WARNING: There is some foul language (and foul characters) in this chapter!

Chapter 21

Chaos reigned.

Heat blazed from the blistering inferno on the cliff's edge. Smoke choked the air, turning the salty sea breeze into a miasma of grey, churning soot. Ashes fell like dust, peppering the sodden earth beneath his feet, wet with the rain that fell liberally from the clouds, and the blood that spilled from wounded men. Wet, and slick, and boggy. So boggy that his boots stuck in the filth, and he had to pull up hard, stumbling with his sword in hand.

His violet mourning jacket had been lost. Constraining and tight, Edward had shed it in a heartbeat once the fray had broken out. His shirtsleeves had proven feeble armour. Edward knew he had taken a heavy blow to his left arm, and though the wound ached and smarted, he fought on.

It had been some time since his last battle. Practice was a thing entirely separate— Edward had been knocked down, he'd been dealt some nasty blows from able-bodied opponents, but never, in all his time in the ring, had he been afraid for his life. The blades had been blunted, if they were not using the wooden sparring swords. The blows had been soft when a weapon struck a deadly spot on his body. When the whole thing was over, when there was a winner and a loser, his opponent had laughed— they both had— before they'd shaken hands, tossed their weapons aside, and joined together for a drink or bite in the tavern on the edge of the city.

There was no such courtesy this time. Arrows flew, fast as sparrows, through the soupy fog. Men shouted, screamed, and hollered, orders garbled through the sound of trampling feet and the overbearing cries of agony from the injured. Edward walked over corpses— his men, enemy men, and unknown, unnamed men whose allegiance could neither be told nor guessed in the dirt and dark.

The air was rank with the stench of blood.

"Here!" bellowed Emmett, reaching down from his horse to grab one of their own soldiers, grievously injured. "Men, here!"

Another arrow flew. Emmett, quick as a fox, leapt from his steed just in time.

"Edward!" he bellowed, spotting his king. Unarmoured and vulnerable as Edward was, he was not surprised to see the anger on Emmett's face as he flew over and threw a weather-worn shield at him, which Edward caught gratefully.

"You've no business here!" cried Emmett angrily, arriving at his side in an instant. "What in all hell are you doing!?"

A scythe, sharp and lethal, swung up behind Emmett's back and Edward, ignoring the question, shoved his friend aside.

"Down!" he shouted. Emmett fell into the muck, but swung his blade up in a mere instant to strike the aggressor down. Blood blossomed from the man's chest like a morbid, scarlet flower. The bloom grew until it wilted down his sides, and with a great, heaving shudder, the man fell still.

"Where are the girls?" demanded Edward quickly, sheltering the two of them behind the shield. "Where are Esme and Bella?"

"I don't know!" Emmett shouted. Another volley of arrows rained down. "I don't know…"

"Jasper?" Edward urged, but Emmett shook his head.

"I've not seen him," he growled. "What in all hell is going on, Edward!?"

"The west," snarled Edward angrily. "They must have known we'd be here…"

Emmett barely had a chance to scowl before another sword came hacking down on the shield and Edward, fuelled by adrenaline and anger, reared up and struck him dead.

The battle raged. Men, in a seemingly endless troupe, burst from the trees with screams like wild things, taking up the places of their comrades who had fallen. They were numerous and vicious— Edward had never seen their like— but they were heedless and unpolished. Edward's soldiers were well-trained and even better-disciplined, thanks to Emmett's dedication and scrutiny, and even as Edward watched his men facing the onslaught in a confused flurry of noise and blood, he could tell that this was not a battle they would lose.

"Get out of here before you get yourself killed!" Emmett shouted, having chased after Edward when the latter had darted back into the fray. "Go find your girls and get them home!"

"Jasper!" Edward shouted over the din. "Where is Jasper!?"

"I'll find him!" promised Emmett. "I swear to you, Edward, if he is here, I will find him! Now go!"

Edward hesitated for only a moment, his eyes raking the grim scene for any sign of his young brother, but when Emmett caught him hedging, he gave Edward a ruthless, almighty shove towards the trees.

"GO!" he bellowed again, and Edward, seeing sense, turned heel and ran. He had no armour. He had no proper shield. He had only the shirt on his back, the great, filthy sword in his fist, and his nerves of steel, which had not yet broken.

The people of Marolando could not lose another King.

Edward sprinted towards the panicking horses. Tied together in the makeshift paddock, the scent of blood was driving them wild. Magnus stamped his hooves, his nostrils flared and his eyes wide with fear. Kora, Bella's little mare, was rearing and shrieking in absolute terror. Carlisle's mount had escaped, bitten right through the leather reins that held him, and had evidently disappeared into the safety of the trees, away from the noise and the gore. It would be a mercy if he was not eaten by a wild cat, many of which ran rampant so close to the West, where no hunter dared go to kill them.

"Esme!" he shouted, reaching up to untie his beast. "Bella!"

The noise was unbelievable.

"Esme!" he shouted again, freeing Magnus at last. Steady and sure, Edward knew that Magnus could get the girls home, even if he could not join them. "Bella!"

There was no reply.

Fear, hot and sickening, bubbled in his gut. There was no sign of Jasper, whom Edward had seen in the far distance, hacking and thrusting wildly at an armed opponent just as the first of the fighting had broken out. Jasper, whom Edward had told to stay with Bella. No sign of Bella, either, who would undoubtedly be lost in the sudden onslaught of violence and death. Edward did not know much about her— only the very minimal details she'd seen fit to share with him— but he did know that the world she came from did not have violence like this. There were no hacking swords where she was from, nor were there great, violent battles. She was terrified of swords— terrified of the violence they could inflict— and he could not blame her as he slipped in a bloody pool, sliding to his knees before he could catch himself.

"Bella!" he called desperately, shouting out towards the trees. "Bella! Jasper! Esme!"

"Edward!"

The voice was almost a squeak, but he recognized it at once. Wheeling around to face the outer edge of the paddock, Edward nearly wept with relief to see Esme, tousled and disheveled, rushing towards him on unsteady legs. She'd been crying— he could see the tear tracks in the dirt on her face— but when she grabbed his arms, her nails dug in with immediate urgency.

"Edward, she's gone!" she cried. "Gone! I couldn't call her back, and she ran straight into the trees, and…"

Edward, hanging on to Esme's every word, frowned when she trailed off.

"And what?" he demanded. Esme had fallen silent, her face white and terrified. "And what, Esme?"

"You're hurt," she moaned, her shaking fingers reaching out to brush the bloody fabric of his shirt. "Gods above, Edward, you're bleeding…"

"A scratch," he dismissed at once. "But tell me, Esme… where did she go?"

"The trees," she said distractedly. "Jasper was ambushed, and she bolted…"

"Ambushed?" Edward felt positively sick. "Where is he, Esme?"

"Carlisle got him." Esme began rolling up his sleeve. "They're hiding, just behind the trees back there…"

Edward tried to pull his arm away, but Esme held him fast.

"We cannot linger here," said Edward, gently prising her fingers away. "It's dangerous."

"You're bleeding," she said again, but this time, she turned towards the trees. "Lift your arm, Edward… you're losing blood…"

"I'll be fine." His arm smarted when she pressed her hand to the wound. "Where are Carlisle and Jasper?"

"Back there," said Esme again. Edward began to steer her, his hands on her shoulders, towards the thicket of trees she'd pointed at. He could see nothing through the smoke and fog, but when they reached the treeline, Edward saw Carlisle's anxious face peering out from behind a coconut tree. When he saw Esme he snatched her away at once, kissing her in abject relief.

"Esme," he breathed. "Thank the Gods above, I thought you were lost…"

"Where's Bella, Carlisle?" demanded Edward, slipping down onto the steep hill. "Esme says she ran into the trees…"

"Back the way we came," mourned Esme. "I tried to call her back…"

"I didn't mean to let her go, Ed," said Jasper, suddenly appearing at his side. Unable to help himself, Edward hugged him tight. "I didn't mean to lose her…"

"Never mind," said Edward swiftly, giving him a quick once-over. He didn't seem to be injured. "You did well, Jasper."

"They tried to cut her," said Jasper angrily, pulling away. "Those men. They went at her with swords, and I got one, Ed…"

Edward, sick with fear, shushed him at once. He did not want to hear about such things… about his brother— his untrained, untested baby brother— killing a man in battle. He was far too young...

"You did well," Edward said again. "You did very well… but she has gone, and not a soul knows where."

"Back to the trail," said Esme quietly. "We saw her, didn't we, Jas?"

Jasper simply shrugged, brushing his shaggy, blonde fringe out of his eyes.

"We cannot reach the trail," said Carlisle quietly. "Not from here. We'd need to cross the clearing, and that would be suicide."

"What do they want, Ed?" demanded Jasper. "What are they after?"

"I don't know," said Edward. "I don't know, Jasper… but they knew we would be here, and they knew we'd be outnumbered."

"How?"

Edward grimaced.

"That doesn't matter just now," he said, evading Jasper's question. "What matters is getting home, where it's safe, and finding Bella."

Jasper, frowning, nodded his head in a rare display of acquiescence.

"Show me that cut, Edward," said Carlisle gravely, crawling through the muddy undergrowth to crouch next to him. Edward, grimacing, allowed Carlisle to roll up his sleeve. Jasper blanched at the sight of the wound and Esme whimpered, but when Edward glanced down, eying the torn flesh and muscle beneath, he simply sighed.

"When we get home, you can stitch it," said Edward quietly. "Until then…"

But Carlisle, in full healing mode, had stripped off his overcoat and was tying it tightly around the gash, sending shocks of pain to the ends of Edward's fingertips.

"Damn it all!" he gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to curse at his uncle. "Be gentle, for God's sake…"

"Sorry," murmured Carlisle. "But the bleeding must be staunched, and that means pressure."

Edward, face flushed, pulled his arm away as soon as he was able, and laid back on his bed of leaves and dirt, closing his eyes.

"If she's on the trail, she'll come across the party," murmured Edward after a long moment of silence.

"Yes," said Carlisle. "And the party has more guards. And armed men."

"They won't be needed," said Jasper quickly. "Listen."

And sure enough, when the group fell silent and focused on the sounds from above, Edward could hear Emmett barking orders, and the clinking of chains that told of prisoners.

And with more bravery than Edward had ever given him credit for, Jasper wiggled his way back up the embankment and peeked, wide-eyed and careful, over the edge of the hill.

"It's done," he said shakily, glancing down with a wry, careful grin. "It's over, Ed. Emmett's got them all."

And before Edward could stop him, he'd vaulted back over the edge of the clearing and was sprinting, headlong and furious, towards the gathering men near the edge of the cliff.

Carlisle was quick to follow. Esme, waiting with Edward as he hauled himself up, helped him carefully over the edge of the bank, where Magnus was waiting to snuffle his hands.

"Good boy," said Edward gently. Magnus, having been freed from his bonds, had waited for his master in the trees, just where Edward had left him, out of the way of the aggression just ahead. Kora, still crying out in fear and terror, continued to rear up on her hind legs, kicking angrily at the tree to which she was tied.

The stallion followed placidly behind its master as Edward, arm-in-arm with Esme, made his way to the crowd.

Men, filthy, bloodied, and stinking, bowed to him as he emerged and Emmett, whose head had snapped up at the sound of Edward's voice, wheeled around.

"Thank the Gods you weren't killed," said Emmett dryly. "No armour, no shield, and yet there you were, right in the thick of it…"

Edward said nothing, but the humourless grin he shared with Emmett spoke volumes.

"You did well today," said Edward, speaking loudly enough for all the men to hear. "You fought bravely, though we were ambushed and unprepared."

The men cheered, and Edward glanced down at the small group of six chained men in the center of the circle. Emmett had shackled their hands, pulled them tight behind their backs, and they were chained at the ankles too, weighted down with heavy irons.

"Who are these men?" he demanded quietly. No one could answer, so Edward turned to the prisoners themselves.

"Who are you?" None of the six answered. They would not even look at him, but instead glanced around at each other, eyes wide and blank.

"What are your names?"

Silence.

"Why did you come here with such violence and anger? Here, of all places… a place of sacred worship?"

Not a word did they speak.

The silence dragged on for what felt like an age. Edward, growing impatient, gave the signal to haul them up, but just as he did, the tallest man— gaunt and thin, but with a wicked glint in his dark, beady eyes— began to speak.

And as words left his lips, his voice rough and low, Edward realized with a jolt just what he was hearing.

Words, strange and unintelligible, flowed from his lips like water. Words that Edward did not know, that made his soldiers anxious. Muttering under his breath, the speech continue to come and the other five began to nod, chains clinking with the motion.

It was only when he heard that one, distinctive sound that Edward realized what he was hearing. He had heard it before, from the lips of that missing beauty who'd fallen from the sky, before she'd been able to speak their tongue. It was the word she'd repeated over and over again, desperate, pleading, crying… until someone, mercifully, had taught her the proper Maronese words. Her tongue was strange to him, flowing, alien, and odd, and as the realization hit him— that these enemies spoke her language— he felt his lip curl and his mood darken.

The word he'd said was home.

Bella peeled herself off of the hard, jungle floor and winced, feeling every muscle and bone in her body bruised and aching. Her head was pounding. The cut on her leg, made with that long, sharp blade, smarted as she stepped. Her dress was torn— the black skirt, pleated and full, had torn right up to the waist, leaving a length of bright, white underclothes exposed. The tight waist— fashionable, Esme had called it— had lost several of its stitches and now hung loosely around her slender form. One of the sleeves had come loose and her shoulder was showing, almost as white as the slip beneath her skirt. Her legs were covered in nicks and cuts from wayward branches and thorns, and a wound on her forehead, though she could not see it, was dripping blood onto her front.

The world around her was quiet. Her ears, ringing from the noise and tumult of the fray, struggled to make sense of the hush. Tree frogs croaked and crickets chirped. Wind blew the leaves above and sent a chorus of yellowing, dried foliage down to rest at her feet. Rain dripped down from the heavy canopy of leaves— not a shower, as it had been in the clearing, but great, heavy drops that fell with wet splats as the leaves grew too heavy to hold their puddles. Bella crept close to the wide, gnarled trunk of a moss-covered tree and watched, her eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom, for any sign of life.

The precipice on her left, the one down which she'd tumbled, was sprawling and steep— absolutely unclimbable, regardless of her lack of skill. Ahead, there was nothing but tall, overgrown foliage— what manner of snakes, and spiders, and other wild things might be lurking there, Bella had no desire to find out. To her right and rear were the trees— tall, sloping, swaying in the wind, and tightly packed so as to make any travel difficult and uncomfortable. As she turned, spinning slowly on the spot, she began to realize just how trapped she really was, and she slid down to the ground, burying her face in her knees.

What was she to do now?

Sore and painful, she longed for nothing more than a rest in a nice, warm bed, and a sleep that could last for days. Her entire body was shaking— she was cold, and sore, and frightened all at once, and though everything in her longed for a good cry, she knew it would be of no use.

Where should she go, and what should she do?

Throughout Bella's childhood, her uncle, Charlie, had taught her many things. Charlie was an outdoorsman. Charlie was a cop. Charlie knew how to navigate the twisting, turning, disorienting woods around his homestead in the town of Forks, where so many tourists had gone missing on wayward hikes. The locals knew better— they understood how easy it was to get lost among the great, towering trees, and how valuable the narrow, marked trail system was. They knew to bring satellite phones, and GPS navigators, and compasses and maps, to keep them straight and true on their treks through the woods. Charlie had explained it all to Bella. He'd taken her camping, and hiking, and fishing deep in the wilds of Washington, showing her how to use moss to find true north, and how to navigate with Polaris as a guide.

But as Bella searched, hunting for any sign of telltale moss or starry skies, she knew it would be in vain. Bella had no idea what the Island looked like— had no idea whether she should go North, or East, or South, so even when she discovered all possible sides of the trees and rocks around her covered in thick, foamy moss, it did not matter. The sky was impenetrable— even if it had been dark and clear, there was no way for her to navigate her way back to safety using the stars. The trees were so high and thick that she'd have to risk a fifty-foot climb straight up a smooth tree trunk to garner even the slightest chance at seeing.

And so Bella, hopes dashed and energy spent, lay down next to the wide, gnarled tree, and closed her eyes.

The crack that woke her was sharp and loud, echoing off of the trees and rocks around her hiding spot. She woke with a start, burrowing deeper into the undergrowth as she fought to blink away the blackness, her eyes wide with sudden fear. Nighttime had descended on her little hamlet, and while she longed to be discovered— to be found out by the search parties that were undoubtedly looking for her— she did not dare to make a sound.

For if Bella's fears were correct, there would be two groups looking for her, and she did not like her odds of being found out by the wrong one.

"Shush!" an angry voice hissed only feet from her. Bella, hardly daring to breathe, glanced helplessly through the gloom, but could see nothing but darkness.

"I can't see a damn thing," came another voice, gruffer and lower than the first. The first man shushed him again. "It's so dark."

"She's out here," growled the first man. Leaves beside her head crackled, and Bella held her breath when the footsteps stopped.

"She won't have made it this far in," grumbled the second man. "She's not a navigator."

"She ran without a map or a guide," grumbled the first, "and I'm going to find her. This is the most direct route to an Eastern trail. Do you know how much that little bitch is worth if we get her back intact?"

Tears, hot and salty, slipped from Bella's eyes.

"Intact?"

"Means you can't touch her, you filthy fucker," said the first man tartly. "King wants her untouched."

"Pity," drawled the second man. "She's a pretty one, I'll give her that."

"Shut your mouth," snapped the first. "You've got no business even looking at her."

"No danger of that!" hooted the second man. The first shushed him again, and Bella felt his boot on her hair. He twisted, and she bit back her cry. "Can't see a damn thing in this dark. Although once the light comes back, I might not be so… well-mannered."

The second man sniggered as if he'd made a funny joke, and the first man, growling loudly enough for Bella to hear, shuffled his feet.

The second man, a few feet away from the one standing on her hair, began rifling roughly through the undergrowth, disturbing branches and leaves along the edges of the trees. He moved closer and closer, stabbing what looked like a great, long stick into the foliage, grunting more sharply each time his search came up empty.

Please, Bella begged silently. Please don't let them find me. Please don't let them see…

For she knew, as surely as not, that none of Edward's soldiers would have spoken about any woman in that manner, much less her. She did not know who these men were, or who King was, but she had a strong suspicion that they were not from the East. These were some of the same, hardened men that had run at her with glinting blades and wild eyes. These were the same men who were not afraid to kill, and whose bloodlust Bella had never seen the like.

"She's going to get it when we find her," grumbled the first man angrily when the second stopped his search. "Her and that fucking animal."

Kora, Bella thought, pushing back the sob that had built up in her throat. Kora must have escaped…

She prayed that her horse, too, would stay safe and hidden.

"Let's go," sighed the second. "Ain't no bitch out here. Not yet, anyhow…"

The man's foot moved off of her hair and Bella, breathing a shaky sigh of relief, slipped deeper between the great, thick roots at the base of her tree. Every muscle trembled. Every fiber in her body recoiled with violent disgust at the way the men had spoken, the words they'd used to discuss her.

Intact.

Untouched.

Bitch.

Animal.

It was only after she began to move again, just as the dawn's first light cast a dull, blue haze over the wakening jungle, that Bella realized that they hadn't been speaking Maronese.

Lost didn't even begin to describe Bella's circumstances as she strained, out of breath and sweating, to slide between two towering trees deep in the heart of the jungle.

Morning light had come and gone. The sun had risen, hot and white, in the sky overhead, and though she was buried deep enough in the wilderness that she avoided the harsh rays of direct sun, that did not stop the moist, humid jungle from becoming an oven. Heat came in, flushing out the nighttime cold, and while the world above might have been privy to a breeze or some wind, the same courtesy was not afforded to her, sheltered as she was by the jungle flora.

She squeezed herself further into the gap, feeling the hard, unyielding wood pressing against her from the front and back. It was her only way through— too tall, too steep, and too jagged was the way around, and she had to move. She was desperate to move.

For not one hour prior, when she'd collapsed against a wall of stone, had she heard voices, soft words spoken in familiar Maronese, that had driven her into a frenzy.

Twice since her morning exodus had she heard the voices of the two mystery men who'd almost caught her in the night. Once, far in the distance, she'd heard the high-voiced man singing a bawdy, unfamiliar song that would have made a sailor blush. She'd heard him again, a little later on, when she'd found a small, rocky cave to hide in. She'd nearly wet herself with fright when he'd stuck his filthy, brazen head into the gap, narrowly missing Bella when she flattened herself behind a large stone, praying to every God she knew that his maladjusted eyes would miss the telltale movement of her skirt as she fell.

But the Gods had graced her and she'd gone unnoticed by friends and enemies alike. The man had left her again, grumbling unpleasantly as he went, and Bella, skittish as a deer, had bolted as quickly as she could in the absolute opposite direction.

And when she'd heard another voice— quieter and softer this time around— she had not hesitated to squirrel herself away.

She had climbed a tree. Bella, who had never climbed so much as a lawn chair without falling flat on her face, had scaled a thick, rough-barked tree, perching herself in the branches among the spiders and frogs. She could not see the ground below, so well-hidden was her roost, and though these voices sounded different from the ones before— softer, kinder, and in the proper language of the Maronese people— Bella could not summon the courage to let them see her.

She was never to know whether or not those voices had belonged to friends, or if they'd belonged to more unsavoury men hunting her down in a wilderness that was as foreign and hostile as an African desert.

She slid through the gap in the trees with a herculean effort and she stumbled, falling face-first into a tuft of tall weeds, when she shot out.

"Shit," she grumbled, feeling her skirt tear a little further. Already it hung limply, trailing so low she'd been forced to tie it up around her thighs to keep it from tripping her at every turn. Now, the knot had come loose and the whole thing was hanging by just a thread, pooling around her filthy feet and ragged sandals.

One sharp tug pulled it completely free and she stepped out of the garment, conscious of her light, clinging slip. Already she was dreading the night, when the cold air would rush in from the west, as she knew her legs would freeze before morning.

She tied the torn skirt around her neck and plodded on, careful to keep her steps quiet and soft.

By the time evening struck, Bella was exhausted.

Her stomach growled with gnawing hunger. Her legs, stiff and sore from her incessant walking, had been cramping since mid-afternoon. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Unable to find any flowing fresh water, Bella had been reduced to sipping condensation from jungle leaves, refusing to drink the murky, tepid water from the few pools she'd come across. She knew it would be dangerous either way— untreated water could mean death. Her uncle had taught her that, as well. Her history books had taught her that cholera was spread by contaminated water. So were dysentery and typhoid. Charlie had gone to school with a boy who'd drank from a filthy pond on a dare back in the 80s, and he had been hospitalized for a week with a nasty giardia infection. Bella didn't know what illnesses might be lurking on this island… cholera was rare in Washington, if it existed at all, but the same could not be said with any certainty about this place.

But still… the last time she had passed a pool— green with moss and algae, teeming with bugs, and stinking to high heaven— it had taken a great deal of self-control to keep herself from plunging in face-first.

She knew she was dehydrated. And she knew that if she didn't find some water soon, she would have bigger problems to deal with than cramping legs.

Forcing herself to move on, Bella tried to ignore the way her thighs burned, or how her steps seemed to lag with each passing minute.

Darkness came with a sudden swiftness that Bella didn't expect. One minute, she had been walking, creeping closer to a break in the trees some fifty feet ahead, but by the time she'd made it all the way, the sun had dipped down behind some invisible obstacle, leaving her squinting in the purple twilight, her lip between her teeth.

There was no place to hide here. No tree roots to burrow under, no long grass to slip into. The trees were tall and slender— no branches in reach to haul herself up— and no stones, large or otherwise, to keep her safe.

But the blackness was encroaching quickly, and Bella knew that she must move if she was to have any chance of a safe night.

She stumbled through the undergrowth. As had become her norm, Bella felt with her feet, painful and torn though they were, for any hidden branches or roots that might impede her. Mosquitos, buzzing and fierce, bit at her face and neck, sneaking beneath the torn skirt she'd tied just that morning. She'd given up scratching— the welts on her arms were beyond an irksome itch, and she was sure that if she'd scratched them any harder, she'd break the skin. The cut on her leg oozed when the low, whipping weeds slapped at it, breaking the fresh scab that had formed in the late afternoon the day before.

Bella plodded on.

Mindless. That is how she felt, dragging her feet in the dirt, her head hung low. Mindlessly walking. Mindlessly wandering. East or west, she did not know. Towards safety or away from it, she could not be sure. Nearer the river, or further from it, she could not say. But onward she walked, her legs pulling and protesting with each step she took, each hill she climbed. She refused to sit— refused to give in to the exhaustion that tugged at each cell of her brain, every muscle in her body. Her head pounded. Her stomach ached. She was so hungry…

She was so thirsty.

Another step.

"Go!"

She moved again.

"Right there!"

Bella hung her head, stumbling over a wayward stone.

"Hey!"

Her head snapped up.

Footsteps. Running, charging, darting footsteps, crashing through the undergrowth. Footsteps growing louder. Footsteps drawing nearer…

Fear— cold, hard, desperate terror— snatched her in its icy clutches. She felt it squeeze her heart, felt it permeate every artery and vein as if she'd been given a shot. The heat vanished in a blink, and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Her legs, cramped and sore as they were, began to run. Her eyes, wide and panicked, began to tear.

"Go!" the voice called again and Bella, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, caught a glimpse of movement some fifty feet back. A swishing, black cloak. The tip of a long, jagged stick…

"Got you, little girl!" croaked the man— the skinny, filthy man whose face she'd seen squinting in the mouth of the cave. She let out a strangled cry and bolted, squeezing herself through the gaps between the trees. "Got you, you little bitch!"

The word, bitch, sounded so foreign and frightening that Bella began to cry in earnest, though her legs did not stop.

"Grab her!" barked the smaller man. The larger man— the man with the stick— had longer legs, and Bella saw with dismayed horror how quickly he overtook his partner. She crashed through the trees. Silence was all but forgotten.

"Get her!" squealed the skinny man. "Grab her! That little bitch!"

Bella screamed, desperate for someone— anyone— to hear her.

"Help!" she cried. "Help! Please!"

The man's fingers closed on her skirt.

"No!" Yanking herself free, Bella felt the fabric stretch and tear. The man cursed— a low, vitriolic threat— as she squeezed herself through a gap that was too small for him, and he darted, his breathing heavy and hard, towards the larger gap some twenty feet over.

Bella bolted.

"Get her!" bellowed the thin man. "Grab her, you bastard!"

Their voices began to fade.

"No!" The skinny man shoved his way through the gap that had been too small for his accomplice. Bella could barely see him through the darkness now. "No! Grab her!"

But Bella could no longer hear the heavy breathing of the second man. Running madly, blind with darkness and tears, Bella could only just hear the shouting— the angry, passionate wails of the skinny man demanding his prize. Bella fell to her knees in the dirt. Her stomach, revolting against the terrifying ordeal, heaved, and she gagged, spitting in the dirt.

All was quiet for a long, breathless moment, before Bella heard a swift, sudden noise behind her, and a cold, clammy hand clamped down on her ankle.

Her scream rebounded off the trees.

"Shhh!" A hand clamped over her mouth, and Bella felt herself dragged down to the ground. A great weight settled on her back and she squealed, struggling to free her hands.

"Shhh! Please!"

Bella froze at once.

"Please…" the voice said again. "Please. I won't hurt you. I couldn't hurt you, but they will, and I can't let them find me."

A/N: Sorry for the second cliffie... Let me know what you think!