A/N: Possible tissue warning in effect. Please see my note at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 30

Edward dreamed of his mother.

He stood at the end of a long, narrow hallway lined with flaming torches in rough sconces along the walls. The floor was coated with dirt that had been left to linger in corners where no masters or servants walked, its fuzzy haze marred only by two sets of hasty footprints, shuffling into the great, deep darkness. He shivered, feeling a curious coldness settling in his bones, and when he took a step forward a plume of dust eddied in the stillness, catching the light and glittering like sand on a beach.

He knew this place as surely as he knew his own self. He remembered this hallway, just as it had been that night when the world had seemed so dark, and though he was older now, and wiser, being in the cold corridor made him feel like a boy again. His body trembled like a weed in the wind. As if in reflex he reached out for the sword at his waist but found nothing, his fingers gripping naught but the cool, dry air.

He closed his eyes and ran, just as he had that first time, his feet tripping over cracks in the stone.

The door at the end was ajar, its seized and rusted hinges forced by a strong, determined shoulder. A fiery glow spilled at his feet, painting the stone orange, and he walked on with care, as silent and wary as a cat.

His father's rooms were awash with light.

The passage opened onto the landing, where the maids bustled and tittered, blankets, towels, and ewers of water and wine all held in work-worn hands. They whispered to each other, words that Edward could not make out, and the whole room looked as if it rippled, like he was walking through a space submerged under water. It distorted as he moved and he felt a sudden apprehension, as if a wave of a wayward hand would send it spiralling back into the depths of dream, where so many of his most precious memories were stored.

The maids did not see him as he walked across the landing. They did not hear him when the door of his father's chambers— now his chambers— creaked beneath his hands. The fire was a roaring glow and the room was laden with linens and quilts. Soldiers, stoic and stern, stood sentry at the doors and windows, and they, too, let Edward pass without a glance or comment. He saw Emmett's father, hulking and hunched upon an armchair near the fire, and the King as he stood before the blaze, his figure but a silhouette against the raging, fiery hearth. He did not turn when Edward entered, but raised his glass with joyful hands and drank deeply.

A pealing cry rang from the bedchamber and Edward peeked his head through the door, stopping short when he saw a boy— a young, frightened boy— with a mess of red hair and a face as pale as new parchment. It was strange to see himself so plainly, and stranger still to see himself young. He was only a boy, just growing out of his childhood roundness, and his legs were too long, his arms too scrawny. Those arms were laden with a mess of blankets and towels, bloody from his mother's struggle, but within them was held a tiny pink creature, squalling noisily in the room. Edward felt a jolt of recognition as he took in the scene, feeling at once both proud, as a new brother should, and terribly, painfully sad.

The woman in the bed held her eyes on this younger version of him, alight with the glow of renewed motherhood. Elizabeth had always been beautiful and she was now, too, her tired face bright with an overwhelming, untouchable love. Edward watched her now, as he never had then, and he saw the pride on her pretty face, the singular joy of a mother as she looked upon her sons.

"Your brother…" His mother reached out, brushing her finger over the baby's pink foot. "You have a brand new brother, Edward…"

Edward saw his own face morph into an expression of surprise before the room began to melt. His younger self smiled at their mother, grinning crookedly at her in absolute wonder, but as his present self moved to step forward, to see his mother more clearly, the room dissolved and he was thrown into darkness, transported in a wink.

"Your brother…"

The room reformed with a startling swiftness. He stood in the nursery, the room where he and Jasper had both spent their separate childhoods, and it was not closed up or unused as it was now, but bright and whole. His mother stood before him, her face beseeching and proud, but her lovely, vibrant gaze held a terrible agony, as if a knife had pierced her and her very life was flowing out from the wound. The fingers that clutched his wrists dug in like knives but he did not complain, relishing her strength, and her light...

"Your brother, Edward…"

Jasper slept, his face smooth and calm beneath their father's touch. He shifted slightly, pressing deeper into his pillows, and Edward felt his mother's body slacken, her knees weakening beneath the weight of her unbearable choice. His father hugged her tight, his arms pressed to her with an urgency that Edward had never seen, and he felt his own stomach drop when he saw the fear etched on his father's face.

His father was the King, and Kings were not afraid. His father was strong— the strongest man he'd ever known— and it frightened Edward to his very core to see him so distressed, so absolutely and completely defeated. The circles beneath his eyes were dark and when he looked up at Edward, his eyes brimming with some unknown emotion, he looked every bit of his 44 years. The grey hair at his temples stood out in the low, flickering firelight and the lines on his face seemed deep and rough. Edward remembered this face as clearly as if he'd seen it yesterday. That look of terrible regret, of awful, tired fear, would be with him always, forever the lasting image of his wise and gentle father.

"You don't have to join me, Elizabeth…" He kissed her fiercely, and even in his dream Edward looked away. "You don't have to come."

"Yes," His mother squeezed him tightly. "I must, Edward… I have no choice!"

"You do!" He glanced down at Jasper, who yet slept. "You will always have a choice, Lizzie…"

"Where you go, so will I." Edward heard the heartbreak in her voice and it made him feel ill, his pulse hammering fiercely in his throat. He could feel the terror growing in his bones, as heavy as a boulder, but he remained still and silent, his lips pressed together in a tight, hard line.

His mother, releasing his father, saw her son's bright eyes and she broke, her face falling as tears welled up. She turned away from the three of them, biting down on the heel of her hand and Edward's body convulsed with tremors when her high, anguished cry rang out.

His father took Edward's face in his hands, then, forcing him to look away from her. He stared at his father— really looked at him— and saw such a depth of unfathomable grief and overwhelming, palpable love.

"You are my being and my light, Ed." Edward, in dreams and reality, felt the stirring of despair deep in the pit of his stomach. "You are my image, and my legacy."

He brought their faces together, pressing his lips to his son's forehead.

"You will do well. I know it." The son pulled his father close, the weight of their embrace crushing. He swallowed hard against his grief. "You will be a great King."

"Don't go." Edward whispered into the dark. "Don't go, Father…"

"I must." He glanced at his wife, who wept bitterly by the fireside. "I must go, and your mother will join me… I cannot convince her otherwise."

"It is folly!" Edward begged, breathless. "Absolute madness!"

"I must try." His father gripped him hard. "I must try, Edward, for the sake of our people. This violence cannot go on."

"We are strong!" His mother knelt over Jasper, kissing him over and over with wet, trembling lips. "We are ready to fight!"

"We are broken." His father's sorrow, liquid and soft, betrayed him only briefly before he mastered it. "We are broken, Ed, and we must at least try. If we cannot find peace, everything we've worked for will be lost. If my life must be forfeit— if that is the price they demand— then so be it." His father swallowed hard, as if steeling himself. "So be it."

"Send another!" The plea was wild and desperate. "Send someone else…"

"I'd not condemn another living soul to such a fate," said the King at once. "Not a soul, Edward. Do you understand that?"

He shook his head, fierce and angry, because he didn't.

"The people need their King…"

"And they will have him." The sword, which hung at his father's waist, was pulled from its scabbard. "They will have you, Edward, second of your name..."

The Prince's tears spilled over, then, as he shook his head, rejecting that title and rejecting his very purpose, but it did not stop his father from pressing the blade on him, wrapping his fingers around the hilt."

"I leave my Kingdom to you." He bowed his head in silence. "I leave my life, my home, my heart to you…"

He glanced at his youngest, wrapped sleeping in his mother's arms. She whispered to him, her lips moving frantically at his ear but he did no more than shift, curling himself around her.

"Take care of your brother," he said finally. His mother disentangled Jasper's sleeping fingers from hers, kissing them fiercely. "Take care of our island."

"Father…"

"I love you. I love you both. Tell your brother that, in the morning, and tell him again every day of his life if we do not return."

Edward, the King's son and heir and image, fell silent, his heart in his throat.

His mother kissed him. His father, wordless and determined, squeezed his shoulder one final time. His mother cried, running her hands over his face as if her touch could commit every inch of him to precious memory, sacred and unsullied, even as she mounted her horse in the yard, her knees shaking like leaves.

And Edward had watched them, that heavy sword at his waist, through the window of the throne room. He'd watched them descend from the castle, watched two pinprick figures slip through the gate at the distant, silent walls, and had seen them disappear, a King and his Queen, into the great and wild unknown. He had waited until dawn had risen in the East, creeping ever closer to that dull, grey mountain range, and when sun and stone met in the early morning hush he knew, without being told, that their souls were one with the Gods.

Edward woke with a start.

The room was silent, as dark as night and as still as a tomb. He did not immediately realize where he was or how he had come to be there, and in a short, sharp moment of confusion, he felt the tickle of a sheet against his cheek. His neck cracked uncomfortably when he rose up like a shot, his back hitting the rear of the chair with an audible thump. He rubbed his eyes, blinking through the gloom, and felt an inexplicable, aching grief in his heart, though he could not remember why. The tail of his dream, waving gently in the recesses of his mind, scurried away like a lizard beneath a rock where it hid, out of sight and out of mind until the ache dulled to a gentle throb and he sighed, glancing tiredly at the bed.

Bella was still, her body turned to him in sleep, and he reached out his fingers to brush a curl from her cheek. She was warm and soft to the touch and he lingered for only a moment, his face softening when her lips parted in garbled speech.

"Shhh…" He patted her hair, which was as warm as her face, when her unintelligible babble became heavy and sharp. "You're alright…"

She pressed her face to his hand, a deep furrow between her brows and settled down restlessly, her fingers clutching the fabric of the sheets.

"All is well." He lowered his face to her ear. "You are safe, and all is well…"

Slowly, as if she didn't quite believe him even in sleep, she began to relax, and when the gentle knock sounded on the door she was as still as she'd been before, without a hint of tension in any line of her face. Edward was loathe to take his hand away but he did before he answered, letting her shift softly on her pillow in search of his warmth, which seemed to calm her.

"Come in." He spoke gently in the gloom. "But be quiet…"

The door creaked open, the hinges protesting their movement, and Edward turned slowly around, glancing with mild surprise at Emmett, whose face peered in nervously through the crack.

"My King."

Edward turned back around.

"Come in, Emmett." His friend stepped closer. "Come in."

"How does she fare?" he asked softly, taking a few steps into the room. The open door, now closed, had cast a bright and brilliant light on Bella's face, making her bruises and marks stand out in sharp relief against her pale flesh. The gauze at her neck was pink again, though Edward didn't dare touch it this time for fear that she would wake. He was very much loathe to wake her, exhausted as she was, and he feared that he would not do so good a job of it the second time around. Emmett had seen the marks as clearly as Edward had and his dark focus was fixed on her face, full of pity and compassion.

"She sleeps," he said softly. "As she should, and well enough, I think. What time is it?"

"An hour past dawn," grimaced Emmett apologetically. "I know it's early. I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't." Edward bowed his head in tired reflection "But I'm glad you've come. Have I thanked you, yet, for bringing her back safe?"

"I did nothing of the sort." Emmett crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "She brought herself home safe. Not me."

"You brought her in," reasoned Edward softly. "You brought here here."

"Aye, as any good man would," he said. "It's pure barbarism to leave any creature out in the cold with injuries like hers, and it would have been upon pain of death had I willfully refused her entry."

He watched Edward with thinly veiled amusement, but Edward shook his head.

"No death for you yet, my friend," he sighed. "You are far too important to be so cruelly wasted."

Emmett grunted.

"You may not think so after you hear what I've come to tell you," he said. "I've come to admit my folly, and beg my King's forgiveness."

Edward turned, his head cocked.

"What possible folly could you have to confess?" he asked at once.

"Perhaps we ought to talk out there." Emmett jerked his chin towards the antechamber. "I do not wish to disturb her."

"Nor I." Edward glanced back down at her, unmoving and still. Though he longed to see her conscious— to see her wakeful, and bright, and lovely— he would not disturb her rest for it. "She is spent."

"Indeed." Emmett opened the door, letting the light spill in again. The ghastly wounds looked all the darker and it made his heart ache with to see it. Emmett watched him closely, eying the curious way his fingers lingered on her cheek, but said nothing of it when Edward came away, blinking wearily in the sunlight filtering in through the northern window.

Food had been carried in during his brief rest and was laid carefully on dishes at the far table. Edward was famished— he had not eaten properly since the night before, and even then it had been a scanty meal of rabbit and biscuits. His cook, Lessie, had outdone herself this morning, piling his table high with carved, juicy fruits, platters of soft, steaming flatbread, bowls of thick, sweet oatmeal, and a plate of glossy boiled eggs, salted and spiced to absolute perfection.

Edward tucked in at once, gesturing for Emmett to join him, and the two piled their plates high, neither speaking for a moment while they dulled the edge of their hunger, if not the substance.

"Now…" Edward chewed a peach, leaning back in his seat. "Tell me what this is all about. I promise, no matter what this so-called folly, you will be forgiven."

Emmett snorted and grinned, but put his apple down on his plate, untouched. Edward regarded this as an ominous sign. Emmett was renowned for his love of food.

"You read the letter I sent you?" he asked quickly, glancing over towards Edward's disordered, cluttered desk. "The one the bird brought?"

"Aye." Edward recalled it well. "I've never ridden faster in my life. I didn't even stop to greet Esme when I passed her on the road."

Emmett nodded carefully.

"Do you recall it well?"

"Aye," said Edward again. He plucked up an egg. "What of it?"

Emmett frowned, his lips pursed.

"The lady has returned," he paraphrased quietly, "and she is safe and well."

"Indeed…" Edward stared at the closed wood of the door, suddenly wary. Was the lady not well, as Emmett had previously thought, though she rested safely in his own bed? He felt a sudden and violent urge to return to her— to press his fingers to her supple skin, to see her lovely gaze upon his face, to feel her strong, warm hands against his flesh…

"She was not alone at the gate, Edward." The King snapped back at once. He frowned, digging through his recollections for a hint of this truth and he remembered it only vaguely, as if it were an afterthought. He'd given it very little consideration at all with the matter of Bella's safety hot in his mind.

"She brought a woman with her— a woman and her child."

"I see." Edward popped a grape into his mouth. "Did you let them in, too? That is easily forgiven, Emmett…"

"Aye, I did, but that's not what I've come to confess." He pushed his plate away completely and Edward paused, a frown creeping over him. "I'm sorry to say it, but you're expected at a meeting of the Council this afternoon, just before the evening meal."

"A Council Meet?" Edward asked, surprised. "For what purpose?"

"To discuss the matters of the day," said Emmett, "and to call a hearing."

"A hearing?" Edward sat up straighter. "A hearing for what?"

Hearings were for criminals, Edward thought. Thieves and bandits, or violent offenders caught in tavern brawls or land disputes. Hearings were for farmers who could not be soothed by their Councilman, or whose strife was with their Councilman, for some reason or another. Hearings were for the ear of the King, where he was expected to make a judgment, and for which he was always given ample advance warning— days, if not weeks, to prepare.

Emmett sighed, troubled and downcast, and began to speak plainly.

"The Lady arrived with a woman and a child in tow, at the Western Gate, just at the stroke of midnight," he began at once. "You know this already. She was injured and knew nothing of the curfew, and so tried to pass the gates. Joro stopped her and questioned her, but before he could send her to the camp, Ruben recognized her from the Cleansing."

"Ruben is a good lad," said Edward at once. "He'll make a fine fighter."

"Aye, he has promise," said Emmett swiftly, "but that's not my tale."

"They brought her to the Watchtower, and the Lady brought the woman and child with her. No one thought to argue it, though they had no real knowledge of who this woman was. The child, Edward, was thin and dirty, and his mother was frightened and trembling, and they thought it would be no great harm, having her with them. She was only a woman, after all, and they were armed and armoured soldiers."

"I see…"

"I was called at once and arrived as quick as I could. I admit, I did not entirely believe Ruben when he told me the tale. I didn't believe that the Lady could have returned on her own, and I was convinced that when I reached her, I'd find you or Jasper with her."

Edward's head fell.

"But you did not," he finished. "There was only her."

"Only her," agreed Emmett, "and her friend."

"And who is this friend, who seems to have you so riled?" asked Edward gently. "Who is she that she demands a hearing, and for what purpose?"

Emmett held up his hands for peace.

"I will tell you everything I know," said Emmett at once, "precious little though it may be. I spoke with the woman last night, Edward, and she told me her tale. All I ask is that when I tell you what she's said, that you listen closely and pay heed to her struggle."

"Of course I will…"

"She is not a threat to us." He spoke with a solemn certainty that made Edward pause. "She is not a threat to anyone in the castle or the city."

"What is it that she's done?" asked Edward in astonishment. "Surely you're not afraid of her?"

"Not a bit." Emmett stared at Edward sharply, as if assessing him. "I'm not scared of her, Edward. I'm scared for her."

"Surely she is well?" A healer would have been summoned, had there been any threat to life or limb…

"For now," he nodded. "But I want your word— the word of the King— that she will be treated fairly once she reaches your court."

"You have it," said Edward easily. "Of course I promise. Don't fret so, Emmett. Tell me what this means."

Emmett looked more agitated than Edward had ever seen him. His fingernails, rough and broad, tapped a frenetic rhythm on the tabletop. His face was pale with tiredness— Edward doubted that he'd slept a wink all night— but his eyes were sharp, staring so intently at Edward that he felt uncomfortable, as if his friend could see something private, or sacred, that ought to remain hidden.

"What eats you?" asked Edward again, leaning forward. "You have my absolute word, Emmett, that I shall treat her fairly. No matter what her crime."

"She's committed no crime," he said at once. "Not any crime that we'd convict her for, anyhow."

Edward waited, tense and quiet.

"Her name is Rosalie," he said gently. "Her child's name is Finn. He's only a boy, about three summers old, and she carries another child in her belly. She was hungry and filthy, and so given hot water and a good meal, and she slept in your castle, under the strict watch of six Kingsguards in the Council bedchambers."

Edward's eyebrows shot up in astonishment, though he did not complain. The Council beds were seldom used and he did not begrudge the fuss, though it surprised him that there had been a need for it at all.

"She has no family in the city?" he queried gently. "No friends to house her? Is she destitute, Emmett? Is that what the trouble is?"

"No, she has no family, and she may be destitute, I don't know." He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "I'll tell you true, Edward, but promise me again that you will treat her fairly."

Edward was astonished, and more than a little concerned, but he nodded anyway, giving another solemn vow.

"That's thrice I've promised you," he said. "Three times a King's vow. Whoever she is or whatever she's done, she will be treated with the same fairness as any citizen of my realm. No matter what she's done, she deserves that, at the very least."

Emmett's lips pursed and he hung his head.

"Then it is my duty to inform you, Sir, that she is not a citizen of your realm," he said. "And neither is her son."

The quiet in the room was deafening and it made Edward's hair stand on end. His surprise made him cold, certain that he'd misheard, though Emmett mistook his silence for thoughtfulness.

"Is she…" Edward fought for the proper words. "Is she… like Bella?"

Futile and foolish though the thought was, Edward found himself wondering whether another woman had fallen from the skies, landing this time, perhaps, among the trees. Was she another survivor of that hideous crash, another kindred of those burned and sanctified corpses atop holy Terosankta?

"No, she isn't like Bella," said Emmett quickly, shaking his head. "Not even close. You do know her, Edward, though not by her name or her face. You know who she is and where she's from, even if you think you don't."

The alternative made his brain feel numb and a hot, sticky fear bubbled up in his belly.

"She is from the West," concluded Edward, with a calmness that even he did not expect. "She is a Westerner."

Emmett hung his head in shame.

"Yes, she is of the West," he said. "She has fled the West, and risked the lives of herself and her children to beg your mercy."

Edward, feeling stupid, was at a loss for words.

"You promised me fairness," Emmett reminded him at once, sensing the agitation bubbling in Edward even before it even showed on his face. "You promised her a fair hearing!"

"And she shall have it." His voice was gentle. "She is entitled to it, no matter where she's come from…"

"That is not all." Emmett's voice was small now, and Edward's eyes narrowed. "There is more to her tale."

The King said nothing, listening in stony silence.

"Her given name is Rosalie," he said, "and she was of the house of Alduran. I expect that means nothing to you, as it meant nothing to me."

"Was?" The word was sharp on his tongue and Edward breathed deep. "What do you mean was?"

"She's a wife, Edward. She has two children."

"What do they call her now, then?"

Emmett watched him, a plaintive plea for patience unspoken his his wide, grey eyes. He heaved a great, trembling sigh, folding his hands together to stop them shaking.

"Her name is Rosalie of the House of Lamman," said Emmett in a rush, and Edward felt the bottom drop from his stomach. "She is married to Rojce, brother of the tyrant Jamos, and she has escaped him and renounced their union, fleeing to you to beg your mercy."

Edward stared at him in absolute, abject astonishment. His lips, parted in shock, struggled to form the right words as a plethora of emotions— anger, pity, fear, sadness— raged a war within his breast.

"She's fled violence, Edward, and cruelty." Emmett spoke quickly, babbling in the hush. "She asks your mercy. She has renounced him— completely and unreservedly— and so asks to be made whole here, as a citizen of your realm."

Edward found his voice, croaking out a feeble reply.

"You've brought me Rojce Lamman's wife?" he demanded, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've brought me the wife of my enemy's brother, and his son? Dear God, Emmett, have you any idea how valuable, how irreplaceable, that child is?"

Emmett's face fell and he nodded his head, a grim despair settling on him like a quilt. Edward's mind reeled with shock, trying to make sense of the whole thing, but he came up short, wondering if Emmett were simply dreaming.

"I know, Edward, and so does she." Emmett's fists clenched on the edge of the table. "Rosalie knows how important her boy is, as she told me plainly last night."

"Last night?"

"I checked in on her, after your Lady was asleep," he said at once. "Before you returned from the fields. I had promised her a bath and some food and I was teeming with questions, so I sat with her a while and heard her tale, promising that I'd relay it all to you."

Edward listened in dumb silence.

"She fled her husband, Edward, because he struck her." Edward closed his eyes. "You know Rojce, or at least the rumours we've heard, and it's hardly surprising to think that he'd hit her."

Those rumours, rising at once in his memory, made Edward's stomach clench with anger. They would never know for sure how exactly his parents had died. They did not know who was killed first, or if they perished both together, or who had dealt the final, fatal blows, but they had learned, through careful spying and interception, that while Jamos was the brain of the West, the elder brother destined to rule, Rojce was the brawn. It was Rojce who wore the sword, not his brother, and they knew for certain that he was the one who had led the massacre in the Hollow Lands, when little Alice's family had been butchered like beasts. Rumours had spread like wildfire in the aftermath of royal funeral, and it had come to Edward from more than one source that it had been Rojce himself, in a fit of passionate rage, who had driven his mother through with a sword, and his father, fighting bitterly until the very end, had gone down in a bloody, violent fight. To think that this creature's wife— the mother of his children— was here, in the castle, made Edward reel, and he struggled to realize what it might mean.

"No, it's not," Edward agreed with a sigh. "But how came she to be here, of all places?"

"She fled," said Emmett at once. "Fled the West and ran in the night. She took her child with her— the boy is terrified of his father— and when Jamos and Rojce found her missing, they sent an army out to hunt her."

Edward's head snapped up in outraged fury.

"Terosankta," he guessed angrily before Emmett could speak. "Those raiders at the Holy Lands. They weren't seeking us at all…"

Emmett grimaced in bitter agreement.

"It's my guess as well," he sighed. "That party was too skilled and too angry to be a simple group of raiders. They didn't take anything from us, besides the loss of life, and they didn't pursue the retreating party on the road. When the West attacks by the mountains, they are always on the hunt for supplies. This time, they took nothing. All of Bella's gifts were there, in a nice, neat pile, but it wasn't touched."

"Gods above, Emmett…"

"They were looking for her," he said quickly. "I'm almost positive. As you said, that child is valuable…"

"He is priceless, if the rumours are true." Edward ran a tired hand over his eyes. "He is their only living heir, Emmett. All of Jamos' children have died within the first year. He's had eight, and not one of them yet lives. If his wife and child are gone, Rojce has only a bastard now, born to a whore, and they do not recognize such children as kin."

Emmett scowled.

"A child is a child," he said angrily, picking moodily at a spot on the table. "I will never understand that part of them."

Edward sighed, shaking his head. In the East, under the King's rule, there were no such distinctions between children produced by a loving marriage and those who were born by other means. A man's children were all equal in the eyes of Gods and men, and there was no distinction made between the children of a man's wife, and the children of his mistress. The King alone had a duty to produce a proper heir within the bonds of marriage to his Queen, but even that rule could be relaxed if the Queen did not conceive.

Most men were faithful to their wives, but all men had a duty to their children.

"Neither will I," Edward grumbled. The thought of abandoning his own child, even if its mother was a whore, was abhorrent. "It is a failed duty, and a terrible, grievous crime."

Edward's reign was still young and he had not yet grown comfortable with his duty to enforce the law, but a man who neglected his own child was a man beneath his dignity, and it did Edward no hardship to garnish a greedy father's gold to clothe and feed his young. A father who could not pay was an object of pity. A father who would not was one of contempt.

"Rosalie comes to beg your mercy," said Emmett again and Edward was broken from his thoughts, exhausted and sore. "She requests asylum for herself and for her son, and begs me to ask that if you will insist on sending her back, that her son, at least, might remain behind."

The thought of cleaving a mother from her child— of tearing that precious, sacred bond in two— made him feel ill.

"I cannot separate them," said Edward at once. "It isn't right."

"No, as I told her last night." Emmett rested his head on his fists. "She wanted Bella to take the boy when I told her she'd have to be taken into custody. I convinced her to keep him with her, as I would put neither woman nor child in a cell, and she agreed, after some coaxing."

Edward's head snapped up at once.

"Custody?" he queried. "Since when is it our custom to lock up innocents?"

Emmett went suddenly pale and his eyes flashed warily, looking sorry.

"She admitted her guilt," he said slowly, "so plainly that even I could not ignore it."

"Guilt?"

"She…" Emmett watched his King with a pleading pity that gave Edward every reason to pause. "She had no choice, Edward… and it was for a very good reason."

"What did she do?"

"She…"

Edward waited with bated breath.

"She killed a man, Edward." Emmett sighed the words in a tense rush. "That man by the jungle? The one Jasper wrote to you about?"

Edward, beyond shock, leaned his head against the back of his chair, staring up at the tall, gloomy ceiling.

"She killed him," finished Emmett softly. "She had a knife on her, which she gave me freely, and it still had the blood on it."

"He was stabbed twice," Edward said, glancing back at his companion. "Once in the chest, once in the belly."

"Aye, she said as much."

"Did she say why she did it?"

"Indeed, yes." Emmett peeked over at the bedroom door, which was still closed tight. "The Lady has a wound on her neck."

Edward sat up straight, his face grim.

"The man was a hunter— a rogue from the West, out to find Rosalie and her child for the bounty on their heads."

"And?"

"And, in their hunt for her, they happened across Bella. She was not their target but she would have made a welcome prize, and so Rosalie tells me that she knocked your Lady to the dirt to keep her hidden, and took her back to the cave where she'd been hiding.".

"They travelled together with the boy, the two women. Rosalie shared her food and her furs, and Bella helped her with the child, once they became friendly. On their final day in the jungle, Rosalie tells me that the man she killed— the one you found— caught up to them and thought to cut Bella's throat. The child had escaped, Rosalie was in fear for her life, and so she fought him, and won. She stabbed him twice and he bled out in the trees, and they fled into the fields, whereupon they came across the castle, some two days later."

Edward's head snapped up at once. The thought of a knife at Bella's throat made his blood run cold and a blind, savage rage made its home in his middle. He would kill any man, whether friend or foe, who dared do such a thing again, and he thought that if the assailant were not already dead and buried, he would be out on his own hunt through the trees.

"There is much to consider, Emmett, and laws to be upheld. I will look on this woman and her child for myself to see what all of this means."

Emmett remained stoic.

"And I wonder…" Edward began, letting his sentence fall short. Emmett stared at him implacably, impatient for elaboration, and spoke sharply when none came.

"You wonder what?"

"I wonder," Edward rumbled, "if this will be the tipping point in our relations with the West."

Emmett bit his tongue, silent and tense.

"I think I must meet this woman, Emmett, before I say any more." He rose at once to his feet. "I think I must speak with her and lay my eyes upon this child, for I do not know what this development means for us, though we may have no other choice."

Emmett rose at once, satisfied, yet still unhappy.

"You will see the truth, Edward." They walked towards the door. "When you lay your eyes upon her and see her for yourself, you will only see the truth."

The woman stood before him, her face a mask of white, startled shock. She trembled as he watched her, his face blank and soft as she bowed, her head bent low over the floor beneath his boots. The child stared in fright, his body shielded by a pillow from the bed, and he caught Emmett's eye with particular terror, whimpering and scampering like a shot from their line of sight. Edward watched the motion with surprise, but did not comment.

"Your Grace." The woman's accent was faint, but discernible. There was a hint of foreignness about her that made Edward pause. "Your Grace, I…"

"Rise," said Edward at once, his hand on her arm. She shook beneath him, looking for all the world as if she might faint, and he watched her with concern, taking in the bruises on her shoulder with mild affront.

She was not at all what Edward had expected.

Women from the West, though he'd seen precious few of them for himself, were doughty. Rumour did not call them beautiful, as this creature clearly was, but as fighters with hard, wiry faces and strong, immovable bodies. This woman looked nothing of the sort— she was not hard, as a warrior ought to be, and though her stomach swelled with budding life, her shape was slender and feminine. Her eyes were wide and cornflower blue, and though they were clouded over with worry, they shone out from a face direct from myth. Her features were as fine and delicate as any Edward had ever seen, and he was struck by a curious, passing thought that posited that her likeness had been crafted by the creator God himself, to teach mere mortals of the joy and splendour of beauty.

She blushed beneath his stare, her cheeks pink with shame, and Edward checked himself at once, forcing himself back to reality. She seemed unsteady, swaying slightly where she stood and he urged her swiftly to a chair before she could fall. She sat down shakily, her hands clutching her belly beneath the crisp linen of her dress, and he watched her with an ever-growing pity that began to melt away his hardness.

"You know who I am," said Edward gently, "and Emmett has told me of you. I welcome you to the East."

She closed her eyes, swallowing thickly. She seemed to collect herself for a moment and Edward saw a distinct impatience in her pretty face before she masked it, sitting herself up a little straighter, her spine stiff and set. In an instant she looked every bit the noble wife— she was a shaking, frightened girl no longer— meeting his gaze with sharp acuity and a quiet, careful quickness. Edward thought he saw a bit of pride in her, or perhaps vanity, but she schooled her features into a familiar false politeness reserved only for a King, and he bit back his irritation with great difficulty.

"Thank you." She sat upright and tall. "I thank you, sire…"

The boy in the bed, peeking shyly over the cushions in the bed, watched him with a sobriety and focus that was unnerving in a child so small. Though he whimpered and shuffled nearer to his mother, she did not take her eyes from the King. While his head was turned she smoothed her hair from her face, gathering it in a twist at the nape of neck and tucked it securely behind her back. The child began to cry when his mother ignored him and she spared him only a swift, scolding glance before he took to the pillows again, hiding his face altogether.

She toyed with the edge of her dress, as if embarrassed, and Edward spoke again. The question was a mere pleasantry.

"I trust you've been comfortable?"

"Yes indeed." She nodded quickly. "Very comfortable. The bed is warm and the food is fine. I thank you, sir, for your hospitality."

She jumped when Emmett closed the door, tucking himself away in the corner of the room. She stared at him, full of surprise, as he installed himself by the door to stand sentry like a gargoyle, his face impassive. Edward took the chance to study her, and noticed at once the curious vulnerability that crossed her when she caught his eye. It made her look young and at once he could see her as she must have been as a child, but that part of her was trampled down the moment it showed. She watched Emmett as if he might speak for her, as if he might explain her circumstances to him and save her the trouble, but Edward was not interested in hearing any more from him.

"Emmett is my dear friend. Did he tell you that?"

Rosalie's head snapped back to him with a frown and she nodded her head. She smoothed her skirt over her thighs and he saw her fingers shake, though she clenched them together to keep them still.

"He did," she said. "He told me you and he are very close."

"It's true." Edward, grabbing the vacant chair on the far wall, pulled it to the other end of the small desk and sat, resting his elbows on the top. The woman turned in her seat, facing him square on. "I trust him implicitly."

She said nothing.

"So tell me." He reached for the ewer of water and a cup, pouring a drink for himself and the woman. She took it graciously but did not drink, waiting patiently while Edward took a careful sip. "Is what he told me true?"

She watched him, her face frozen.

"I don't know what he told you," she said finally, her words slow and careful. "I only know what I told him."

"Indeed." He drained his cup. "But I ask you… did you speak the truth, when you told him your tale?"

The woman flinched away, her face pinched.

"I told him nothing but the truth," she said at once. "Only that, and nothing less."

"The tale he told is astonishing," Edward returned. "Some might call it fancy."

"It's not fancy…"

"How do I know that's true?" he asked. He was not unkind and he did not speak harshly to her, but she recoiled from him in a sudden flare of fear that drove an icy spike into his heart. The reaction made him angry, though it was not outrage at her, and he fought to reign it in, refusing to let it show on his face.

"You said you trusted him," she said lowly. "What of that?"

"Aye, I do trust him," Edward replied pointedly. "I've no doubt that Emmett tells me the truth."

"But you do not trust me." Her shoulders fell. "You do not trust that I tell the truth."

He remained silent, assessing her closely.

"You understand, of course," he continued quickly, "that as King of this realm, it is my duty to protect my people?"

"Of course."

"And that means vetting each and every person who seeks to gain entrance to my Kingdom." The words hung heavy in the air. "You've given me no reason to suspect you, but fewer reasons still to trust you. I have no idea who you are or what your goal might be and I come here today to figure you out, so we can decide what is to be done. Emmett has woven a fabulous tale, I must say, and I long to hear it from your own lips so that I may judge for myself."

She sat up straighter with a face full of hard determination. She no longer trembled beneath his gaze but met his eye with courage, her lovely face belying none of her former tremors. She steeled herself, as if preparing for battle, and began at once to tell her tale, weaving the same, inexplicably fantastical story as he'd heard from Emmett, down to the most private, intimate details. She spoke without feeling, as if she were merely reciting instead of telling, and Edward let her speak uninhibited, holding his hand up for silence when Emmett threatened to interrupt.

One look at his Commander sent the latter into a chastised silence, and he retreated even further into the shadows, his arms crossed tightly around his chest.

Edward heard the details her flight. He heard how her husband, Rojce, had whipped her soundly for her mouth, not a thought in the world for the babe in her belly. She told him how her son, only just three, had lashed out at his father in his mother's defense and had been struck, hard, across the thighs with a belt.

She hauled the child from the covers though he squealed and cried in protest, and she hiked up the leg of his pants to show him the welts, which were raised, red, and raw.

She had fled into the jungle. She had hidden, in trees and caves, from her husband's army of searchers. He'd sent dozens after her— some north, and some south— and she'd evaded them all with nothing but a bag of furs, food, and the clothes on her back. Her child had cried in the night. They'd gone hungry on more than one occasion. She'd evaded the parties sent out to find her, but attracted the attention of the hunters— those savage, cruel men whose specialty was tracking, who could trace a deer through the trees for miles and days, without tiring, and without stopping.

They never lost a hunt, she said. They knew all the tracks, and all the signs. She'd hidden in a cave to avoid the worst of it, and that was where she'd found Bella. She'd been checking a snare deep in the jungle when she'd seen a woman running, and she'd heard the angry, pounding footsteps of the men on her tail.

She'd brought Bella back to the cave. She'd let her wash and change her clothes, feeding her some of the tacky seawater biscuits that were a hardy staple in the West. She'd stolen them from Rojce's larder, and she suspected he was now going hungry. She didn't care, she said— she hoped that he had suffered just as much as she had— but she thought about it nevertheless, wondering what he might do to her if he managed to drag her back.

She told him of the walking— of the incessant, tiresome trek through jungle. She'd been directing them towards the Miner's Cave, where she knew there'd be a road. She wanted to find the capital, to find the King and ask his mercy…

He heard the rest with silent concentration.

When the tale was over and her words sputtered out Edward sighed, resting his chin atop his fingers. Her eyes danced across his face, bright and wary with concern, and she blurted out a question before he could ask any of his own.

"Where is Bella?" she asked in a rush. "Is she alright?"

"She is well…"

"Has she seen the healer? That cut on her throat is deep…"

"She is asleep," said Edward at once. "Upstairs. She's seen a healer and will see another one today, once my Uncle rises and finds his way upstairs."

Rosalie bit her lip.

"Has she…"

"She's done nothing but sleep," said Edward gently. "She was bathed and fed last night, as I expect you were, and put right to sleep. I arrived in the night and she did not wake, and when I left her this morning, she slumbered still."

"She's not cut out for that kind of life, running wild in the trees," said Rosalie at once. "She's a very gentle creature."

His heart fluttered in his breast. His very being seemed attuned to Bella and he ached with a need to return to her, where he could see and hear her. It made him nervous to hear Rosalie speak of her so intimately, as if she knew her in ways he didn't, and he changed the subject quickly.

"Emmett told me your wish is to remain in the East," said Edward. "He told me that you've asked him for sanctuary… is this true?"

Her breath caught and she began to tap her fingers, her eyes falling closed as she fought back a sudden tightness in her throat.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, he speaks true."

She stared at Emmett with plaintive worry. Edward waited until she looked away, making her look at him, instead, and gauged her face very closely.

"He also told me," he continued, "that if I deny your claim— if I decide to send you back to the West— that you want us take your son into our custody, and, I assume, the child you carry. Is this true?"

Her face, which had been stoic and strong, broke like china thrown to the floor. Fissures opened at once, the cracks spreading until the tears brimmed up, making her eyes even bluer, and her cheeks go pale.

"A good mother does not abandon her babies," she whispered, and Edward was surprised to hear a break in her voice. "A good mother does not leave them. Yet I admit, freely and willingly, that this is true, despite it all." Her words sobered him, a sadness rising up. "I would ask this of you, though I know it is deplorable."

"Tell me why." Edward interrupted her, handing her a handkerchief from his own pocket. She dabbed her eyes angrily, as if she were ashamed of her tears, and swallowed back a lump in her throat, glancing back with unfathomable heartache at her wide-eyed little son.

"He's just a boy," she said shakily. "Only a baby. His father…"

Her teeth clenched when the tears fell harder and she shook herself sternly, looking for all the world as if she were embarrassed by her feelings. It made Edward grieve to see it— he knew this woman only briefly, having only just met her, but he knew without a doubt that there was no shame in a mother's love.

"Rojce is cruel," said Rosalie bluntly, digging her teeth into her lip to stop them trembling. "He is a tyrant, and he has no love in his heart for me, or our son."

The boy cowered away again when he heard his mother's anger, burrowing in the blankets with dread.

"I renounce him." Her voice went cold. "I renounce our vows, which were spoken in falsehood, and I renounce our love, if it ever was at all. I deny his right to my children, deny my children's right to him, and I willingly relinquish any and all privilege I might have held when I was by his side, though there was precious little to be had at all."

Edward sat back, his face stern. Her words were a good as true, though they had not been tested before the Royal Court. Renunciation was a powerful thing in the eyes of the law, and well Rosalie seemed to know it. A wife who renounced her husband renounced everything she had— her partner, her home, and her honour.

Edward said nothing and Rosalie fell silent, each considering the other for a long span of time. Edward felt a stirring in his heart for her— pity for her poverty, admiration for her courage, and a deep-rooted respect for the love she showed her son, for whom she had given up so much, and to whom she was completely and utterly devoted. This woman was a mother first— Edward saw it clear— and that selfless love for her frightened boy steeled the resolve in his heart.

"Do you know, Rosalie, anything of the laws of the East?"

She blinked in surprise and shook her head.

"I know there is a King," she said slowly, "and a court. I know not how you operate, or what your duties might be…"

"It is my right, as King, to determine the fate of any woman who throws herself upon our mercy. My right, you see… not the right of the court."

She said nothing, her brow furrowed.

"Had you been a man, you would have been forced to stand before the courts," he continued. "You would have been forced to explain yourself to all twelve of my Councilors, and you would have had to convince at least seven of them to rule in your favour. They are all good men, of course— it would not do to have evil or hateful advisors so close to the throne— but they can be a difficult crowd to please, especially those with deep-seated beliefs."

Her eyes raked the floor, her face pale and ashen.

"Most likely you would have gained a few supporters," he continued. "Lorenzo, for one. He is a good man, and one of the kindest souls you'd ever meet. He'd rally for you, I'm almost certain of it, once he was sure you were not a threat to public safety."

"I killed a man," she said softly. "I have been a danger."

"You killed a man in self-defense," he replied. "That is not the same as willful murder."

"I didn't strike to wound," she whispered. Edward admired her bravery at this admission, but shook his head nonetheless. "I meant to kill him, and so I did."

"Your actions were taken to protect one of my own," said Edward. "You saved Bella's life, do you realize that?"

"Of course I do."

"Then you must know, as well as I, that such an action would never be deemed a crime. Not in my eyes."

She stared up at him in awe.

"I do not punish those who act in defense of the ones I love," said Edward. "Bella is not my family— not in the strictest sense— but she is as dear and precious to me as if she were. It does me great injury to think of her in danger."

Rosalie said nothing, but her face remained fixed and serious.

"You protected her, and you kept her safe," he said. "The fact that she is alive right now, sleeping in my chamber, is more than enough proof of that. Your crime is not what drives my hesitation, Rosalie."

"So you do hesitate," she said at once. He saw a vein throbbing in her neck. "You do hesitate…"

"I must," he said swiftly, "though I think my choice is clear."

She held her breath, her cheeks flushing red.

"You will not be hauled before my Council," he said gently, "though I thought to make it so. You will not be forced to retell this story to more strangers, though they will certainly demand to hear it from me. They will not like having a stranger in their midst, especially one with your background, but they will come to accept it, in time."

She continued to stare, saying nothing.

"I think I must," he said finally, "grant you your request."

She deflated like a soap bubble. Her fear— which Edward swiftly realized had been morphing into terror— snapped to disbelief and she swallowed, her eyes pinched shut in bone-rattling relief.

"I will let you stay," said Edward softly, and she laughed to herself, "but I must ask you a question, first."

"Anything." She rubbed her belly almost unconsciously, her lips pulled into an involuntary smile. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Does your husband know where you were headed?" he asked quietly, and her head snapped up at once. "Does he know you've come here, to me?"

"I…" She glanced back at her son, who was watching with wide, interested eyes. "I don't know."

Edward felt exhausted.

"Because if he does," he continued, "do you understand what that might mean for us?"

"I can guess…"

"If Rojce Lamman finds out that I've granted asylum to his wife, it will be grounds for great unrest," said Edward plainly. Emmett, bristling, shifted in the corner. "If he finds out that I've taken his children, the only heirs to their Western leadership, it will be enough to start a war."

"I don't know if he knows." Her voice trembled with strain. "I didn't leave a note. I didn't tell him where I was."

"Aye." Edward bowed his head. "But when you spoke of the hunters…"

"Yes?"

"You said they," he prodded gently. "You didn't say he or him… you said them."

Her head snapped up, stricken, and he saw the realization dawning on her face.

"There were two," she whispered, her heart hammering a furious rhythm in her chest. "There were two hunters, and I only killed one."

Edward sat back in his seat, an anxious, heavy stone settling in the pit of his stomach.

When Bella woke, buried deep in the comfort of the downy mattress, it felt like she was surfacing from a pool of liquid honey, so heavy, sweet, and delicious that she lingered for a while in that strange, floating space between sleeping and waking. Her breaths were slow and warm, bathing her face as it ruffled around the covers, and when she wiggled her feet beneath the sheets they were awkward and stiff. She huddled deeper into her little pallet of sleep-warmth, clenching her eyes shut against the glow that was slowly infiltrating her dreamy bubble, and though she did not immediately remember where she was or why, she was in no rush to return to the land of the living.

She lay with her eyes closed for a while, trying in vain to return back to sleep, but her stomach was growling and her muscles were stiff, so she cracked her eyes open with trepidation, blinking at the sight before her.

She was in the King's room, she remembered. She was in the King's bed, beneath his covers and lying comfortably on his pillows and sheets. The air was deliciously warm, perfumed by some unknown herb or spice, and she breathed it in deeply, turning over in the bed with careful, tentative movements.

She saw him almost at once, sitting hunched in the shadows with eyes blazing like coals in the hearth. His face was dark, unreadable in the gloom, and her breath caught in her throat, surprised to see him so near. When he caught her gaze those coals burst into flame and he smiled— a wide, true, beaming smile that lit up his whole face— and her cheeks darkened in response, her body engulfed by a frantic, tearful joy.

"Edward…" The word had hardly passed her lips before he had risen from his seat and was across the room, kneeling on the floor beside the bed. He watched her with an inexplicable tenderness, his face alight with joy, and he grabbed her, gentle for all his suddenness, in a fierce and tight embrace.

"You've come home," he murmured, and she felt his breath upon her cheek. "You've come home, Bella, and I think my heart must burst with joy."

"Edward…"

He held her close in the silence of the bedchamber, his hands fisted in the nightdress at her back. She could feel his heart against her, thrumming like a hammer against cloth, and she relished it, feeling its rhythm become her own. She said nothing at all, wrapped in his warmth and his scent, and her tears— of joy or relief, she could not tell which— dampened the collar of his shirt. Her cheeks were scarlet, though he did not mind, and he stroked her long, damp hair, dropping his face to hers with a darkening need. He ran his fingers over her as if he marveled at the sight, and she did not flinch when he dusted over her cheeks, her nose, tickling her neck and her chin. Only when he was through, his inventory complete, did he take her bruised face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers with a bright-eyed tenderness that made her breath catch in her throat, her hands tremble on his wrists.

She felt his lips, shaking and soft, press an ardent, fervent kiss to her temple.

Her head dropped to his shoulder and she let him hold her, her arms around his back and her cheek upon his chest. His face buried in her hair, dropping another kiss at her crown, and she felt it shiver down to her very toes. She found herself weeping, though she was not quite sure why she did, and he rocked her, pulling her body close to his so that their breaths rushed in time like the wings of heavy, sailing birds. Her heart sang for him, sore though it was, and when she felt another sweet caress on the apple of her cheek, the tip of her nose, the point of her chin, she felt safe, and joyful, and loved.

"You've come home," he said again, dropping another kiss to the side of her face. "You've come home, Bella. You're safe now, sweetheart, and you are home."

She did not let him go.

A/N: SO. Those of you who follow me on Twitter already know this, but this particular chapter was a BEAST to finish. At over 10,000 words it is one of the longest in the story so far, and still, there are 11 unused pages of plot and dialogue that were cut or replaced before this final version. Those of you who are writers might understand when I say that the characters in this chapter seemed bound and determined to misbehave. That might sound weird to those of you who don't write, but these characters have a mind of their own. As with every chapter, I have a clear vision of where I want it to take us, but the particular road we took this time was long and winding. Here are only some of the problems that my characters gave me, in no particular order:

-Bella and Edward REFUSED to advance their plot (and when they DID agree to cooperate, the first three versions were rife with cringy dialogue)
-Edward seemed bound and determined to FIGHT EVERYONE (version 1 had him shouting at Rosalie, and version 2 had an almost-brawl with Emmett)
-Rosalie wanted to be a quivering, snivelling mess (which could absolutely NOT be allowed to happen) and it took several story versions for her to put on her big girl pants
-Ditto for Bella, who would have used all the handkerchiefs in the castle had I given her the chance.

It took some time to whip everyone into shape. I hope you like where we ended up. Some of you were very curious about what happened to Edward Sr. and Elizabeth, and I hope the memory at the start helped clear it up for you.