Chapter 14

The girl stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the great stone dais at the end of the hall where a pair of thrones— matching seats of dark, gleaming wood— stood shining in the sun. Silence echoed around them. Light filtered down through gleaming, glass-covered skylights, and dust drifted in beams of sunlight. It tumbled through the air like dancers on the wind, and Edward's eyes followed a piece from the ceiling— down, and left, and down, and right— until it came to settle on the dark crown of her head, disappearing into the long, red-brown hair that ran down her back.

Her sniffle echoed off of the cavernous walls, the noise so loud that it made her jump.

"My Lady?" Edward kept his voice low, but the girl jumped again. "My Lady, please…"

When she turned to him, her eyes as wide as saucers, he felt a peculiar heat creeping up his neck.

"Please?" she queried, her voice tremulous. She swallowed— he saw her throat bob with sudden effort— and he looked away. She had not said a word to him since he'd helped her onto his horse, and though he had done his best to appear gentle and kind, the very sight of him seemed to send her into a fluster.

"Please, sit," he said. He could see her knees shaking, just as they had been out in the fields. "Please."

He pointed her towards a bench— a long, low, cushioned thing along the western wall of the throne room— and she paused for only a moment, her brow furrowed.

"Sit," he said again, and the girl nodded. "Please."

And so, with hobbling, jerky movements, like those of a nested fledgling, she obeyed. She perched herself upon the burgundy cushion and sighed, tucking her feet beneath the seat.

Edward cleared his throat.

"You must be hungry," he said, and the girl's shoulders shrugged. "You did not eat."

"No," she agreed. As if in response to his offer, her stomach snarled. The kitchens, already aware of her predicament, were preparing a plate as they spoke.

He wished she would look at him.

"Are you hurt?" asked Edward, and the girl shook her head. "My brother had no right to do what he did."

"I..." She bit her lip. "I do not think he meant to."

Edward, unable to help himself, barked a loud, sardonic laugh. The girl jumped again.

"He did," said Edward. "I assure you, he did."

And this time, she did look.

Such eyes of deep and brilliant hazel, Edward had never seen before. She stared at him, her gaze fixed and hot with such sudden accusation that Edward, despite the thrill of excitement that coursed through him, was forced to backtrack. Her pretty face scowled— her lip curled in distaste, her wide eyes narrowed, and her cheeks, as pale and smooth as a bowl of cream, flushed pink like rose petals. The blush spread down, first to her neck, and then to her chest, as she grew more discontented.

"He didn't," she insisted again, and despite her obvious annoyance, her voice remained calm. "He just… didn't."

"He is very hot-tempered," began Edward, but the girl, seeming to have found her strength, cut him short.

"He is…" She struggled, and he waited. "He is…"

"Headstrong," finished Edward helpfully, though the girl did not respond. "Headstrong, and stubborn. He is a foolish youth…"

"Sad."

Edward blew out a breath. The girl watched his shoulders sag, as if her voicing of that word was the only thing that made it so, and Edward nodded in concession.

"Yes," he said. "He is. But he must learn to control himself."

The girl's interest was piqued and she stood again, pushing herself up on shaking, unsteady legs. Edward wished she wouldn't… each time she stepped, he feared she would fall. The stone floor would not be kind to her if she struck it with force, and the very last thing she needed was another injury to add to her healing, but still lengthy, list.

"Please…" Edward offered her his arm. She hesitated for only a moment, eying it with deliberate consideration, before she reached out with her unbandaged, unbroken limb and hooked it through his elbow. Her arm was thin— everything from her elbow to her wrist and fingers was bony and sharp, though even through the sleeves of his tunic, he could feel her warmth. She leaned her slight weight on him, as if she were in danger of falling, and Edward was acutely aware of the way her shoulder felt against his.

They walked halfway to the dais before she spoke again.

"Why is he sad?" she asked, and Edward paused, heaving a sigh. "What happened to make him so?"

"It…" He shook his head. "It is… come. Come with me, and I will show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes."

And so he led her, careful and slow, towards the end of the large, stone hall, where a great, painted canvas hung in a gilded frame on the wall. It was a monstrous thing— much larger and commanding than any other piece he'd hung— and though it was only a two-dimensional rendering of what he had lost, it was a such an apt likeness that it made his stomach twist.

The girl paused before it, staring up with speculative curiosity. Edward forced himself to look as well. The pang in his guts was lessened, but not absent, as he met the flat, yet potent gaze of the man.

His father, dressed in all his kingly regalia, stood tall and proud near the center of the scene, his stare blazing out from the canvas with fire. He had been tall— taller, even, than Edward himself— and in this regard, the painting had done him justice. He towered next to the pillars that held up the throne room, his hands on his hips and his boots glinting in the bright, morning sun. His sword hung low— it was the same jeweled weapon that Edward now carried— swinging from a scabbard at his waist. His hair was smooth and blonde, tamed into order by the painter's deft brush, and the crown— that tall and heavy golden coronet— rested atop his head, inlaid with gleaming rubies and blazing sapphires. Jasper favoured him— everything from his father's long face and nose, to his gleaming, golden hair, and clear, blue eyes had been passed on to the younger of the two princes, though there was something of Father's ghost that lingered in his eldest son as well.

But it was the woman— the smaller, slender figure with her arm hooked through Edward Senior's elbow— that made his heart stutter.

They had dressed her in cloth of gold— a simply cut, yet lovely gown that hung from her sloping shoulders and pooled on the ground at her feet. She stood tall, though she did not reach his father's chin, and while Edward remembered her as small and soft, the painter had made her fierce and strong. Her figure was straight, with a long body and a regal carriage that told of power, and of strength. Beneath the golden filigree of her crown, a mass of dark red hair tumbled down her back in waves that hung to her waist. She had always been lovely— even as a small boy, Edward had known that his mother was a great beauty. The painter had captured her in all her glory— eyes of emerald green, pale skin tanned brown from the shining Maronese sun, and a wide, kindly smile that spoke of nothing but love, both for her husband and children, for whom she'd given so much, and for her people, to whom she had always felt eternally indebted.

But it was the cloth draped around her shoulders that caught Edward's eye— that bright, flowing thing that had served as the utmost proof of his father's unerring and unbroken devotion to the only woman he had ever loved. His father had commissioned the shawl for her— a thin, lacy thing woven from the finest silks his craftsmen could find— but it had not been the threads, or the detail, that made it so valuable.

It was the blue— the crisp and gentle pale blue— that made it so special. On the island of Marolando, there existed a great range of colours and dyes suited for all manner of craft and trade. Little cochineal beetles, dried and ground to dust, could turn a tunic red. Leaves, steeped in boiling water, could make green. Pollen, stolen from the vibrant plumeria that grew rampant on the island, could make orange and yellow, and if the weaver was lucky enough to find one, a crop of purple hibiscus could turn white into mauve and lilac.

But blue was an enigma. Only in the rarest alcoves, deep in the ravines bordering the caves on the eastern shore, could you find such a treasure: blue indigo, whose crushed stems and flowers would release such potent, vibrant hues of azure and cobalt.

And his father— his father had spent a merchant's fortune to have it harvested. His father had given his queen the greatest gift of all. His mother, for whom the bright, blue sky had been a source of eternal wonder and joy, had been given a piece of the heavens for her very own and she had cherished it until the end when they had found it, folded and wrinkled, beneath her dress above her heart.

The girl sighed, and Edward, broken from his trance, glanced down at the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Edward shook his head. Torn from the painting, he saw how her eyes roved down to his waist, where the great, jeweled sword hung from its scabbard. He knew that she understood what it meant— she might not be versed in the ways of their culture, but she was smart enough to realize that there was only one way for a son to inherit his father's choicest weapon.

"Do not be sorry," said Edward softly. He turned back to the painting. "This is my father and mother."

The girl nodded.

"He was king before me," continued Edward, "and he was gone long before his time. But…"

The girl's head snapped up.

"But what?" she asked.

"But nothing," Edward sighed. "That is why my brother is sad. He was not always so… prickly."

The girl gave a reluctant smile.

"I think it was my fault," she muttered, and Edward scoffed. "I… provoked him."

"It doesn't take much," Edward said. He sat her back on a bench. "He is so quick to anger…"

"I…"

"She wants to leave."

The voice, unexpected and quiet in the hush of the throne room, made Edward wheel round. The girl's eyes snapped up, blinking as she met the gaze of the boy who stood, covered in sweat with a long, downcast face, shuffling his feet in the dirt beneath his boots. Behind him stood Emmett, grim-faced and surly, with a large, hot hand clamped securely around the boy's shoulder. Edward said nothing when Jasper, bristling at the pressure of Emmett's fingers, tried to shrug the guard away, earning him a sharp rebuke from his captor.

"Thank you, Emmett," said Edward. The girl held her breath. "You may leave us."

"As you wish, Edward," said Emmett quietly. "But remember…"

Edward grimaced, reading the reminder on Emmett's face. Discipline, Edward thought, though the very idea unsettled him. Discipline, or else he will end up a lawless, rampant vagabond with no care for either life or limb...

"I know." Edward could feel the heaviness in his chest. "I know. Thank you, Emmett."

The large, wooden doors closed with a creak and a bang, and Jasper, nervous and jumpy to be left alone with his malcontented sibling, gave a start.

Edward said nothing, and a hush fell over them in a soft, but uncomfortable, silence.

"Come here," said Edward finally, and to his astonishment, the boy obeyed. Mielo and Brava, two of Leah's newest pups, darted to their mother, who held court beside the Queen's throne, where a cushion had fallen to the floor. Edward watched as his brother skulked forth, his eyes fixed on the two hunting beasts who submitted calmly and quietly to their mother's inventory. Leah sniffed them, and kissed them, and nuzzled them, and, only when she had completed her assessment, she allowed them headroom on her cushion. The pair— one dark, and one light— had been tired by their jaunt and fell into a light slumber, curled up head to tail in a patch of glowing sunlight on the stone.

The girl, still resting shakily on the cushioned bench along the far wall, glanced between Edward and Jasper as if she were watching a particularly riveting game of peloto, her lip between her teeth as she awaited the verdict.

The boy shuffled and Edward was recalled to the task at hand.

"What have you to say for yourself?" he demanded. The boy shifted again, and looked back at the girl. Edward saw a myriad of emotions cross his face— hope, sadness, guilt, joy, and— though it pained him to see it— anger. That last one— evident only by a familiar, icy glint in those bright, blue eyes— set Edward's teeth on edge, and his next words left him in a tone of sharp command.

"Do not look at her," Edward barked. Both brother and girl jumped. "Do you understand the harm you might have caused?"

"I didn't…"

"You did," Edward said, and he was glad to feel the squirming guilt slipping further and further away with each continued minute of quiet resistance from his smug and cocky brother. The boy had done wrong. "Do you understand what might have happened?"

"I…"

"It's a simple question, Jasper."

The girl ducked her head, but his brother, whose gaze had been glued to the floor since Edward's rebuke, glared at him. Edward saw the swimming, steeping anger in those once-familiar eyes, and, like a snakebite, he felt it pierce him, sharp and stinging.

"Yes," he said finally, and Edward released a breath. "Yes, I do, but…"

"But nothing." The boy's jaw clenched, and he opened his mouth again before Edward cut him off. "No, there is no excuse."

Jasper's venomous stare, softening only slightly, turned back towards the girl on the bench. Edward felt the all-too familiar spark of annoyance deep in his chest as he watched Jasper glare at her, his eyes chock full of misplaced accusation, blame, and anger. Something righteous that echoed with long-forgotten sibling rivalry flared in Edward's heart at this blatant disregard for the command he'd given not two minutes prior, and Edward felt the heat rising in his face as his own temper began to bubble. When Jasper opened his mouth, Edward could almost hear the impertinent insolence priming his tongue, and he cut his brother off before he could even start.

"You will treat our guest with respect," Edward snapped, and, as if recalled to attention, his brother at least had the wherewithal to look ashamed. "You will not treat an elder— much less a woman— with contempt. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

The word bit like a tooth on stone, and Edward clenched his jaw to keep his temper in check.

"Good," he said finally. "Good…"

Jasper stared at him, fuming.

"Do you realize the damage you might have done?" Edward asked again, but this time, he kept his voice soft. "Do you have any idea what might have happened if she hadn't been found?"

Jasper, glancing only momentarily at the woman on the bench, turned pink before he shrugged.

"Do you understand that you might have caused her serious injury?" Edward asked. "Do you know where we found her?"

The boy, unspeaking, shook his head.

"Lying in a dip in the hill, far out of sight of any guards or aid. She's lucky Leah was with her. It was the dog that Emmett spotted, not the lady…"

Jasper said nothing.

"She is not strong," Edward continued. "She is not well…"

The woman shifted uncomfortably.

"She is healing," he continued. "Do you know what that means?"

"Yes…"

"Then you should know what that requires of you," said Edward.

"But…"

"But nothing."

"But she wants to leave!" Jasper said, and this time, Edward heard the threat of tears. The woman, still watching them with wide, frightened eyes, glanced down at her feet when the child spoke.

Edward, his heart full of sadness, watched the boy with a growing, if not entirely wholesome, pity. The remnants of irritation, which came so quickly to him when Jasper did wrong, drifted away on a breeze as Edward watched the boy's bitter facade crumble, only to be replaced with a righteous and worrisome fear. Such turmoil should never be the burden of a child, and yet here was his own brother, so profoundly affected by a violent legacy of trauma. Edward suspected that even Jasper himself knew it— it was not reasonable, nor was it healthy, to feel such riotous, reactive anger at the thought of a stranger leaving, and yet…

"Of course she does," said Edward, and this time, the girl stared at him. "Of course she wants to leave, Jasper."

This time, the boy did cry.

"She wants to go," he mourned, and any residual rage that had been festering in Edward's heart fled at once. "She wants to leave, just like all the others."

"And why shouldn't she?" asked Edward, and the boy's shoulders shook. "She is not one of us, and she has neither kith nor kin to love her…"

"But…"

And when those eyes— those angry and turbulent, yet hopeful blue eyes— landed on the mystery woman, Edward did not need to be told what his brother was thinking. He saw it there, etched as plainly as if he'd scrawled it in black ink for all to read. Jasper had always been an easy child— a gentle and caring child for whom love came as easily as rain in a mid-autumn storm. It fell liberally and he drank it up, bonds like steel forming in mere moments, and as such an apt judge of character, he was almost never wrong.

But when two of those bonds— the two most lasting, wholesome bonds of all— had been brutally and violently severed, something in him had grown desperate to fill the void.

And so Edward knew, even without words or sounds. He knew it in the same way he knew himself— a knowledge that was as instinctive as thought, and as easy as breath.

But I could keep her, and be both kith and kin. I found her, and plucked her from death. I felt her, cold and pale, before the warmth of life returned and she found her legs, and voice. I could love her, if she'd let me.

The boy didn't say it, but Edward knew it anyways.

"She is not yours to keep," said Edward softly, and he saw the splash of a tear on the child's collar. "She is not ours, Jasper, and if she wants to leave, we must let her go."

"But…"

"No," Edward reached out a hand, which the boy did not take. "She was never ours…"

"But she could be."

"But she's not," insisted Edward. "She's not, Jasper…"

And the woman, listening with such rapt and careful attention, rose from her seat.

She's not, thought Edward. She's not ours. She is not one of us, is not of this place, no matter how much I wish she could be.

Translations:

Peloto
Ball (or, more specifically, a Maronese ball game)