Oh my goodness, thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts! I've so enjoyed reading you guys' reviews! Some of you are already forming theories, some are already so close to the truth, and man, one of you hit the nail on the head. I won't say who, lol. ;)

But you guys seem to be enjoying it, and that's what matters, and that makes me super, super happy. 3 Keep those theories coming! And I promise to get back to every single one of you asap!

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest (as well as the storyline) belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 2 - Fire and Brimstone

Chapter Song Rec: Just a Girl, covered by Brix (originally No Doubt). Guys, please, please, please listen to this version of this song AFTER you read the chapter. It'll make sense. ;)

Andover, Massachusetts – 14 September 1692

The Reverend Newton bangs the pulpit with a bulbous fist. Spittle spouts from his mouth with each feverish pontification. Beads of perspiration have formed along his brow line, his bloated mien crimson as he spews a gruesome condemnation involving flames licking at naked forms.

What transgression preceded such punishment I know not, for I confess – to myself if to no one else – my thoughts wandered. Regardless, the form in which sin manifests matters negligibly. God's sanction invariably be the banishment of our eternal souls to a hellfire of eternal agony.

"…and so guard ye against temptations of the flesh! For the devil lurks everywhere in wait for lustful thoughts to claim thou immortal soul…"

With a furtive sigh, I shift solely mine eyes to the large hourglass resting on the table to the left of the pious Reverend. Dear Lord almighty, the ivory sands seeping through be not even halfway emptied! Two hours of the exemplary Reverend's rhetoric remain before me! I may not survive it.

A short while later, Mother must sense the heaviness mine lids begin to feel or mine spine slackening because her thumb and forefinger pinch my thigh. When I start, she lays a palm flat on my leg, a gentler reminder.

'Invite not notice to thyself.'

Nevertheless, mine eyes sting from the lingering pain of the pinch. When my attention reverts to the pulpit, I meet the good Reverend's gaze. He smirks at me, for he hath seen.

God and his apostles see all.

The pain to my flesh, if not my pride, does recede. Indeed, it ebbs more quickly every week, for often does Mother resort to such methods to recall my attention to the preacher. I begin to believe my skin grows thick, like the brown and mighty skin of Massachusetts Bay Colony's native inhabitants.

Here be another dark confession: I have seen a native man's thighs.

Once, three years earlier. 'Twas the summer of my fifteenth year. Father took me with him to market in neighboring Salem village, contrary to Mother's wishes. Mother be not fond of Salem, for, says she, the village of Salem be infested with merchants whose welfare be tied to the port and the shipments sent by England. They, therefore, look down their noses, says she further, at we in Andover – who be mainly farmers and their ilk working with our hands rather than with our minds. I remind her that we – she and I and all other women – mend, cook, clean, and give birth, regardless of the name of our village.

Nay, I remind her not, for disrespecting ye elders be a sin. But I do think it.

That day, as Father and I rode to Salem in our cart, Father deviated the horses from the worn and beaten road. Instead, our cart bounded atop rich soil through which I had never traversed.

"Daughter, see this land?" asked Father, then continued after my confirmation. "In my grandfather's time, the land we now traverse belonged to the Pokanoket, a peoples of the Wampanoag. When my grandfather landed on the Mayflower, 'twas the Pokanoket who taught he and the rest of the settlers how to plant those crops which would keep them alive through this country's harsh winter – a winter more bitter than any my grandfather had ever known. But they survived, for the crops could not but thrive in such fertile ground." Father's gaze remained on the verdant land ahead, but as I watched him, I noted how his mien darkened and his tone withered into one of woe. "And we thanked the Pokanoket for sharing their land by sharing our diseases, stealing their lands, and then…"

He did not complete his thought, but there truly was no need. All mine life, I had heard whispers of the great war waged when I was a babe. 'Twas betwixt the settlers in Massachusetts Bay and the land's native inhabitants. Father never spoke of it to Mother or me, but when the rest of the men were nearby and formed a circle amongst themselfs, King Philip's War were a common theme. Mine ears had gathered much by then: First, the settlers bought tracts of land from the natives. Then, when the natives ceased selling, the settlers demanded more. When demands fell on deaf ears, the Wampanoag, led by Metacom, who was also named Philip by the English, allied with the Nipmuck, the Narragansett, and the Pocumtuck tribes in a war against the settlers and against the tribes who allied with them – the Mohegan and the Mohawk. 'Twas a bloody affair all around, one the natives lost miserably, in both lives and land.

Father drove the cart until came we across a settlement unlike our own, nor like Salem village. The structures were triangular, covered by animal skins and canvas over frames of wooden poles. Smoke spiraled out of these structures, and native men and women dressed in more animal skins and colorful feathers came and went in all manner of activity. I had seen natives before, but from a distance, and never so many. And never had we purposely headed toward them.

"Remain here, Daughter," Father instructed as he pulled the cart's lever and climbed out. He walked to the back of the cart and retrieved the basket of goods I had thought to be traded in Salem village.

"Father, may I not come with-"

"Nay, you may not," snapped he.

I shut my mouth, attempting to control the flare of my nostrils as I glared at him. Meanwhile, he warily panned his gaze from side to side, gauging the safety of mine surroundings before heading away and leaving me. Eventually, he disappeared into one of the triangular structures. There upon the cart I remained, though my legs ached to jump down, and my hands twitched to touch all the sights new to me. After a short while, I was no longer so bitterly disappointed, for there was much to see.

Wild shrieks suddenly made mine heart leap in my chest. I turned and witnessed a group of natives riding into the settlement astride the most glorious beasts in creation. These horses had manes that flowed like the river and powerful frames that commanded respect. But 'twas the natives…one in particular, with a bright feather behind his head that contrasted hair of a peculiar hue – not as black as that of his fellow riders and with strands that caught the summer sun and looked almost scarlet – who commanded mine attention.

His long hair waved wildly in the wind as he raced ahead of the rest and across the vast field, every movement of he and his beast in sync as if the two were one. A pile of dead animals were laid out in front of him, his bundle noticeably more considerable than that of his fellow riders – he, the better hunter. As he rode nearer, his features caught my attention; they were neither the perfectly angular features of the natives nor the somewhat rounder features of we settlers, but somewhere betwixt. More fascinating was his skin, its hue also somewhere betwixt, with the strip of leather he wore around his hips being his only covering besides a pair of moccasins.

And so, I saw clearly his thighs – thick and muscular, with ligaments like heavily roped twine underneath his flesh. His stomach resembled the washboard Mother and I used to wash our clothing. He was almost more beast than man, built closer to the magnificent frame of the horse he rode than the natives riding with him. I had never imagined men could possess such beauty. He must have felt mine eyes, for he looked up and-

"Isabella! Avert your gaze, daughter, and protect the innocence of thine eyes, lest the indecency of such a sight corrupt thee!"

Father had returned and, in my inattention, found me hypnotized by such things as a young woman should not allow to hypnotize her.

And so, shutter mine eyes I did, concurrently thanking the Lord above that such forced evasion could not extinguish my memory of the image of that native. For the recollection of his beauty and strength burns in my mind still. And often. What I would not give to have such formidable flesh…to be that free and mighty!

Again, my mind hath wandered, and I force my attention forward.

"…the devil be in our midst, and 'tis only a matter of time until one of thee allow him in through thy unchaste, lasciviousness! Women, guard thee of impure thoughts! Men, guard that ye shall deny women their wicked power to lead you astray!"

Careful that my expression betrays nothing, I swallow the scream of indignation welling in my throat. Doth the man before me truly read my mind?

Fortunately, as a woman of eighteen years, I am well-practiced in the art of concealment. Nonetheless, the fingers neatly steepled atop my lap dig into mine own skin so sharply I do believe I draw blood. Such a small act of defiance; yet it be one of my few releases, one of the only manners with which to distract myself from madness.

I risk a slight shift of my head, praying to God – another God other than the woman-abhorring, vengeful one Reverend Newton would have us pray to – that my bonnet conceal my movement. Up and down the aisles, the goodmen, goodwives, and many of their children, some of who be my friends of an age – Emmett, Tyler, Angela, Jane – listen to the sermon in like poses: wide-eyed, straight-backed, and with mouths agape.

Whether this fear be for God or for the Reverend, I know not. But even if I be merely a woman, my mind whispers things to me. It tells me now that there be a difference, that it matters whether one fears God or his heralder. Further, this mind of mine breathes even more hushed heresy in that corner of my skull where I keep thoughts so impure I can only hope God dare not tread. It tells me that the god of our Puritan fathers, the one who hath no love for womenkind, the one we be told seethes at us at every turn…he be not the real God, for the real God would not treat us this way.

When mine own thoughts begin to alarm me, I give my head an imperceptible shake and bury the dark muses deeper within my skull. At least these thoughts keep me awake.

Further down the aisle is sat one of my other distractions in the form of my childhood friend, Rosalie. Rosalie be everything I am not: tall where I be small, yellow-haired where I be dark-haired, and better at feigning a meekness of the body if not of the soul, neither of us feel. Even in her silhouetted profile, see I her pretense of rapt attention, when know I that she abhors Reverend Newton perhaps even more than I.

"…thy mirthful idleness shall be your downfall! The only path away from such immoral destruction be by following the holy path of righteousness through which only I may guide ye! For only through mine devout, spiritual guidance shall ye escape the wrath of God and the pits of hell and damnation!"

'Tis an ominous warning, aye, and mine error be Rosalie's and mine gaze meeting betwixt it.

I quietly snort.

In Rosalie's and mine fourteenth year, during a prayer assembly, the putrid, licentious lunatic currently at the pulpit spouting fire and brimstone did push Rosalie into a dark corner of the Lord's house and did lay his fetid hands upon her bosom.

'Twas the true Lord's grace – not that of the Lord the Reverend serves – who distracted me from the pumpkin stew on which I feasted and brought my friend's plight to mine attention. When I approached, he backed away. Said he, he was evangelizing, spreading God's love to Rosalie, when never before and never hence hath love been his message. Said he, should we mention such evangelizing attempt to our fathers and mothers, God would grow angry, for 'tis between the Lord and his apostles how a preacher spreads God's love, and any and all who interfere shall feel His holy wrath.

Ranting, raving swine. Hypocrite. And nay, neither Rosalie nor I ever spoke of the incident to anyone. For we are merely girls, and who would believe us? And so 'tis the Reverend's existence why I often wish to be a man, a mighty man, one with the strength of the native in mine dreams. I would use that strength to exact true vengeance, even if it meant my immortal soul.

Nonetheless, even as I snort and the Reverend's burning eyes meet mine, he does little more than glare balefully before continuing his nonsense.

Mine eyes meet Rosalie's again, and we share a fleeting smile before looking away and back at the pulpit.

The good Reverend knows what we know.

The previous summer, he hath proposed to my father a marriage between his son, Michael, and me. 'Twas a manner to silence me, know I. And 'twas one of the only times I defied Father and spoke a "nay" to him. Father had looked at me, long and hard, and accepted my reply. It has built tension between our families, the Newtons and the Swans, but I cannot regret it. Nevertheless, know I that this act of defiance has merely brokered me little time. For a father rarely if ever accepts defiance from a daughter, and one act of such shall not beget another.

"Is there no one in the village ye would wish to marry?" Rosalie asked me just yesterday when she and I were granted permission to walk to the lake in honor of the day of my birth, eighteen years earlier. We sat by the banks and played with the leaves falling from the trees, enjoying their crackling as they harden in preparation for winter.

"Nay, no one," replied I truthfully. "Though I shall have to when the day comes."

"Aye, you shall," agreed she, "for a woman must marry and bear children to ensure our numbers grow and that the savages never outnumber us again."

I looked at her and quirked a brow. "To me, savage be the plan of procreation simply to have command over land that belonged to others first." I thought of the Wampanoag native, with his long, peculiarly-shaded hair and muscular thighs. "Perhaps…I shall run off before I be forced to marry where I do not want."

She laughed loudly and in a manner we rarely laughed unless we were alone. "Where shall ye live, and on what subsistence shall ye survive?"

"I shall build myself a structure such as the ones the natives build, and I shall drink the rain, and hunt for skins, meat, and berries with mine bare hands."

Again, she laughed. "Ye shall be savage!"

"Perhaps." I smiled, though she knew not why I truly did.

"Isabella, ye are whimsical, my dear friend. But 'tis thoughts such as these which you must always keep to thyself, lest thou seek to be thought peculiar, and thereby a servant of the devil."

And I knew this well, just as I knew there was no one in this world with whom I could ever feel uninhibited enough to express all my thoughts – not even with Rosalie. Though there were no secrets between us, there were things unsaid.

"And ye, Rosalie?" I questioned. "Dost thou wait for Emmett to speak to your father? For I have noted when you look at him."

"Dost though believe he shall seek my hand?" I heard the note of eagerness in her tone, though the truth was I had not noted any particular regard for her on his part.

"I…" I began, not wanting to tell her an untruth but neither desiring to injure her.

However, Rosalie be not stupid, and she knows me well. And though there be no secrets between us, there appeared to be things she would not say either. Instead, she lifted her chin and glared at the lake as if it had done her wrong somehow...stolen from her somehow.

"Nay. Even should he ask, I would not want him."

My brow furrowed, for I was not convinced. "Truly?"

"Truly," she nodded.

These thoughts of yesterday's discussion between Rosalie and I run through my memory whilst mine eyes again begin to glaze over with the tedious monotony of the Reverend's unfluctuating bellows.

Until something catches mine eye.

By the church's window to my right, there be movement. I know not why I suddenly wish to look – nay, I must look – for 'tis likely no more than a tree's branches or its falling leaves cascading from side to side. Whatever be the madness, mine eyes and my entire head stray and turn. All the while, my heart gallops like a wild, magnificent horse within my chest….

Then it ceases to beat altogether.

There, framed by the church window in the forefront and by the thick, dark woods in the background, a pair of eyes look back at me. Peculiarly-shaded hair billows in the breeze. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the face disappears rapidly – too rapidly, with a velocity that leaves the tree's branches quivering. The rest of the face's features vanish too swiftly for them to register in my mind.

One thing doth register.

The eyes that hath stared back boldly burned crimson.

A/N: Thoughts?

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A DIFFICULT YET TRUE SHORT HISTORY LESSON FOR THOSE WHO ARE INTERESTED:

The Wampanoag People (From The Smithsonian):

The Thanksgiving story you know and the one I know are most likely the same. It's the story deeply rooted in America's curriculum—the one that inspires arguably the most important and tradition-filled holiday in American culture. We're taught that in 1620 the Pilgrims fled harsh religious suppression in Britain, sailed across the Atlantic, and in December stepped ashore at Plymouth Rock, in what is now Massachusetts. With little food and no shelter, the colonists struggled to survive a brutal winter until a friendly Indian, Squanto, came along and showed them how to cultivate crops. Their first harvest resulted in a feast, as the Pilgrims gave thanks to the kind Indians for helping to bring the colony back to life.

This version of Thanksgiving, while pleasant, isn't terribly accurate. Told from a perspective that frames the Pilgrims as the main characters, the story leaves out major details, glorifying the Pilgrims' endeavor and the holiday it birthed, forcing the Wampanoag Indians into forgotten roles. It also erases a monumentally sad history.

The true history of Thanksgiving begins with the Native Americans.

About four years before the Pilgrims anchored off Massachusetts, British fishermen had already started making their way through New England, storming through Indian towns and bringing with them epidemic illness.

Before 1492, the Western Hemisphere was largely isolated, sparing its indigenous peoples from diseases the rest of the world succumbed to time and time again. But this lack of contact prevented Natives of the Americas from developing any type of immunity to European, Asian, and African pathogens. When Europeans started trekking through Indian towns, they brought sickness with them. Indians died at an alarming rate.

Finding empty villages as 90 percent—yes, 90 percent—of America's Indians perished in front of furthered the colonists' sense of their destiny, influencing them to continue the colonization westward. As Jolene Rickard (Tuscarora) and Paul Chaat Smith (Comanche) wrote in Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories, one of the opening exhibitions at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, "That initial explosion of death is one of the greatest tragedies in human history because it was unintended, and unavoidable, and even inevitable. But what happened in its wake was not."

One people who famously suffered from the onslaught of disease were the Wampanoag, a nation made up of 69 villages scattered throughout present-day Rhode Island and Massachusetts. Skilled hunters, gatherers, farmers, and fishers during spring and summer, the Wampanoag moved inland to more protected shelter during the colder months of the year. Like indigenous groups everywhere, the Wampanoag had a reciprocal relationship with nature and believed that as long as they gave thanks to the bountiful world, it would give back to them. Long before the arrival of the Pilgrims, the Wampanoag held frequent Thanksgiving-like celebrations, giving thanks in the form of feasts and ceremonial games.

Exposed to new diseases, the Wampanoag lost entire villages. Only a fraction of their nation survived. By the time the Pilgrim ships landed in 1620, the remaining Wampanoag were struggling to fend off the Narragansett, a nearby Native people who were less affected by the plague and now drastically outnumbered them.

For a moment of history, the interests of the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag aligned. When the Pilgrims landed in New England, after failing to make their way to the milder mouth of the Hudson, they had little food and no knowledge of the new land. The Wampanoag suggested a mutually beneficial relationship, in which the Pilgrims would exchange European weaponry with Wampanoag for food. With the help of an English-speaking Patuxet Indian named Tisquantum, the Pilgrims produced a bountiful supply of food that summer. For their part, the Wampanoag were able to defend themselves against the Narragansett. The feast of indigenous foods that took place in October 1621, after the harvest, was one of thanks, but it more notably symbolized the rare, peaceful coexistence of the two groups.

Unfortunately, that peaceful coexistence didn't last.

King Philip's War

King Philip's War, also known as Metacom's War or the First Indian War, was an armed conflict between English colonists and the American Indians of New England in the 17th century.

It was the Native-American's last major effort to drive the English colonists out of New England. The war took place between 1675-1676 in Rhode Island, Connecticut and Massachusetts and later spread to Maine and New Hampshire.

The war is named for King Philip, also known by his Wampanoag name of Metacom, who was the son of the late Wampanoag chief Massasoit. Philip led his tribe and a coalition of the Nipmuck, Pocumtuck and Narraganset tribes in an uprising against the colonists and their allies, the Mohegans and the Mohawks, that lasted 14 months.

The war was the single greatest disaster of 17th century New England, and, in proportion to population, is considered to be the deadliest war in American history. Some historians see King Philip's War as more of a Civil War among members of the same society rather than a colonial war among invading forces. One reason for this is due to the fact that various tribes of Native-Americans fought both with and against each other in the conflict. Another reason for this is due to the fact that, prior to the war, the natives and colonists had merged into a singular society before turning on each other.

King Philip came into power in 1662, when his older brother, Alexander, died suddenly after having been arrested by the English on suspicion that he was hatching plans for a war against the colonists. While under arrest, Alexander pledged his loyalty to the English and was released but had contracted an illness while in Plymouth and died on the way home. Many Wampanoag believed he had been poisoned by the colonists. After Philip came to power, the colonists believed that he was planning revenge for his brother's death, even though there was no evidence of this claim. This added to the tension that already existed between the colonists and the natives.

Relations between the two groups had long been strained due to competition for land and resources. The natives had become increasingly dependent on English goods, weapons and food while their own resources dried up as the fur trade slowed, their tribal lands were sold, and Native-American leaders were forced to recognize English authority. After rapid expansion of English settlements led to a steady succession of forced sales of the Native's land, the relationship between the two sides began to deteriorate. After the war, they were never again the same.