Disclaimer: Characters either belong to Stephanie Meyer or to history or mythology or some random combination of all of the above.
THUNDERBIRD AND HIS CUMULONIMBUS
Prologue
In the darkness of the new moon, as the sky itself was reset, the alpha wolf transformed back into the emerging man. The rising glow of Venus above cast out a pale amarillo light over the sleeping forest. Ahead, one beacon of artificial light disrupted the shadows, like the blare of a foghorn on the Puget Sound. The moss and ferns barely crackled under his bare feet as he walked away from the Calawah River and towards the source of the invading light.
He knew how to walk without noise when he wished, but he was not quiet enough to avoid detection to preternatural senses as he approached the great white house. There, pacing restlessly like a leopard in a cage, the porchlight reflected off her long golden hair. Her movements stopped as he neared and her nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Dog," she hissed.
"Leech," he answered with a grimace.
The mutual antagonism between them crackled like water in hot oil. She crossed her arms over her chest and he clenched his fists at his sides and ensured his face spoke all the insults he didn't bother to give voice to. Their subsequent glaring match would have continued till the morning sun rose, if it wasn't for his curiosity. He sighed and deflated first, allowing her a moment of smug victory.
"How's Bella?" he asked.
"The same," she said. She shook her head and her self-possession was broken by a momentary flash of uncertainty.
He shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have hoped for a different answer, but he still did and he swallowed back the well of hope that now sat uncomfortably in his throat. In one leap, he cleared the porch rails and gracefully righted himself on the porch. The lights from the nearby windows cast rectangular patterns on the meticulously painted wooden slats of the porch and he almost felt guilty for the trail of muddy footprints that he left in his wake. Quiet voices within the house murmured into rivulets of sound that mimicked the distant rush of the forest river. He settled himself on the balustrade, his eyes constantly keeping vigil of the darkness beyond, and she resumed her pacing.
"Why do I know you?" he suddenly asked.
Her pacing stopped.
"What do you mean?"
"That day in the forest, when we met at the treaty line - that wasn't the first time. I don't know how I know. I just do. It's been bothering me ever since."
"You are delusional," she answered, but with forced conviction. He could hear her footsteps resume their previous path, but at a slower, more unsteady pace than before.
He shifted his weight around so he faced the porch instead of the forest. On her next pass, he caught her hand. She glared at him and tried to free her hand, but he stood to block her from continuing on. She frowned and used her elbows to try to barrel past him. She only succeeded in colliding straight into him. Her head barely cleared his chest and she could not meet his eyes.
For a moment, so close to her, his rational thought processes ceased. His first impulse, deeper than phasing and more instinctive than breathing, was to capture her in his arms and stop her escape with his lips. She melted into him and answered him with equal fervor. She pulled even closer to him and mired her hands in his hair, as if they were regressing into the well-practiced choreography of an old dance they shared.
When the moment passed and his brain caught up with his instinct, he pulled away with his eyes wide in surprise. He didn't know whether to apologize for his behavior or insult her for hers or beg her to embrace him like that again. As he mulled over just what had possessed him, her sharp intake of breath caught his attention. She turned away from him, but not before he saw her haughty face crash like thin ice on a pond.
"I can't do this with you…not again," she whispered.
"Again…What can't you do again? You have to tell me," he pleaded.
He tried to reclaim her arm, but she shrugged him off. She rolled her shoulders back and stood up to her full height with her head held high and her old mask of impassive disdain firmly fixed back in place.
"Nothing. Nothing happened. Not tonight, not before, and not ever. Forget it, dog."
With one hand, she opened the sliding glass door and walked through it, away from him.
That, too, was eerily familiar.
Full Summary:
Once there was a Shapeshifter who age could not touch. His paths crossed with a Lady Firebird, whose soul death could never keep. Thus begins the tale of two star-crossed lovers. They cannot stay apart. They cannot stay together. Across generations and lifetimes, they will not surrender to the forces which separate them, no matter how hard their worlds strive against them. AU. OOC
Part I: The Gathering Storm (1809-1810)
1809. The Russian American Company wishes to claim Alaska to California for their own fur trading empire. In pursuit of a Pacific Northwest fort location, a Russian schooner is shipwrecked on the coast of Quileute lands. The captain's wife is captured and sold as a slave to a Makah chief. The second son of a Quileute chief wishes to claim her for himself. Will she survive the challenges of captivity, and the attempts of her husband to rescue her, long enough for Rolling-Thunder to persuade her to be his?
Part II: Cloudburst (1847-1866)
1847. The U.S. acquisition of the Oregon territory sparks a flood of pioneers onto the treacherous Oregon Trail. Tensions between the new settlers and plains Indians grow so tense, it would only take a spark for the fledging territory to erupt into violence. While following the trail of an old enemy, the Quileute Wolf stumbles upon someone he never expected to meet again. Is this a second chance for happiness or a return to heartbreak?
Part III: Cumulonimbus (1889-1906)
1889. Washington officially attains statehood and the troublesome Indians are securely locked away on reservations across the state. A jaded Wolf finds himself a relic of the past while the world of his people is transformed nearly beyond recognition. Is there a place for the Quileute Guardian in the era of Men and Machines? When a woman of ill-repute stumbles across the ageless Wolf, is it already too late for them to start their lives together again?
Part IV: Dissipation (1933-1946)
1933. The Roaring Twenties roared right into Depression and Prohibition gives the ports on the coast of Washington ample opportunities for an extra dollar. Rolling-Thunder, tired of waiting for his beloved to find him, decides to search for her in her world instead. The Belle of Rochester society is no stranger to admirers and her family has their aspirations, and financial hopes, placed on a young, prosperous Royce King. Can the penniless stranger from Washington even gain an introduction, let alone the heart, of the beautiful Rosalie Hale? Can Rolling-Thunder ever forgive himself when he hears of her untimely death? Will Rosalie Hale-Cullen ever forgive herself when she hears of his?
(No summaries yet to prevent spoilers)
Part V: Cumulus Rising (2009)
Part VI: Thunderbird's Song
Author's note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! This one has been rolling around in my head and wanting to come out, so I started writing it down. However, it's going to be pretty research-heavy, so updates may be a little slow. By research-heavy, I mean why on earth would I try to write a story that includes six distinct time periods? Seriously, I must be a glutton for self-inflicted bouts of unending hours trapped in history books. This just means the breaks between parts may be a little long as I try to wrap my brain around another completely new cultural context in order to attempt to do it justice.
Also, be warned, this storyline kinda is a bit like Twilight meets Groundhog Day meets Romeo & Juliet meets history of the Pacific Northwest. History is rarely pretty or clean or comfortable. I'm trying to create snapshots of each era that our characters find themselves in, but some will be much more culturally distanced from modern sensibilities than others. I will intentionally be evoking some of the well-worn literary tropes of this kind of interstice between cultures, however, while we may visit them, we will not dwell entirely within them. The notion of "Otherness" cannot be fully explored without poking it from a variety of angles.