AN ~ At long (long long long LONG ^.^) last, here is the next chapter of Stars! YAY! I am on school holidays now (THANK GOD!) which means I will probably be giving myself square eyes and updating several (if not ALL) of my fics in the next few weeks! YAY!

Also, I was thinking of writing a piece for Anzac Day – but since I don't know much about other countries' holidays, I thought I'd better ask; how many of you actually know what that is? I will be giving a breif overview at the beginning of the piece but I want to know how brief to go.

This chap we have an appearance (sort of) by legendary Romantic poet William Blake, who I am studying at school. Those of you who haven't heard of him, but who watch the Mentalist, he's the guy who wrote "Tyger Tyger burning bright, in the forests of the night..."

Also, if anyone has any ideas about what I should write a poem on, shoot 'em my way coz I need to write some for Lit these hols.

Disclaimer: I don't own Breaking Dawn OR William Blake (but you can write about ANYTHING by Mr Blake in the WACE (basically HSCE I think) exam.)

From last chapter, since it's been so long:

Esme:

"Unbelievable," he murmured, tentatively placing his hand back against Bella's ballooning belly, his expression somewhere between a smile and a frown.

"Rose! Rose!" Bella cried gleefully. "My little nudger is kicking!"

...

Sensing my confusion, Jasper smiled half a smile and stepped up to my side.

"I'm on Alice's side," he offered. "At present, this is something to be excited about, but Carlisle's worry has strong foundation and merit. I wouldn't discard that so quickly."

...

Carlisle:

"Edward, I've discussed these things...it's wrong to destroy what or whoever Bella is carrying until we know for absolute certain that there is a health risk to Bella."

"Tell me that next week when it looks like she's been pushed off Niagra Falls."

Chapter Fifty Three: The Lamb and The Tyger

Carlisle:

Edward's prediction was uncanny: within the week, Bella was fragile, malnourished, and was covered in bruises. The infant's movements were becoming progressively more destructive and, even though I had Bella on iron and calcium supplements and even steroids, her condition continued to rapidly deteriorate.

Rosalie hovered beside her sickening sister almost constantly. It was sweet, watching them finally connecting on some deeper level, but as Bella's pregnancy progressed it seemed the two of them were simply feeding each others' madness. After a while I stopped approaching Bella when Rosalie beside her, because instead of a health and risk assessment, all I got were withering glares and the threat of battle. Instead, like today, I hovered on the sidelines, trying to make the best judgments I could until Rose's hostility waned into mild disdain and I was granted permission to approach.

Bella was asleep when I finally got the chance to see her – which wasn't saying much, since she slept a lot these days. I stepped up to her bedside, meaning to gently wake her and ask her some questions, but I found my hand – reached out to touch her shoulder – instead brushed the damp brown locks from her hallowed face. She looked so ill, which, all things considered, shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. In a way, it didn't, but there was something heart-wrenching about standing tall out here, when one could almost see the endless, dry deserts of suffering poor Bella had to cross. I found myself wishing for a visible opponent; an enemy to fight against, to tear apart if necessary, to save my daughter from her suffering – for, now more than ever, my daughter she had become. As her father, for that I was now, I had to protect her, no matter what the cost, but my only means of doing so were blocked.

I turned around to face Rosalie, who stood at the back of the room with her arms crossed, heel tapping impatiently.

"Why won't you let me take a sample?" I asked. "I can help her, Rose, if only you'd let me."

"I am not. Letting you. Near her. With a needle." Rosalie spelled out, spitting through a clenched jaw.

"Abortion was the wrong idea. I see that; I made my choice a week ago! I have not tried to sabotage Bella's pregnancy at any point since then, much to the detriment of my relationship with Edward. I'm dedicated to making this work, Rose, can't you see?"

"I see, but I do not believe," she muttered coldly. I sighed and turned back to the sleeping Bella. I took her cold, clammy hand in mine and shut my eyes. Behind me, I heard Rosalie sigh.

"I can give you some alone time with her, if that's what you want," she offered quietly. "No needles. Ten minutes. We're watching you." She left, followed by Emmett, her burly shadow.

I pulled up a chair by Bella's side, and let her hand slip quietly back to her side. She fidgeted uncomfortably; just a little twitch at first, but growing more restless with the passing seconds, until I put a hand on her forehead; it was boiling.

Moaning with fever, Bella slowly opened her eyes.

"Carlisle?" she mumbled, blushing furiously. "Oh, geez, I'm so embarrassed..."

"Don't worry, you didn't say anything incriminating this time." I grinned. Bella squeezed her eyes shut in agony.

"Oh, no!" she breathed.

"Don't worry. Everyone has promised Edward they won't leave this house."

"Hmph." Bella snorted disapprovingly, but her snort turned into a wheeze and then a violent coughing fit. I quickly presented her a glass of water and a handkerchief.

"Thanks," she rasped once it was over, settling back into position, careful not to disturb her enormous belly more than necessary. As she shifted, I noticed a small, paperback novel fall to the carpet below.

"Damn," Bella groaned groggily. "Could you get that for me?"

I bent down to pick it up and saw that it was not a novel like I had been expecting. It was not even classic Austen or Bronte that Edward had told me Bella liked to read. It was, in fact, Mr William Blake's anthology Songs of Innocence and of Experience. A rather old copy, actually.

"I found it in your bookshelf ages ago," Bella explained. "I kinda borrowed it. I hope you don't mind."

"No, no, not at all," I replied, recovering from my momentary shock. "I'm sorry, where were you?"

"Nowhere, really," Bella said, nonchalantly. "Carlisle, would you...would you read one? You know to- to the baby. He hasn't heard you talk much and I want him to know his grandpa Carlisle when he comes out." She grinned at me and I wouldn't have been surprised if I had blushed, touched as I was by her sentiment. I put the anthology aside, already having though of which one I would recite.

"Little Lamb, who made thee?"

Bella grinned; obviously this was a familiar piece to her.

"Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
- on poor little innocent deer."

Bella chuckled at my addition, and I went on.

"Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;"

"Alice," Bella snorted wearily, this time making me chuckle even though her eyes had nearly closed again. Struck by the melancholy and serious of her illness all over again, I whispered the rest of the poem with a tight throat and heavy heart.

"Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!"

Esme:

Carlisle's recitation of the familiar poem trailed as I approached him, by Bella's bedside, in the living room. Standing behind him, I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Little Lamb, God bless thee," I finished. Silent, he placed one of his own hands on top of mine, his expression troubled. I frowned, shifting my gaze to Bella's unnaturally pale – almost greenish – face, hallowed out and resting in the sleep of the dead; her only signal of life now being her struggling heartbeat and the feverish whimpers and moans that passed her lips occasionally. Seeing her so empty and lifeless and vulnerable, after watching her find her balance and her strengths over the past few years, nearly made me cry.

"Oh Carlisle," I nearly sobbed. "Is Bella going to be okay?" I felt so guilty all of a sudden; so absolutely terrible. I had talked Carlisle out of aborting Bella's pregnancy and now, because of my coercion, she might die! Oh Bella, oh Edward, oh Charlie – I hope they forgive me!

"Esme, Esme," Carlisle soothed; "I cannot tell you what will or will not be. But we mustn't give up. We have not been beaten yet. Bella is strong; she may get through this after all."

"And yet, I cannot help but fear there is a predator haunting the shadows," I confessed, thinking of The Lamb's darker partner poem, The Tyger. It seems I wasn't the only one; Edward chose that moment to stalk into the room, murmuring under his breath;

"...When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"