Chapter 5

A/N: Please see my note at the end. It might not apply to you, but I think it still needs to be said.

"My King! My King!"

A small parcel, wrapped in burlap and twine, was pressed into Edward's palm. Emmett confiscated it at once.

"Praise be!"

Fingers grasped his hand.

"Blessings for the Goddess!"

A child's lips on his wrist.

"This is madness, Edward." Emmett growled his displeasure. "What in all hell…"

"I know." The pair sidestepped a prostrate woman, her hands clasped beseechingly before her as she stared up at him with abject adoration. "I know…"

"Step aside and let your king pass!" Emmett's booming bass rang over the multitude of heads. "Stand aside!"

The crowd shifted, but did not part long enough to let him through.

"Gods above…" Emmett grit his teeth. Edward saw his hand twitch for his sword and though he knew that Emmett would never be rash enough to use it on a group of innocents, the motion made him uneasy nonetheless.

"Please, my Lord, please…" An old woman, wizened and frail, held out a knobbly, arthritic hand to him. "Please… carry my offering to the Goddess and beg her blessings…"

Another parcel, this time smelling of thyme and sage, was pressed on him.

"I…" Edward did not know what to say. "I will carry it forth. But please, madam, step aside. We must pass."

"Yes, My King. Yes. Of course…"

And she hobbled off, only to be replaced by another pilgrim, pressing yet another package onto him with another plea for good fortune.

"Stand aside!" Emmett blocked the rushing bodies of four young women, all holding their hands up in desperate appeal. "Your King commands it!"

Reluctant, yet still hopeful faces shifted again and Edward, reaching around to grab the reins of his horse, swung himself up high above the crowd and began to move.

"Ed…" Emmett warned, scowling at the sight of him. Emmett did not like it— it was his job to protect Edward, to guard him from anyone or anything that would seek to do him harm, and it made his job infinitely more difficult when his charge insisted on rising so high above the others, a sitting duck just waiting for a properly poised spear or arrow.

"We need to move, Emmett, and we don't have time to waste. Carlisle has called, and I fear…"

Emmett, still unhappy, swung up onto his own mount and began to canter.

What Edward feared need not be said aloud. It was the same fear that weighed on everyone's minds, washing over them like a plague of sickness. It was the same fear that drove the Maronese people to flock to the healer's hut like ants to sugar, to swarm like buzzards in thick throngs that blocked the road. It was this fear that drove their desperate pleas, their begging hands, and their open worry, for if what they believed was true, then surely, all was not well.

For what kind of world did they live in where a Goddess— one of that mysterious, holy order that they'd only heard about in stories— could fall from the heavens to meet her doom on the sand, so far from her kin?

Edward did not know what to think— he had seen the girl for himself, but he was one of the very few who had. He'd seen her flesh, as supple and tangible as theirs, her body, wracked with sickness and pain, and her decline, as ugly and bitter as any that had come before it, or any that would come after. Death, after all, was not a pretty business, and as far as Edward was concerned, it was all the worse when it was dragged out and prolonged.

But while she continued to sicken and fade, Carlisle was still not sure that she would die, and so the mercy of death was kept at bay until the fates decided her path, one way or another.

His people thought the girl divine. They thought her the daughter of a God— perhaps a beloved child of the great creator himself, whose laughter rang in the trickling rain and whose ire was felt in thunder and wind. Perhaps this was Tagiĝo, the goddess of the morn, or Stelina, the goddess of the nighttime sky. Maybe she was Florino, goddess of crops and harvest, or even Verina, keeper of truth and memory…

Each person you asked told a different version of the story, and each was as wild and fanciful as the next.

And it seemed that rumor had spread like wildfire. While the knowledge of her sudden and abrupt arrival was, at first, confined only to the royal family and those closest to them, word had spread until every man, woman, and child in the capital knew. Before long, even Edward's most outlying citizens, from the water watchers on the northern shore to the apiarists in the east, knew that a woman had arrived— a strange woman, unlike anything ever seen on the island before. The woman had fallen like a fabled meteor from the heavens above. Her skin had been burned red by the fiery sun, but underneath, it was as pale as the coveted sugar sand on the island's south shore. The girl slumbered like some creature out of myth. She did not speak. She did not wake.

And most concerningly of all, she was dying, alone and without her kin, in the healer's hut in the heart of the jungle.

Edward was at his wits' end.

"Go ahead of me," Emmett barked, drawing Edward out of his thoughts. "I'll keep the crowd at bay. Carlisle's hut is just up ahead…"

"Thank you, Emmett," said Edward, grateful, not for the first time, for his friend's dedication and concern. "I'll let you know if there's any news."

But Emmett was not listening, sitting tall and proud in his saddle, his great horse blocking the path of rushing bodies and plaintive, desperate voices.

"You're here." Edward heard his uncle before he saw him.

Carlisle stood by the gate— a pretty, wooden thing that Esme had spent much of her bridal days carving with a mallet and chisel. Edward had always admired it— engraved there was the history of his people, as far back as anyone knew it, laid out in etched pictograms as beautiful and rare as a fine painting.

But Carlisle's hands blocked the scene he sought— that divine story of the Laughing God pulling the island from the depths of the salty sea.

"We need to talk," he said. "Please, come inside."

Edward, ever obedient, did as he was bid.

Despite the heat of the day, Edward found that the inside of Carlisle and Esme's home was surprisingly cool and dark. The fire in the grate had been reduced to smouldering embers, the merest ghost of a flame still licking the largest, densest log at its core. The air smelled of rose oil and poppies, and Edward spied a tincture of the latter in a bowl by the hearth. The voices from outside could still be heard from the doorway where Edward stood, but there was something about the dark, cozy home that felt serene, and once the door was closed, Edward found that the tense anxiety brought on by the crowds melted away.

His Aunt Esme, who had looked up worriedly when he came in, stood sentry by the cot, her legs folded on a plump, grey cushion as her fingers ran through the damp hair of the girl beside her. There was a bowl and cloth by Esme's knee, and Edward could see the damp moisture pooling on the girl's arms before Esme retrieved a soft, linen towel, and dabbed gently at her pale skin.

"She's decent, Edward. You can come in." Edward, not realizing that he was still standing on the threshold, stepped carefully inside. The door latched behind him. "I just gave her a quick wash…"

The bowl of tepid water lay forgotten as Esme reached beneath the furs once more, producing the girl's purple, swollen wrist and a stack of bandages from a basket by her feet.

The girl didn't flinch, nor did she cry out, when Esme began to re-splint her fractured wrist, binding it to a thin, wooden plank supplied by Carlisle.

"Is she…" Edward spoke hesitantly, as if the very mention of death might bring it forth. "Is she well?"

"As well as she can be," said Esme. "Thank you for visiting."

"I like to," said Edward. "She's become quite the sensation."

"So I've heard." Esme pursed her lips as she tucked the wrapped arm under the furs. "With all of that hooting and hollering, I'm surprised no one's woken her."

Carlisle heaved a sigh.

"You forget, my darling, that this is no common slumber…"

"No, I do not forget," Esme snipped. "Thank you, Carlisle."

Edward's uncle bit his lip, shuffling his feet in the dirt. There was something about his aunt's annoyance, though it was not directed at him, that brought Edward back in time. It turned him into a ten year old boy again with mud on his cheeks and dirty fingernails before dinner, and he could almost hear a reprimand for his carelessness in her sharp barb.

Carlisle, looking tired and worn, beckoned Edward silently towards the back room. It served as Carlisle's storeroom, where he kept all the herbs and medicines he needed to tend to the people of the island. He had chamomile to ease anxious nerves, echinacea for summer colds, feverfew for headaches, and lavender for wound care. Vials of alcohol took up residence on a high-reaching shelf, in tones ranging from brown to clear, each one stoppered with a cork and bearing a peeling, inked label. Aloe vera, green and plump, grew in pots by the wide window to soak up the afternoon sun, and sprigs of peppermint grew in clay basins to ease indigestion and stomach pain. On the highest shelf, far out of reach, Edward saw the telltale red of poppy petals, and hidden far back in the darkest corner was a milky-white jar of its essence, powerful and potent.

When Edward stepped inside and the door closed behind him, he was immediately met with the aromatic perfume of a blooming plumeria, which only just covered the musty scent of the soil in which it grew.

"Your aunt is…" began Carlisle, "disturbed."

"What do you mean?" Edward leaned back against a counter, careful not to disturb anything. Carlisle frowned and began to tinker with an aloe plant, gently snipping off great, fat leaves with the knife he carried at his waist. He said nothing as he piled them on the counter, checking the slimy, gelatinous insides for quality.

"I mean…" he began to squeeze the leaves, and Edward watched the gel collect into a small, wooden bowl. "She's been upset."

"By whom?" Esme was well-liked and even better-loved, and Edward could not imagine who might have slighted her. Furthermore, Esme had thick skin, and there was little that could rattle her…

"Who do you think?" complained Carlisle, his eyes darting anxiously towards the door. "The girl. The girl has disturbed her."

"Ah." Aunt Esme, and the rest of the island, it seemed.

"She's grown… attached." The word seemed strained. "Too attached, and I fear…"

"Esme knows the risks," said Edward, careful to keep his voice gentle. There had been too much loss for his aunt already… enough heartache and tears to last a lifetime.

"Esme rises and falls like the evening tide," said Carlisle sharply, though without even a hint of admonition. "She always has, and I expect she always will."

"I know." Edward's own mother, Esme's sister, had been much the same.

From out in the main room, Edward heard his aunt begin to sing— a soft, sweet lullaby that Edward had heard often enough from his own mother in his youth.

The sound made Carlisle frown.

"Don't misunderstand me…" Edward snapped back to attention. "It's not that the girl is undeserving of her affection. In fact, I expect that if she lives, she will be in dire need of it."

Edward listened patiently.

"But I don't know that she will." He squeezed another aloe leaf. "Esme is too…"

"I understand," said Edward softly. "I do…"

"No." Carlisle laughed, sardonic and hard. "No, you don't. You couldn't possibly."

And when Edward, peeking through a gap in the wood, saw his aunt bent over the still and pale face, he knew that his uncle was right. Edward did not remember much of his aunt's sorrow— that deep, soul-crushing ache that had taken over her every time she had held one of those little, white corpses in her arms, praying to every god she knew to give it life. He had heard the tales, of course— the stories of the healer's wife, always pregnant but never a mother— and he thought that if he looked at her closely enough now, he would see it again. This desperate yearning for life that seemed to emanate from within her, so hopeful and anticipatory, was the same as that which had come crashing down around her two decades prior. Carlisle feared that the girl would become nothing more than another barb to wound her, a painful memory who would leave his wife with nothing but another flower to plant alongside the blooming rosebushes she'd placed on each tiny grave in the garden.

"When she looks at that girl, I know she sees them," said Carlisle, pressing the final drops of aloe into the bowl. "Our own dead. I see them too, but those memories hurt her in ways they could never hurt me. If that girl does not live…"

He did not need to finish his thought.

"Esme seems certain that she will," reasoned Edward. "There's been no turn for the worst, at least…"

"No," agreed Carlisle, "but even so. She's not yet woken, and that's troublesome enough on its own. It's true that she may live, but I can't say for sure that she will ever wake. A person can linger quite a while in sleep and I know the truth, even if Esme is bound and determined to refute it."

"What truth?" Edward prompted gently. Carlisle met his gaze with an unspeakable sadness that made Edward pause, any further queries dying on his tongue.

"That sometimes," said Carlisle, "if we cannot fix someone, it is kinder to let them go. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is ease their way. Some say that it is not a healer's place to herald death, but the way I see it, it is a healer's job to ease suffering. Suffering with a purpose is one thing— the mending of broken bones or the fusion of torn flesh can often bring pain and tears, but in the end, they do good. Even slumber can sometimes be restorative— sometimes a body needs rest to heal, and time to come back to the world again. But there are other times— and I fear that this may be one of them— when a person is beyond our humble skill and knowledge. There are times, even when we do all we can to bring them back, that they are simply lost, without hope of return or reconciliation. It's during times like these when we cannot let suffering endure. When there is no hope to be had and no chance of a waking life, we must fulfill our duty to end suffering. Oftentimes, a good, strong dose of poppy extract is more than enough to do it…"

The thought made Edward sad and he glanced anxiously into the main room of the hut, where his aunt still sat, bent over the immobile figure in the bed. Edward knew without a doubt that Esme would never let her husband do it— if it came time to administer that blessed mercy, Esme would fight. She would rail, and cry, and scream herself hoarse, all in the name of love for a silent girl who might never have the chance to speak.

"Our babies, though they never drew breath, still weigh heavily on her." Carlisle suddenly looked older than his forty five years. "And that girl in the cot, well…" He chuckled, peeking through the gap. "She'd be about the right age."

Edward supposed this was true. He had been only a small boy when the first of Esme's children— a tiny, blue-eyed girl— had faded.

"And so," Carlisle stirred the aloe with a few drops of lavender oil. "I must ask a favour of you."

"I see."

"I need you to take her," said Carlisle, dipping his thumb into the fragrant concoction and rubbing it experimentally between his fingers. "I need you to take her up to the castle and put her in a good, clean bed where she won't come to harm."

"I'd never get her through the crowd, Carlisle" said Edward ruefully. "They're everywhere. And I fear what they might do if they see her."

"They'll thin out once darkness falls," said his uncle sensibly. "They always do. I'd never ask you unless I felt I had to, Edward. For your aunt's sake. If that girl dies, it'll ruin her. Take her now, before it's too late. She's already grown too fond."

And as Edward watched his aunt through the gap, still fussing and fretting, he saw the truth in his uncle's words. His aunt was a good woman, a kind woman through and through. She was a giving soul, selfless and true, but for what she'd gained in generosity, she lacked in self-preservation.

For Edward could see the circles beneath her eyes and the bony shadows of her collarbones on her chest. He saw the way her fingers trembled as she mopped the pale and clammy brow, and how her dress hung looser than before, as if she hadn't been eating…

"I'll be up to tend her as usual," said Carlisle softly. "Day and night, if need be, and I don't doubt that Esme will come too. But at the end of the day…"

He peered through the gap at her as she fussed with the furs in the cot.

"I need my wife to come home. I need her to rest, and sleep, and eat a good meal without worrying over that poor creature."

Edward released his breath, a feeling of grim determination in his chest, and gave his uncle a short nod.

He did not know how he would do it, or how he would break the news to his aunt, but he knew, despite his hesitance, that he could not refuse his uncle this simple request. Not Carlisle, who had done so much for him in his young life, who had sacrificed so much time and patience to offer advice and wisdom. His uncle had been an unexpected and invaluable asset since Edward's ascension, and had he not offered his guidance, the Kingdom would be all the worse for it.

"As you wish," he said, quiet and solemn in his decision. "Is that all?"

"Yes," said Carlisle finally, after a long moment of surveyance. "That is all. I thank you, Edward. I know that as healer, it's my job to keep her here, but…"

"I understand." And he did. Carlisle was the best healer this island had ever seen, but even he could not be expected to sacrifice his family for the sake of a stranger. The girl needed him, that much was certain, but Edward could not fault him for wanting to protect his wife.

For if Edward had a wife, he was sure that he would do the same.

"Do you hear what they're saying about her?" Edward asked quietly as Carlisle opened the door to the storeroom. Esme paid no mind to their reappearance and Edward watched her as she sat, her fingers rolling carefully over the girl's cheeks while she told her the story of creation. "The people outside?"

"Yes." Carlisle pursed his lips, and Esme, curious, glanced up. "And what a load of nonsense."

Edward said nothing.

"This child is no more divine than you or I," he said. Edward watched as he knelt by the bed, interrupting Esme's storytelling, and rolled the girl onto her side. He pulled down the brown, cotton dress at her shoulder, exposing the still-blistered, but healing, sunburn. "These wounds should prove that, if nothing else…"

His uncle began to slather aloe gel onto the burn with careful fingers. The girl did not stir.

"What do they say about her?" asked Esme, and Carlisle glanced up.

"They say that she is a God," he replied idly, "fallen from the sky in a hail of fire. They say she is the daughter of the creator, and that she has come to us in our time of need…"

"What need?" Esme complained, stroking the girl's cheek. "We're prosperous and healthy…"

"The west grows restless," said Carlisle. "The people think…"

"Oh, bah!" Esme dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "I'll hear no more talk of the west. Those treasonous heathens would do better to stay in that wasteland, away from civilized folk as they have been doing for nigh on fifty years."

Edward was surprised, and slightly taken aback, by such a response from Esme, who was always gentle and calm.

"Nevertheless," continued Carlisle, "Edward has agreed to do us a service."

And at once, Edward saw his aunt stiffen. Her spine straightened and her lips pursed, and she stared, narrow-eyed, at her husband who, for his part, remained placidly at ease.

"He's agreed to take the girl up to the castle," he said. "It'll be better for her there, away from the crowds gathering on the road."

Esme stared at him and Carlisle met that stare for only a moment before he turned back to the girl's burned shoulders.

"She'll be well cared for," he continued, and Edward heard the hesitation in his voice. "I'll be up as often as ever, making sure she's safe…"

"Save your excuses," said Esme finally. Edward would have had to have been deaf to miss her stinging, icy coldness. "I know exactly what you're doing."

"Do you?" Carlisle rose to his feet, taking the empty aloe bowl with him. "Pray, do tell."

And at once, his aunt rose like an angry viper, her eyes flashing and her lip curling. She stretched to meet him and though her head barely brushed his shoulder, the ferocity with which she glared made up for any lack of height.

"I am not a child!" she shouted, and Edward retreated politely into the shadows. It was not seemly to eavesdrop on another couple's argument, much less a couple old enough to be his parents. "I am not a pet for you to coddle and keep!"

"I do not want to coddle you."

"But you do!" Esme gave a bark of frigid, hysterical laughter. "You do! Always, I see you, watching and waiting… do you not trust me at all?"

Edward turned to face the window.

"You know that I do…"

"Then do me the courtesy of telling the truth!" Esme snapped, and from the corner of his eye, Edward saw his uncle bow his head.

"I do tell the truth…" But even Edward heard the hesitation. "I am not lying to you, my beauty…"

"Don't. Don't, Carlisle. You insult me, and you insult yourself with such platitudes."

Carlisle growled.

"It is not a crime to worry," he said, straining to keep his voice steady. "I will not apologize for that, Esme. Not now, and not ever."

Esme snorted, but Carlisle spoke over her.

"The girl is ill, and she is weak, and she may yet die…"

"She won't."

"She might," Carlisle said again. "It does no good to deny it… she is very ill. And it'll do neither she nor you any good if you sicken yourself worrying over her."

"Someone should," said Esme, and when Edward turned, he was surprised to see a shining, wet tear on her cheek. "Someone should be sick with worry, Carlisle. Someone probably is. Wherever her people are, wherever her family is, there has to be someone out there missing her, and wondering what's become of her. What if she was ours? What if she was our baby, lost and alone among strangers? Wouldn't you want someone to care for her… to love her?"

Carlisle's face pinched.

"Yes," he admitted finally. "But you forget…"

"I do not forget! How could I? I know she's not ours… not mine." Tears fell in earnest now. "How could she be?"

Esme's head turned, almost reflexively, towards the high window, through which Edward could see only the tip of a pink rosebud in the waxing sun. Carlisle stared steadfastly at his wife and though Edward could not quite discern what emotions he saw written there, the downturned corners of his mouth belied a little of his sadness. That tiny grave— one of many— weighed heavily on the both of them like an anchor.

"But someone should love her," Esme repeated again, dabbing her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve. "Someone should care that she's here, that's she's alone…"

"Aye," agreed Carlisle, taking a careful step forwards with an offering hand held out. "Aye, someone should. But that someone doesn't always have to be you, Esme."

And when her face pinched again, her eyes fixed pleadingly on the unknowing, slumbering girl, she allowed Carlisle to pull her into a tight, strong embrace.

"I am sorry," he heard Carlisle whisper. "Truly, I am. I do not want to upset you, or insult you…"

Esme sniffled.

"But I must look after you, first."

Esme opened her mouth to protest.

"No," said Carlisle, "that's the plain and simple truth. You are my wife, my family, and I must do what's right by you before all others."

Edward recognized that duty at once as one from the traditional Maronese wedding vows— the very same ones that Carlisle and Esme must have spoken to each other decades ago, when they were both still young and without sorrow.

"I am well…"

"Yes," agreed Carlisle. "For now. But what kind of husband— what kind of man— would I be if I let you fade right before my very eyes? And all for something that I could prevent?"

Esme sighed.

"When will you take her?" she asked, and Edward saw her gaze fixed on him, instead.

"As soon as Uncle asks," said Edward quietly. "Don't worry over her, Esme. She will be well cared for."

"I don't doubt it." She wiped her eyes again. "And I'll be up during the day…"

She glanced suspiciously at her husband, as if daring him to contradict her.

"As will I," was all he said.

"You'll need to find her an attendant," said Esme softly. "I sit with her at night, just in case, but once she leaves here…"

"It will be done," Edward vowed. "Anything you ask, Auntie… she will be looked after."

And Esme, seeming at least somewhat satisfied by this answer, sunk back down beside the cot as her righteous anger drained away.

The girl slept on.

A/N: Thank you all for being such wonderful readers. I appreciate all your feedback and love for this new story. I'm happy to give you this chapter early, as I'm well ahead of schedule and have no reason to keep it from you.

But: there is another reason you're getting this chapter earlier than expected. This morning, when I checked my email, I found a scathing, nasty review left by a guest reviewer on one of my stories "Under Construction"— A Diamond in the Rough, Part 2. It has since been removed via review moderation, but if you'd like to see a screenshot of it, you can find it on my twitter page (Moonchild_707). Now, I don't normally respond to critics who have nothing constructive to offer, but this one made me a little angry. And as I was given no username or profile to use to respond to this person, I've been left with only two choices: 1) don't respond at all, or 2) respond publicly.

Evidently, I've chosen the latter.

I don't think some people realize how much work it takes to write, revise, rewrite, and fine-tune a story on a scale as large as a 4-part series like A Diamond in the Rough. Calling me a "fucking lazy ass bitch" for not updating at a rate that suits and pleases YOU is erroneous and, quite frankly, uncalled for. As much as I love writing new stories and fixing up my old ones, there are other, more important issues that often get in my way. Like an average adult human, I have work and family responsibilities to tend to before I can take time to sit down and write. And, if you're a writer yourself, then you know how hard it can be to get your ideas down on paper in a way that is coherent, meaningful, and deliberate, rather than jumbled, hasty, and rushed. Stories need pacing. They need clear direction. They need planning, and thought, and discipline, or else everything ends up a big, tangled mess.

I assume that you, like myself, want a decent quality product when I DO eventually decide to release it.

I also have a sneaking suspicion that the person who wrote this is frustrated by the fact that while A Diamond in the Rough waits in the wings, I've released a number of new stories in the interim. Now, I can't speak for anyone else, but my creative process does not allow me to simply focus on one narrative at a time. Sometimes, for the sake of the story, I need to take a step back and reassess, and I often use that break to develop other plot bunnies and story ideas that are bouncing around in my head.

Simply put— sometimes, when you're writing, you feel distracted by other ideas and the best way to get those ideas out of the way is to develop them on paper before you return to your original work. Now, I might be wrong, but I assumed that maybe someone (even if it's only ONE person), might enjoy reading those new plot bunnies (Invictus, Beneath the Old Oak Tree, and The Island, etc.), so I put them out there for public consumption.

But there is a point about this process that I can't stress enough— the creation of new stories does NOT take away from the continuation of old ones. I'm not taking time away from Invictus to work on Beneath the Old Oak Tree, nor am I taking time away from A Diamond in the Rough to work on The Island. All of my stories are distinct and separate entities, and each has its own demands and challenges. Sometimes, those challenges frustrate me, and if I choose not to take a step back, the end product is messy, rushed, and not nearly as good as it might have been (see the ending of Dark Waltz for an example of this— I've learned since then). So when I write more than one story at a time, it's not an "either-or" situation— even if I didn't work on something new during my break from A Diamond in the Rough, there would STILL not be anything for Part 2 until the writer's block eases, and I can think of a way to make it as close to ideal as possible.

And finally, how DARE you accuse me of not caring? These stories have been with me since childhood. The first edition of Part 1 was published on this site when I was just a freshman in high school, with no writing experience and even less writing prowess. I know it's only fan fiction written for a select few readers in a huge fandom, but these stories mean more to me, both as a person and a writer, than they ever could to you. You read them because they're fun, or striking, or interesting. I write them because they mean something to me. I write them as a testament to my own growth as a writer. I write them for that grown-up little girl, whose own life was shadowed in those early chapters of Part 1, and for all of those internet readers out there who feel like they've found a little piece of themselves in her. I do NOT write them for your enjoyment or convenience, because as far as I'm concerned, they serve a much greater purpose to those who love them most. And those people who really DO love them most understand the wait, because they know how important it is for both of us— for me as the author, and for "Bella" as the muse— to get it right.

I hope that next time, if you choose to comment in such a way on any of my work again, you'll be brave enough to let me write you back. I don't know if you'll read this, or if you'd even care, but it needed to be said. I don't know if you're a writer yourself or if you've ever tried to create something meaningful, but I hope that someday, you can find some morsel of empathy for those of us who, despite our best efforts, struggle to make everything come together like it should. If you're not a writer, you have no way of understanding, and no business critiquing.

And if you are one, then shame on you.

Also, you'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

The story WILL be updated just as soon as I find a way to make it great.