A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.
Yikes! I know I'm super behind on these updates. It's been a crazy busy couple of weeks in the PR household. The youngest child has a lot going on in her life: 1) she's applying for colleges, and November 1 and November 15 Early Action deadlines loomed. She's a great damn writer, much better than I am – she's already won a couple of recognition awards – but she still asks Mommy to give her stuff a quick look. So for the past few weeks, I've been emerged in reading college essays and supplementals. 2) Her 18th birthday is tomorrow. We took her on a surprise long weekend getaway cruise to San Diego and Ensenada, Mexico. In my mind, I pictured myself gazing out at the ocean while on this cruise ship, or gazing out at the ocean while at one of our port stops, and writing. It didn't happen that way. ;)
But we had an AMAZING time, which is what matters Now, we're back, and I plan to post the next update either tonight or tomorrow because I'm anxious to get this one done. See, Miss Muse is claiming she's got an aching to pick up on last winter's holiday story – The Ghost of Christmas Past – asap. And I want to make her put her money where her mouth is before she changes her mind!
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 8 – Shadows and Rings
Massachusetts Bay Colony – Andover Village: 14 October 1692
Mine eyes open to absolute darkness and an equal portion of silence. 'Twould seem I have drifted, despite mine efforts to the contrary.
'Tis hard to remain awake when the village sleeps and quiet be all I am allowed. For if I left my room, mine footsteps would be heard by Mother or Father. Neither can I risk lighting a lamp by which to read, as the stench of burning oil, if not the glow, would doubtlessly give me away.
Instead, I while the hours staring at the ceiling, then allowing mine eyes to trail to the window – or to where I gauge the window should be, as I cannot see it. I have not drawn the curtains; therefore, they open to a nebulous land occasionally broken by a passing, gray, gauzy fog. Eventually, assisted by the stars that shine above, mine eyes grow accustomed to the scant starlight. It casts a wan sort of glow upon the world, barely sufficient for my imagination to manufacture swaying shadows and invent looming shapes out of bare trees.
Abruptly, a pair of blazing, incandescent orbs appear centered at the window, suspended as if floating without a body. They gaze at me raptly and leave me breathless. For a moment, I be too lost in their depths to make a sound.
In one motion, I gasp and leap from my bed. Yet, mine feet have not even the opportunity to touch the floor before I be lifted up. For when shadow falls and bathes Andover village in a darkness that, perhaps, even God's eyes cannot penetrate, that is how startlingly, how bewilderingly, how thrillingly swift my Edward, my Soaring Eagle, be.
Encased within his strong arms, I pull in a long breath, anticipating the moment when he shall crush his mouth to mine. Our tongues entwine and sway together in that heart-stopping manner he has taught me, reminiscent of the shadows undulating outside my window. His embrace be a confluence of firm with tender, of hard plains and soft caresses. And though his lips and skin be cold, colder than may be explained by his half-naked runs through the land, I burn at his every look, his every touch. For he be my steady anchor in this volatile world, and as such, I cling to his broad shoulders and give mineself over, heart and soul.
When I pull away, breathless, he speaks my name in a manner that wholly assures him of my eternal devotion. His mouth continues its ministrations upon my face, my jaw, my throat, for the hours when we be separated weigh heftily upon us.
"Isabella…mine love…" His lips purse around the skin of my collarbone, and in between his words, he suckles gently. "Isabella, biting you would be heaven…and my hell." His strangled voice holds both agony and passion, and from him have I come to learn what this sensation be, even if I am not entirely sure what his words mean. Nonetheless, I tremble at them as a fiery heat grows within me, such need as I am sure no woman before me has ever felt.
"My Soaring Eagle," I manage to whisper, caging his face in mine hands as instinct guides his mouth back to mine.
This manner of greeting, with mouths meeting in darkness, then drawing breaths in between, is our routine every eve. When I finally pull away, the starlight heralds his hair, which falls just past his shoulders, scarlet strands interspersed with darker ones, and eyes backlit with a feverish fervency that belies his abnormally ashen pallor. Unlike the day on which I first laid mine eyes on him, he be covered by animal skins upon his chest and cut into loose-fitting breeches. Nevertheless, in the starlight, his…otherness is undeniable.
And, if I must be honest, 'tis enthralling. For whether he be some manner of dark angel or not, he be mine. I brush a finger under his right eye, then the other, my gaze panning betwixt them.
"Thy eyes be ebony in the middle," note I, "and framed by a rust circle as darkly fluid as a rich cup of wine."
He does not comment on this. Instead, he leans in and again brushes his lips against mine.
"I have missed thee, my love."
"It has been hours since the house fell silent. I began to fear ye would not come to me this eve," I say with a soft smile. "Where has thou been?"
His lips trail open-mouthed to my ear, where he speaks above our usual whispers, his voice hoarse and deep.
"Never doubt I shall come to thee, for as I vowed in that wood, no one and nothing shall ever keep me from mine." He pulls back and meets my eyes. "The hunt led us further than we had expected. Yet, I had to feed if I am to remain by your side nightly."
The angled tilt of my head communicates my confusion, yet he does not elaborate. He rarely does. Instead, he pulls off my sleep cap and tosses it aside, then skims his fingers through my hair, loosening my tresses. Like ocean waves, they tumble forth from their plaiting. Gently, he brings the ends to his nose and inhales, shuttering his eyes. When he reopens them, his enraptured gaze remains on my hair.
"'Tis the nature of the beasts we hunt, and of our manner of hunting them that our hunt be conducted far…far from what your people, and most of mine, know of this land."
"Does thou speak of thy Wampanoag people or…?"
Again, to this, I receive no reply.
I have noted many things in this past fortnight. One be that mine Soaring Eagle, mine Edward speaks English as well as he speaks the native Wampanoag tongue. Unfortunately, he tends to use that tongue to speak in riddles. Whether 'tis in an attempt to shelter me or because he believes me naïve, I know not.
What I do know is that I have lived mine entire life involuntarily protected from all those things deemed by men to be too frightening or too difficult for women. Despite Edward's otherness, it does not appear he aims to be different in this.
Taking his hand, I weave together our fingers, lifting and inverting them in the space betwixt us. Together, we watch the starlight bring our differences into sharp relief: his skin is darker, aye, yet 'tis leached of that flush, of that color we possess, whether English or Native, which be provided by the blood that flows equally crimson below our skin, regardless of the shade atop.
He remains silent, yet I know he understands what I mean to convey:
Perhaps, I be sheltered, but I be neither witless nor naïve.
With our hands still woven as one, I walk toward my bed. He follows with caution, as he has this past fortnight. If he be eager to bed me, he hides it well despite what I know he has previously witnessed me do on my bed, and with his name falling from mine lips. Either way, when I sit and pat the space beside me, he sits while ensuring, as he does nightly, that his thigh brushes not against mine.
A sigh escapes me, for the action flames the spark of indignation that nightly grows within me. Nonetheless, I attempt to douse it, for Edward and I have only the hours of darkness to share, and I would not wish to mar them with arguments.
Yet, the following night, 'tis much the same. And the night after.
On the night after that, I find that my ability to douse increasing frustration be a sorely lacking ability.
"Edward," I begin placidly as we sit side by side upon my bed, yet not touching for other than our woven hands, "we speak nightly of all mine life – of the inanities and mundaneness of mine life as a woman living in Andover, of my mother and father, mine chores, and mine prayers and mine tasks."
He offers me a tender smile. "Your mind be anything but mundane, my love."
I am sure he means it as a compliment, yet I merely manage a weak smile.
"I have told ye of the hypocritical reverend."
"Aye," nods he, now nostrils flaring. After what I have shared, Edward abhors Reverend Newton perhaps even more than do I. "I have given ye my word that I shall not kill him."
"Aye. And I have told ye of Emmett, of how I thought him friend once, how I thought him meant for my friend Rosalie."
"Until he attacked ye in the woods," he hisses, his perfectly ivory teeth bared and bright in the starlight.
"Aye. And I have told ye of how, although he obviously managed to leave the woods that eve after ye threw him at the tree, for 'tis known he reached his bed…" – my brow furrows – "alas, he has not woken." I meet Edward's gaze. "He breathes but does not open his eyes."
His already angular features roughen all the more, resembling a stone sculpture.
"If 'twas I who further attacked him, I would tell ye. For you requested of me to leave him alive and leave him alive I did."
"I know," I nod. "I believe ye. Nay, 'tis something else that afflicts Emmett, some…" I shrug mine shoulders, "sickness we do not know. His parents grieve, for they cannot fathom what causes it or if he shall ever wake. Even less, if I ever spoke of it, would they be able to imagine what he attempted on my person earlier that night."
"And so his perfidy shall never be known," Edward sneers in disgust, "and he shall bear no judgment."
"I wonder if, perhaps, his affliction be God's judgment."
Although in the lacking light, I cannot observe him with perfect clarity, I believe he appears dubious.
"And perhaps," continue I, "his affliction be why Rosalie, my closest friend, still be out of sorts."
He holds my gaze. "Isabella, she seems not a friend if she spurns ye."
"Perhaps ye be correct," I sigh, "and…and I shall further confess I care a fraction of what I once did for Rosalie's friendship. Once, she was my respite and reprieve from my days' tedium." I reach out and cup his cheek. "Now ye are mine comfort, breath, and elation."
He covers my hand, his gaze dark and fervent. "Isabella, ye are mine life," hisses he with vehemence, "and if breaths I needed, they would all be thine."
I shut mine eyes for a moment, undeniably awash with pleasure at his words of devotion. Yet I cannot allow them to distract me from my aim.
"And, along with my comfort, mine breaths, and my elation," I whisper, "I offer ye all mine darkest thoughts."
He quirks a brow, waiting.
"I care not if Emmett rots, if vermin feast on him in his bed while he merely breathes and never wakes."
"'Twould be insufficient judgment, by mine reckoning," Edward says evenly. "Go on."
"Neither do I care for his mother and father's pain, for they raised a man who meant to ravage me, yet if such an occurrence ever came to light, 'twould be I who would be blamed, for as a woman, I must have seduced him."
Edward nods.
"I care not for the reverend's hatred of me due to my knowledge of his true, licentious self, for his fears that I shall one day speak of what I know of him. Edward…" When I cage his face betwixt my hands, he weaves his fingers through mine, knitting our hands into one, his fingers brushing the rings Goody Platt placed on mine fingers. "Before I go on, tell me true: do mine thoughts disgust ye?"
"Nay," says he, his jaw locked tightly, though his top lip curls in an expression akin to dark amusement, "for ye are a singular woman amongst thy kind, yet even thy darkest thoughts still be as the flutter of a dove's wings to mine furious eagle's wingspan."
"Ahh, but I am not done," I remind him. "There is more I could share with thee, yet even with this, ye know me in ways no one has ever known me."
He offers me a soft smile.
"Yet I know ye not," I say.
His smile withers in confusion.
"At least, I know little of ye beyond that ye be native, yet more than native," stress I. "That there be an otherness about thee that ye not trust in me sufficiently to share."
I pull his hands from mine, and aye, I know that if he chose to keep them entwined, if he chose to hurt me, if he chose to ravage me, if he chose to do anything contrary to what I wished, he easily could. For as he compared our darkness and found mine wanting, in comparing our strength, mine to his is that of an ant to a bear.
Yet, when he realizes I mean to disentangle us, he pulls his hands away, startled yet compliant.
"Isabella, ye know me better than anyone on this earth."
I shake my head. "You hide thyself in shadows in every way, and ye insult me with riddles and half-statements."
"That is not true," he counters.
"But it is. My Soaring Eagle, you mock me with all you do not say."
"Isabella, I would never mock ye," claims he.
"And you purposely keep me in the dark, treating me little better than do all those men around me."
His repudiation is now spat with more bite and through clenched teeth. "Nay, Isabella."
"You purposely arouse my mind with thy presence, arouse my body with thy mouth and thy hands. Yet though I be ready to give all of mineself to ye, you hold back both in words and deed."
He does not reply instantly. Instead, he studies me in the darkness. And although I cannot see him clearly, I know he sees all of me, just as I know he is measuring his thoughts before he speaks them, gauging my ability to comprehend them, to accept them. So, when he speaks succinctly and with finality, my heart sinks, and an entirely different type of heat from which he usually flames in me, now flares.
"I must, Isabella. I must." He attempts to reclaim my hand within his, but I pull it from his reach.
"Edward," I now seethe, "for a fortnight now, ye feed me scraps akin to the ones the farmers feed the pigs."
His nostrils flare. "How can ye say such a thing?"
"I be neither child nor fool."
"I believe ye neither. Yet you know not what you ask."
I scoff in effrontery, yet he doubles down.
"For what I hold back of mineself," he bangs his chest with a fist, "I hold back for thy good. I hold back because I love-"
I put a palm up between us. "Dare ye not speak those words when ye speak of knowing mine own good better than I know it. I want all of ye!"
He stiffens, then listens with an ear to the door. When he speaks again, 'tis with a calm that increases my ire.
"Because thou does not know what ye ask." Before I may retort, he closes the space betwixt us so quickly my vision blurs as he levels me with a searing gaze. "You know not the consequences of having all of me." He pulls back with a grin that is, undeniably, a jest – one betwixt he and his self. 'Tis a moment of humor he provides his self that almost instantly evaporates when he realizes what he has done. And aye, he be remorseful; I observe his regret in every facet of he - his horrified features and the long breath that leaves him as his strong shoulders momentarily sag with the weight of what he has done. But 'tis too late, for his shame and contrition kindle embers which have been smoldering long before he and I met, and my livid offense takes flight.
"Isabella, my love, I did not mean to-"
"Edward, the dismissal of my needs and wants merely due to my sex be something I have lived with and resented mine entire life. Do not presume because I am a woman I do not know my mind!"
"Isabella, lower thy-"
"I assure ye, I want to know what manner of being sits beside me, holds my hand, places his hands and mouth on me-"
"Isabella-"
"-what manner of man I be ready to give my body to."
"Isabella, thy mother stirs."
"I care not, for I shall not allow ye to speak to me in endless circles the whole of the night. What mean you when you say 'your kind?' Why do ye speak both your language and mine as if you were born to both? Why do ye possess the knowledge of an elder? And what be the hunger in thine eyes when you hold me, when you kiss me? For it be a deeper hunger than that which with anyone has ever beheld me, even Emmett."
He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut, his angular jaw locking audibly. When his eyes reopen, they are blacker than I have ever observed them, with a craving and a warning in them that be palpable. The rest of our argument occurs in exasperated hisses on both sides.
"Isabella Swan, ye play with fire every time ye mention thy one-time friend, for my fury at his attempt has abated not, and together with my thirst for thee, 'tis a perilous weave indeed."
"Tell me all!"
He moves quickly. Too quick for me to see. And he does so purposely.
The next thing I know, I am spread across my bed, with my head tilted upward, rounded eyes on the ceiling, and Edward's mouth at my throat, at the spot where my blood throbs. He holds mine hands locked in his and above my head, and even if I could move them, his body is prone against mine, an immovable weight on me. And nay, I do not know all. I do not understand all. Perhaps…I am…more ignorant than I realized.
I do know…I do understand that…I am aroused…and he is aroused. Yet his arousal takes forms I cannot even fathom. And I know that this time, when he speaks against my skin…my life be in his hands.
"Isabella…" breathes he, cold breath fanning against mine skin, yet I shudder in heat. "I thirst for thee in ways…with a burn for your body and your blood that no other man ever has…or ever shall feel."
"Edward…"
I expel a series of quivering sighs, knowing not what I mean to say beyond his name.
"My love..." groans he hoarsely, opening his mouth wide as I writhe under him, and he moves his frame, turning every bone in my body into the dust to which we are said to return. For if this be how death comes, 'tis a glorious way.
"Perhaps…perhaps I shall show ye all the manners in which I need ye."
"Aye…Edward…please…in every way…" plead I, despite all I know not, knowing, without a doubt, that I shall not regret it.
"Nay," groans he, the word sounding of agony comingled with pleasure, while his tongue flickers and his teeth scrape against my-
"Thy mother." The words are barely hissed, and he is gone with a breeze that ruffles my hair.
In the next moment, three raps alight upon my door. My chest rises and falls in quick, heaving succession. I briskly slip under the covers.
She raps the door again, then opens it. "Isabella? Daughter?"
"Aye, Mother?" I answer, grimacing at the breathless quality of my voice.
"Is all well?"
"Aye! I was praying for Emmett."
Mother's eyes narrow. She holds up her lamp and moves it from side to side, searching the room. "'Tis a benevolent act at such an hour," she finally says, though her tone sounds dubious. "But sleep, child," she commands. "The Lord shall hear thy prayers as well in the morning."
"Aye."
She holds my gaze. Then her eyes sweep to the open window curtains. She pads over and shuts them, turning to me again.
"Good night, Isabella."
"Good night, Mother."
A few moments later, I hear Mother close her bedroom door. My heart races, and I can hear my breaths in the quiet of the room. And I can sense…I am alone. Nonetheless, I call out his name in a whisper.
"Edward?"
Nothing.
"Soaring Eagle?"
There is no reply.
My eyes sting so fiercely that shuttering them squeezes a tear from each. A heart that was previously swelling and racing now clenches in mortification comingled with anguish and infused with indignation. Together with the lingering prickle where his teeth almost punctured the skin at my throat, 'tis all the only proof he ever was here.
OOOOO
The following eve, there is a special church service.
The house of the Lord verily swells. 'Tis so full that the evening's thunder appears to disguise the splintering of wooden walls as the citizens of Andover village arrive to pray by candlelight. Indeed, all are here, for the Reverend has warned that non-appearance be proof of a pact with the devil.
The wind seeping through windows and doorframes hisses, flickering the candles and sending them dancing in such a way that I would not be surprised if the Reverend found them to be further proof of witchery. Yet, few notice them, for most have voices and eyes raised in fervent supplication. Still louder, however, is the sharp din of panic, for if fear has a stench, 'tis that fetid malodor that wafts within these four walls, a musky bouquet comprised of the sweat of terror melding with panted breaths of agitated unease. It all combines into a bizarre incantation of prattle; the blathering of the bewitched, I would call it if it were not to earn me a lashing, at the very least. Yet, as the invocations be led by Reverend Newton, no one else would ever dare call it such.
Except, perhaps, Rosalie. But, as she and I no longer share our thoughts, I have no way of knowing what she thinks of this eve's display.
"Lord in heaven," cries the reverend, banging his pulpit with both palms, "the devil be in our midst! What more proof need we than as good and moral a young man as is our Emmett McCarty be stricken?"
In the meanwhile, Goodman and Goody McCarty shout and wail at the heavens, beseeching the Lord through His holy representative, the Reverend Newton.
"Pray as one for thy souls!" instructs he to his rapt congregation. "Send up thou devout voices in unison and make a wall of thy faith while recalling that demons have penetrated the faithless of Salem! Thou must make thy holy wall stronger lest those dark, unseen beings come for thee!"
As the united oration rises in pitch and fervor, I am torn betwixt stifling a snort against my steepled hands and fighting the despondency that threatens to drown me. For while empty prayers be what leave my mouth, 'tis the harsh disagreement betwixt mine love and me that consumes me, that has not left my thoughts since the previous eve.
"Lord in heaven, do not forsake us!" Goody Stanley shouts.
"Edward…my soaring eagle…do not forsake me," whisper I.
"Spare us from Salem's fate!" cries Goodman Crawley.
"Spare me from Andover's fate," murmur I.
"Tear the goodly Emmett's soul from the dark beasts' grip and show us who of us led him down the dark path, oh Lord, so that we may oust that evil communer from our midst, we beg thee, oh Father!"
"Ye may rot, Emmett," mutter I into mine hands. "That be my prayer."
When I look up, Reverend Newton's scowling eyes be on me. And I know not why; perhaps 'tis the turmoil roiling within me caused by the strife that has arisen betwixt Edward and me, but indignation boils mine blood. That this man should continuously scowl my way. If he knew that I held his wretched, repugnant, and reprehensible life in mine hands, that I have spared him – as well as Emmett, despite the latter's unknown affliction – from mine warrior's wrath, perhaps the reverend would not be so quick to always glare at me so.
Lifting a brow, I return the scowl a thousand-fold. In the process, I appear to shock the reverend. He stutters and hums.
"The devil…uh…the devil…the devil attempts to uhh…confound me! But I shall not bow to his trickery!" He rallies and lifts a pointed finger high in triumph, panting profusely as if the action taxed his portly, paunchy arm while glowering at me with more open hatred than ever.
I care not.
Instead, I bow my head and press mine lips together as a bout of laughter threatens. For that moment, I forget my troubles with mine love, and I forget that Rosalie has been sullen with me. I forget her perturbation with me so thoroughly that mine eyes trail to her, for I be accustomed to sharing our mirth. And habits are sometimes difficult to break.
Aye, her eyes find mine, and I offer her a mirthful smile before I note she narrows her gaze. Her expression be a twisted, foul expression that dissipates my olive branch. When her eyes shift betwixt my face and mine hand, soon becoming slits, I recall that I still wear her grandmother's rings.
She resumes her prayers, but her mouth… does not form the same shapes or the same words as the rest of the congregants. I know not what she speaks under her breath. But a shiver rolls up my spine, and when my fingers suddenly burn, I clamp my other hand over them.
Startled, I turn my eyes away from Rosalie, my heart racing in a manner much different from how Edward's made my heart race.
I begin to suspect that, whatever the reason may be for Rosalie's and my falling out, we shall never again be friends.
OOOOO
That eve, I wake and find Edward sat at the edge of mine bed. He holds both mine hands in one of his, his brow furrowed deeply.
"Shh," murmurs he. "What were your dreams, my love? Ye tossed and turned fitfully, your hands struggling almost one against the other."
"I…I cannot recall."
Wordlessly, we hold one another's gazes, for the issues betwixt us be heftier than insignificant dreams. Although, when I sit up in bed, I am abruptly overcome by an itch to my fingers. 'Tis so intense, 'tis almost a burn, so I remove Goody Platt's rings and set them on the small night table beside me, then scratch my fingers.
Edward leans in closer. When he attempts to brush his lips to mine, I turn my head, and his mouth skims my cheek. When he pulls back and meets my eyes, his features be marred by misery.
"I worship ye with all I am, and with all I am not," he murmurs, "and I lay at the altar of thy mercy."
"Your heartfelt words of adoration notwithstanding, I am not here for ye to tempt in the shadows and then leave wanting. I cannot follow, but neither will I wait. I am a woman, but I refuse to be less than thy equal."
He cradles my cheek. "Then…come."
Standing, he holds a hand out to me, and instinctively, I take it. I ask no more questions and make no more demands. For I sense his surrender despite the agitation in his too-fast movements, his eyes bright crimson as if he has no plan to conceal or dissemble any part of his self. And so I know that wherever he shall lead, 'twill be the path to truth.
All else be forgotten.
A/N: Thoughts?
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Chapter Song Rec: In Flames by Digital Daggers
Keep your confessions
Cause babe I'm no saint
We're playing with fire
But I like this game
And I know your devils
I know them by name
When you look my way
Oh I'm not afraid
With your kiss on my skin
And this mess that we're in
In flames
We're going down, we're going down, we're going down
In flames
We're going down, we're going down, we're going down
In flames
We're going down, we're going down, we're going down
In flames
We're going down, we're going down, we're going down
"See" you soon!