later, limbs entwined in the lotus position, sitting up, facing one another, bare flesh touching, staring into each other's eyes, sharing each other's breaths, barely moving—

It was far more affecting than either of them would have expected.

And before long, Edward began to feel as if the entire world had shrunk down, until it was only the two of them. Eyes and breath and skin and hair.

Flesh tingled and burned and shivered. A drop of sweat teased and taunted and delighted.

Bella had been on the verge of cumming for what felt like forever, just hanging on the precipice until she thought that she would shatter if so much as another one of Edward's breaths touched her skin.

Edward had already cum once and was lingering on the edge of yet another orgasm—

When suddenly, Bella cried out.

It was a cramp, but she begged Edward not to yield, not to give up, her eyes widening in panic because she thought that she would lose her mind if he moved.

A while later, Edward was the one with the problem.

She told him to breathe through it, and then chastised him for not joining her in her yoga.

He promised to start the very next day, his forehead creased in pain.

She asked if he wanted to quit.

But the thought of giving up, the thought of her pulling away from him, made Edward pull her even closer.

And finally, after what felt like an eternity—

Bella cried out again.

Not in pain.

Not entirely in pleasure either.

In something beyond both.

While Edward panted for breath.

He felt like he was drowning.

At the same time, he felt like he was melting.

Because it was too much. It was everything.

But they were together.

Yet the words seemed inadequate.

"Oh my—"

"God!"

People want a happy ending. They want a perfect moment, distilled forever. Happiness. But it's fleeting. You have to catch it over and over and over again. Not just words. Not just touches. Both and neither.

THE END, REALLY

AN:

The cramps were borrowed from a scene in The Illuminatus! Trilogy.

Though I obviously focused on the heteronormative aspects of the story, Plato's Symposium also includes a (not entirely politically correct) explanation for the origin of much of the LGBTQ+ community.

In case anyone is thrown by the reference to Anton LaVey: Yes, Satanists are people too (anyone watching Silicon Valley?). No, they don't all sacrifice babies and torture animals (see James Richardson, Joel Best and David Bromley, eds., The Satanism Scare, New York: A. de Gruyter, 1991). Yes, I respect their right to their religion. No, I don't think that religious freedom means that they can break the law by sacrificing babies, etc., should they be so inclined (just like I don't think religious freedom gives you a pass on discriminating against LGBTQA+, for instance). No, I don't agree with their ethics (if you actually have to ask this, you've missed the entire point). Yes, my portrait of the Satanist as a hollow shell of a person is biased. It's fiction, not a science experiment. And I'm a NeoPlatonist. I included the reference because, as I have already mentioned, I'm trying to explode the Twilight fanfiction cliché of corruption and sophistication.

I apologize for becoming so derelict in replying to reviews. I appreciate all of the reviewers (anonymous or not) who gave me well-intentioned, concrete advice, even when it was negative and even when I didn't take it. (Though I did take a lot of it!) Between working twelve to fourteen hour days and an extremely busy private life, it was a struggle even to read reviews, let alone reply to them, especially as some of the guest reviewers got increasingly vicious.

Before posting this epilogue, I skimmed some of the hysterical ANs that I wrote in response to those "vicious" reviews, with the intention of deleting most of them. But when I came across the explanation I provided for Bella's virginity in the AN of chapter 4, I was annoyed to see how much I had pulled my punches, particularly given how much backlash this story ended up receiving. So I revised that AN with additional discussion, in case you are interested.

Another recurring complaint I received regards the amount of animosity that Edward and Bella showed towards each other early on. As I've already mentioned, I added some flashbacks to the beginning of the story to try to humanize Edward (in response to reviewers' comments!). But I may have gone too far: Now I'm getting reviewers complaining that Bella—not Edward—is the problem. So I've just added some additional flashbacks to try to humanize her to chapter 4. Since the attempt to humanize one character involves demonizing the other, my efforts are probably going to naught, but I thought it was worth one last shot.

After seeing "The End" in chapter 35, one reviewer said that they had expected to see at least one more chapter. Someone else said they wanted to see this couple five/ten years in the future. I think the story is done. (Really done.) No, they aren't having children. And while they will have minor issues with regard to work, etc., there is no major drama in their future. Are there any other issues that you think need to be addressed?

Thank you for reading, particularly those of you who stuck with me even after you hated the turn(s) the story was taking. I hope you think it was worth your time in the end.