Chapter 9
"Carlisle?"
"Right here, Bella."
The room was dark, and altogether silent.
"What time is it?"
"Only four," Carlisle replied. "Still quite early. You should sleep, if you can."
"Okay."
"Does your head still ache?"
"Yes."
"Badly?"
Even in the dark, he could see the way her shoulders hunched. The room was utterly black— the curtains, which Esme had drawn just hours prior, hid every hint of light from the overcast moon outside. She had not slept long, and not at all well— only a few hours of fitful rest interspersed by long minutes of vivid wakefulness, in which she always asked the same questions.
Carlisle wasn't sure if it was the concussion, or if there was something more serious at play.
"Bella? Is it very sore?"
In response to his query, she only shrugged. This, he knew, was telling— it was her habit to deny her ailments and her struggles. She did not admit them even when they caused her pain, and as a physician, he felt his own frustration at these kinds of answers.
"You must tell me, love," he said, and even now, she flinched. "Please. It's important that I know."
"Will you make me sleep?"
He frowned at her, though she could not see it.
"You need sleep, Bella," he admonished and she said nothing, her face hidden from him. "But no. I will not force you."
At once, he saw her shoulders relax.
"Then yes, it hurts," she said and he sighed, his lips pursed. He had given her Tylenol already, and a dose of ibuprofen before she'd fallen asleep, as much for her chest as for her head. In theory, these should have eased the tension, the sting of injury marked by the healing, but still tender wound on the back of her scalp. It had been the least of his worries over the past few days— not so terrible that it would cause further concern, and not as troublesome as those cracked and broken ribs. She did not even like to admit that pain, when it bothered her, but when it came to ailments of the chest, his eye was better trained.
He knew that when she slouched, her sides were hurting. He knew that when her breathing turned shallow, there was a sting. He knew that steady, gentle pressure could help, and he made sure to always check the tape. This small intervention eased her discomfort somewhat, though not enough to let her sleep through the night.
She would not take any more of his sedatives, and Carlisle was determined that he would not force her.
She shifted when he joined her, seating himself on the edge of the plush, warm bed. She could not see him in the blackness, not even when he was this close, and so he reached out carefully, taking her hand to ease her anxiety.
"It will help, if you lie down," he said, and at once, she shook her head. "The more you try to relax, the easier it will be."
He smelled the salt before he heard her sniffle.
"Hush now…" She sniffed again, and this time, he saw her wipe her face on her sleeve. "Just try, darling. It's important for you to rest."
She said nothing and Carlisle sighed, tucking her hand back beneath the blankets. She shivered when he rose.
"Where are you going?"
"To my office, to see what else I can drum up for that headache," he replied. "I know it's bothering you, but I'm not sure what else I have on hand."
This, strictly speaking, was not true— Carlisle knew exactly what was stored on his overflowing shelves. He knew every pill and ointment, every salve and tincture, but he would search again, no matter how fruitlessly, for something, anything, that might help.
"Oh."
"Alice is right outside, should you need anything. And I'm sure Esme would be more than happy to come and sit with you…"
"No," she said at once. "No. I'm okay. But Carlisle?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Will you come back?"
Always the same question, and always the same answer.
"Of course, sweetheart," he said, and he could tell, even in the dark, that she did not quite believe him. "Of course I will. Relax now. Close your eyes."
She obeyed, but rest did not come.
When Alice found her later, she had managed to catch a moment of elusive sleep, though how deep, or how restful, not a soul but Bella knew.
In the quiet of the dawn, in a house as still as a grave, it was as if the worries of the world had finally fallen silent, allowing for this brief moment of reprieve, of rest. Alice slipped into the room like clockwork— it was her turn, she knew, to keep her eye on the sleeping girl— and it would be her turn still when she woke, just ten minutes hence. Her visions had still not cleared— that infernal fog was still clouding every choice and outcome— but her searching had revealed to her this much, at the very least. Someone always had their eye on her— Carlisle from his office, Emmett from the bedside, and sometimes Esme, who would come and spend the evenings reading to her, or singing.
In the quiet of the night, Alice could almost forget the worries of the day and why it was so essential for Bella to be watched, observed. It had been three days since her waking in this very same room, when she'd cried her heart out to Esme and had fallen asleep in Emmett's arms. Three days since she'd first spoken. Three days of confusion, and three days of careful, worried maneuvering around what they all knew to be a tinderbox, just waiting to blow.
Carlisle had told them that she was concussed from whatever had caused the injury on the back of her head. He had told them that her lack of oxygen— both because of the water, and because of her broken ribs— might only exacerbate her symptoms. They were told to watch for signs, for indications of pain, or of undiagnosed ailments that his trained, meticulous eyes might have missed in his eagerness to treat the obvious, the dangerous.
He had told them that she would be confused— that she might forget what they had told her, or ask the same thing twice— but he had not warned them about the mood swings, and about the terrible, nervous anxiety that had taken over almost every facet of her life.
Every waking minute, and every waking hour, she spent her time in an agony of terror, of absolute and unmovable fear that what she was seeing was not real. It had taken Alice a full day to understand, to really understand what she had been asking, and what she would still ask, when the fear hit home again. It was always the same, no matter how they tried to soothe her, and always the same reaction, no matter how many times they told her.
"Are you real, Alice?" This had been the first question she'd asked when Alice had finally forced herself to enter the bedroom, to face the girl she'd come to love as her sister. She'd been in Emmett's arms by then, stricken with tears and weak with crying, but she'd found it in her to ask, and to worry. The question had alarmed both Emmett and Carlisle, the latter trying to pry her away, to see, but she had clung to their brother with such an output of force that Carlisle had relented, perturbed.
"Are you real, too?"
"Yes," Alice had told her, though she could hardly believe it herself. "Yes, Bella. I'm real."
It had been Jasper, spying from the doorway, who had helped to explain it, though this explanation brought up far more questions than it did answers.
"She feels… hollow," he had said, and Alice did not miss the way his hand came up to his chest when he did. "She feels empty."
"Is she…"
"There's a lot to read," he admitted, "but hardly any way to describe it. I can…"
And when he'd showed her, Alice had recoiled at once, forcing him to draw it back with a snap, leaving her shaken and unhappy. The feeling was like ice— like a cold, black void— and it brought her so much grief that she pushed it back into obscurity.
"Don't do that," she'd complained, and though he didn't apologize, he did not do it again. "You know how I hate it…"
"I know."
Alice had only stared at the girl, wondering and worrying.
"Alice?"
At once, her attention returned to the bed.
Just as she'd been before, Bella lay quietly on her pillows and her sheets, no longer bound to Carlisle's gurney, but allowed a bed, now— a proper bed, even by Esme's standards. It was a new one— not the old metal monstrosity that had dominated the space before— and though Bella didn't seem to notice this, she didn't seem to mind it, either. Alice had not missed Esme's little changes to the furnishings and decor— the spare room, the largest in the house after Carlisle and Esme's, had slowly but surely been transformed into Bella's room.
She was watching Alice now, her wide, dark eyes fixed on her face before her incredulity fell away and melted instead into concern, and then to the uneasy, unsettled acceptance that had become her norm in days of late.
"Good morning, Bella," Alice said, and her smile did not reach her eyes. Bella was observant— she noticed the stiffness, the sobriety in Alice's greeting— and what little ease she had been feeling flickered and died in an instant to be replaced by a quiet, gnawing worry. She blinked, glancing around her room for what must have been the hundredth time, before she frowned again and sighed, her lips forming that familiar, heartbreaking question.
"Are you here, Alice?" she asked, and at once, Alice was on the bed beside her. The speed made the girl jump, wincing when she pulled at her ribs. Alice braced them with her own hand, her cold skin soothing the angry bruises that had yet to fade, before she answered, and Bella leaned into the touch with relish.
"I'm here."
"Are you going to stay?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
When she moved again, shifting to rest her head in Alice's lap, Alice was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Here she was, this sister they'd almost lost, and yet she still felt so far, so distant, that Alice had begun to wonder if she was really here at all. She could feel her body, so warm and so weak in her own able arms, but there was something missing that Alice could not describe— something vital, and something sore.
When she began to run her fingers through Bella's long, soft hair, much as Jasper had done for her, she saw her eyes fall closed as she sighed, her body sinking deeper into the pillows. They sat like this for a little while, each contemplating the other in perfect silence, before the girl spoke again, this time a little softer.
"Alice?"
"Hm?"
"Where are we?"
Alice's fingers paused.
"You're at the house, Bella." Her words were careful, controlled. "At our house, remember?"
"Oh."
In the doorway she saw Carlisle, standing in the shadows so as not to be noticed. His face was unhappy, his honey eyes fixed on the girl, but he did not enter, did not intervene, as he listened to their chatter.
"Are you alright, Bella?"
"Mhm."
Alice felt her fingers, so warm and trembling, reach out to grab the leg of her pants, as if she would hold her there.
"I'm not going to leave…"
"Why not?"
Alice sighed.
"Because I love you," she said, and this time, the girl laughed. The sound was short— more of a sniff than anything else— and devoid of any humour. "I do, Bella," she insisted. "I wish you wouldn't doubt me."
When she shifted again, Alice saw the burning curiosity in her gaze.
"Alice?"
"Yes?"
"How did you get here?"
This time, Carlisle did enter, his concern growing with each passing minute.
"We drove," she said, and Bella snorted. "Why is that funny?"
"It's not… not really."
"Then what?"
She fell silent, turning her face back towards the bed.
"You shouldn't be here," said Bella finally, after a long silence that made Alice anxious. "I don't know why you are. Or how."
When Carlisle touched her, she jumped.
"I think you should rest, sweetheart," he said, and she started, shaking her head. "Yes. I think you need it."
"I just…"
"Please?" He pulled her, quickly, away from Alice's lap, before she was laid back down on the pillows of the bed. She fought his hold, pulled feebly against his guiding touch, but Carlisle was firm and stubborn.
Her hands scrabbled for Alice like a lifeline.
"I'm not going," she soothed, and though Alice had no need for sleep she lay, quiet and still, on the pillows by Bella's side. "I'm not going anywhere, honey. Just relax, like Carlisle says."
At once, Bella curled herself back towards her sister, her face pressed into the crook of Alice's neck.
"Are you going to leave?"
"No."
"Do you promise?"
"I promise."
It was surprising to Alice, when she fell asleep so quickly. The sleep was not deep, it was true, and not nearly as restorative as she might have hoped, but it was enough that Carlisle let his consternation show, his concern still growing.
"She shouldn't be this confused," he said, and for the first time since Bella had awoken, Alice felt the return of that niggling, gnawing worry. "I don't know why she is."
"But her scans…"
"Were clear," said Carlisle, his brow furrowed. He had taken her, using her head wound as a pretense, to have her brain scanned by the CT machine at Forks Memorial Hospital. Alice wasn't sure what he had been looking for— swelling maybe, or a bleed— but to their great and lasting relief, he had found nothing of concern.
"Perhaps the stress?"
"Maybe," he sighed, resting his knuckles on her flushed, sleeping cheek. "Maybe. I don't know."
"What more should we do?"
"Nothing but what we have been doing, I suppose," he answered slowly. "There's nothing more that we can do, while she's still injured. Her ribs are healing— though they would knit a little faster if she'd stop moving around so much— and the laceration on her head is closed now. Even her lungs have cleared, though she's still coughing."
Alice waited, readjusting her arms so that most of Bella's body was on the bed, and not on her. She waited until the girl had settled, her frown smoothing into easy oblivion, before she spoke again.
"Could there have been damage?" asked Alice, peering down at the familiar face she could not read. "Beyond what the scans show?"
"Unlikely," said Carlisle, "but in theory, I suppose it's possible. Hypoxic brain injuries can take time to appear, and they wouldn't likely show on immediate scans…"
Alice only sighed, resting her head on the pillow beside the sleeping girl, who neither noticed nor cared that she was there. Carlisle did not finish his thought— he didn't need to, for the sentiment was clear— and Alice pressed a kiss to that smooth, warm temple.
If only a kiss would be enough, she thought, to heal every kind of wound.
"Carlisle?"
"What is it, dear?"
Alice watched as his examination halted, his face betraying none of his unease. His fingers lingered on her wrist, taking her pulse with each passing second, and she didn't seem to mind, or to notice. She watched him with a strange and curious listlessness that had taken hold that afternoon, and though all of her tests had come back, there was nothing to give a reason for her strange disorientation.
"Where's Esme?"
"I'm right here, sweet." Their mother appeared at once, having waited on tenterhooks for another summons. "Right here, darling."
Bella frowned, her face downturned.
"And who else?"
"Jasper, and Emmett," said Carlisle gently. "Do you remember, Bella? You spoke with Emmett just last night."
"I remember."
"Can you look here, please?" He had his penlight out again and she followed his directions without complaint, blinking when he shone that light into her face to watch the movement of her pupils. The light did not hurt her today— sometimes, she found it too bright, too stinging— but she did not seem to buy Carlisle's smile either, so false, and so bothered.
"You're upset."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," she returned, and he did not try to argue it again. She turned away from him, looking instead for Esme, and then to Alice, who were just as morose, just as troubled.
"I'm sorry."
Carlisle turned away from her, furious with himself. Alice saw the anger on his face— anger at his own weakness, his inability to control himself for even a minute, so she would not see his outrage and his worry. Alice felt much the same— the girl did not need Carlisle's hurt on top of her own, and though she couldn't be truly angry with her father, she did feel a quick, sharp annoyance.
"No, honey…" Esme came forward, but Bella would not have it, turning herself away. Esme's jaw tightened, her eyes flashing at her husband, who did not see. When she touched the warm, stiff shoulder she was shrugged away, and Alice smelled the salt of tears, so strong and so bitter.
When Esme sighed Bella flinched, but it did not stop Alice's hand, reaching out to stroke her thin, curled back.
"Don't," she whispered, and Bella froze, her frown glued in place. "Don't cry. There's been enough of that, and it won't help."
But Bella, resolute, simply pressed her face into her pillow.
"I'm sorry, Alice," she said, her voice muffled and unhappy. "I didn't mean to do this to you. I didn't mean to take you."
"Take me?" Alice was bewildered, confused. "Honey, I haven't been taken anywhere. We're home, Bella. Home."
The girl only sniffled, her tears falling all the faster.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, and when Alice pulled away, the girl didn't say another word. The room was full now, all five members of their family listening with mild disbelief, the words so senseless and so strange. Alice met Jasper's stare with consternation and he only shook his head, so minute and so uncertain that she might have missed it, had she not been looking.
"Nothing's changed," he whispered, too soft and too low for Bella's human ears to make out. "Still the same as she was before."
Alice growled, her frustration coming to a head as she kissed the girl again, her lips brushing away a trail of saltwater that had tumbled down her cheek.
"We're right here with you," said Alice, but the girl did not move, did not react. "I wish you could see that, Bella. We're all here for you."
"You shouldn't be."
"Yes, we should."
"I'm sorry."
"And I wish I knew why," Alice breathed, and she felt the shiver, the shake. "I wish you'd tell me why, Bella, so I could make it right."
And then she turned again, this time a little too fast, before she sagged.
"Because I didn't mean to."
"Didn't mean to what?"
Bella stared at her, as if in disbelief.
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You haven't hurt me..."
"Then why are you here?"
Alice didn't know what to say, and so she said the only thing that came to mind.
"Because I love you." The words were softer now, weaker. "Because I've missed you, Bella…"
"Where's my dad, Alice?"
The question was so abrupt— such a sudden and uneasy shift— that it took a moment for it to sink in. Alice stared at her, a peculiar pity roiling up in her chest like a wave, and when she looked to Carlisle he stepped forward, replacing Alice in an instant.
She retreated to Jasper, who watched the scene with burning curiosity. Carlisle, kneeling carefully by the edge of the bed, spoke with such softness that it was a wonder she could hear him at all, but even though she still shied from his distress, she did not pull away completely.
"What do you remember, sweetheart?" Carlisle asked, and Alice saw at once the tremor that ran down her spine. "About Charlie?"
"I…"
She began to shake.
"It's alright, Bella. Deep breaths, remember?"
"Is he here, Carlisle?"
He froze, frowning.
"No, honey."
At once, her face was hard.
"Where is he?"
"Do you remember what happened?" Carlisle asked again, and Alice saw the sudden horror of recollection as it passed over her face.
"Yes."
Unable to help himself Carlisle reached out to her, so hesitant and careful, as if he wasn't sure she'd come. She went willingly enough, letting him take her, hold her, but Alice could see her darting gaze, her mind still racing.
"Do you remember what happened after?" Carlisle pressed, and again, she nodded.
"Good, sweetheart. That's good…"
"Where is he?"
Carlisle simply stared, bewildered and sad.
"I'm not sure I understand, honey."
"Is he here?"
"No."
She shivered, her face falling. When she spoke again her voice was small, almost childlike.
"Why not?"
"Because he's gone, sweetheart," said Carlisle, and this time, she flinched. "I'm so sorry, Bella. He's gone."
"But…"
They waited, listening to the sounds of her struggle, and Alice understood the truth of her confusion just a moment before it was made clear to the rest of them. She heard the words, heard her own gasp of realization, before everything fell immediately into place, clicking like a puzzle.
"But so am I."
And at once, the room was alive.
Esme, bone-white and furious, turned away from the bed to hide the anger on her face. Emmett sighed, torn between his relief and his pity. Jasper closed his eyes, the realization hitting like a bullet, and Alice was once again on the bed, where Carlisle held her, unmoving.
"No," said Alice, her voice a whisper in the dark. "No, Bella. No, you're not."
The girl stared at her, and Alice was not sure her words had really struck.
"I… I jumped," she said, halting and slow, and Alice saw the rise of embarrassment in the flush of her cheeks. "I know I did, Alice… I remember."
"Yes, you did…"
Carlisle held her a little tighter.
"It was so dark."
"I know…"
"And it hurt."
Jasper turned away this time, unable to relinquish his own residual guilt at the pain that he had caused her, no matter how necessary. She pulled away from Carlisle, shaking her head with terrible disbelief, before she glanced down at the bruises on her ribs, realization dawning.
"I… you?"
"You're not dead, honey," Alice said, and when she began to shake, Alice was not surprised. "You're alive, Bella. So, so alive…"
And then she saw understanding settle like a fine, cold mist. She saw it first in the brightness of her eyes, widening like saucers, and the breath that hitched in her chest. She saw it in the tremor, making her grip weaken on Carlisle's arm, and again in her whimper, so soft, but so loud.
"You're not dead, Bella… and you're home now. It's alright. You're alright."
"Oh, Alice." The words came in a whisper, in a rush. "Alice…"
"Shhh… it's alright…"
"No, it's not." Her voice was small— so small that Alice wasn't sure she'd meant to be heard at all. "It's not alright."
"It will be…"
"No, it won't." Her cheeks were mottled pink, her eyes bright with something new that looked to Alice like it might be anger. "It won't be alright."
"I'm so sorry, honey…"
"Don't."
Alice, her words dying in her throat, did as she was told.
"Just… go, Alice." The words were dead, flat. "Just leave me alone."
She began to cry again, and Alice backed away.
"I'm sorry…"
"Yeah, I know. But I don't get it, Alice… I don't understand. I don't know why you even bothered."
They ran on the wind, blasting through the cold in a furious rush of limbs and feet, flying through the forest to leave that house behind. Jasper could hardly bear the climate in that room. He couldn't bear the worry, the fear, and when that fear had morphed, changing into something toxic and stifling, he'd had no choice but to leave, to take himself away.
Emmett had followed, a silent sentry to guard him in his furious flight. He did not need to be watched— he posed no danger to anyone but himself, no threat to life or limb— but he appreciated the company nevertheless. Emmett always did a good job of holding himself together— he did not let his emotions run rampant, did not let them seep from him like a bad smell to infect everyone else around him. He did not project them at Jasper, in a flurry of worry and nerves, and Jasper appreciated that particular skill more than he could say. He was sure his brother felt things— in fact, if he reached out, he knew he'd find the same outrage, the same guilt— but he did not, and Emmett did not force him, and together, they simply ran.
Around them, the air was blissfully, wonderfully quiet. There was nothing here to strain them— no crying, no fear— and there was nothing but the sound of the forest, teeming with life that did not impose itself upon them. There were birds, high in the canopy, and the fluttering wings of insects. Squirrels and mice, scurrying through the undergrowth, and far off, just on the edge of his perception, perhaps a deer, or an elk. This creature avoided them— even at this distance, Jasper knew it could sense their speed, their deadly strength, and so it gave them a wide berth, never ranging closer than two miles from their trail.
When they stopped, it was sudden— in a deep, cavernous ravine high up in the mountains, surrounded by nothing but loose rocks and plants.
"Shit Jas," laughed Emmett, trailing down into the hole behind him. "You're goddamn fast, you know that?"
Jasper only grinned.
"You want to catch something?" he asked, and though he was tempted, Jasper shook his head. "Not even that?"
On the breeze, not too far up the ravine, came the tantalizing, rich scent of a predator. It was still too far to determine exactly what kind of beast it was, but it made his mouth water, and his throat burn. The scent was tempting— in response to the smell, he felt his muscles tense, his eyes darken... all the hallmarks of his hunger, his thirst. But Jasper was not ready for the hunt— he did not want to spoil this calm, easy moment with yet another thrill, no matter how joyous it might be.
Instead, he simply sat, leaning back against an uprooted tree as he soaked in the quiet, the calm. Emmett did not push him— did not coax or tease as he might have any other day— and he simply waited with him, his arms folded across his chest.
When the silence grew too long, his brother spoke again.
"Is it very difficult?" he asked, and Jasper did not miss the sympathy, the pity, in his voice. His eyes flashed a warning.
"It's…" He reached for the right words. "It's… a lot."
"Hm."
"You're quieter than the others," he explained, and Emmett frowned at him, confused. "You don't shout your feelings at me, if that makes any sense at all."
Emmett chuckled.
"Edward says the opposite," he replied, and at once, Jasper was on his feet. "He says I'm the loudest…"
"Don't talk to me about him right now," Jasper said, and his voice was sharp enough, rude enough, to elicit silence. Emmett only raised an eyebrow. "I can't think of anything I want to talk about less, right now, than Edward."
The silence hung between them, suddenly thick with unspoken tension. Jasper lamented this shift— the loss of calm, and of ease— but there was nothing else for it. He would not discuss Edward here, in this place of calm, for he did not want to ruin the aura, the vibe.
Emmett, it seemed, had different ideas.
"Angry, are we?"
Jasper wheeled on him at once.
"Of course I'm angry!" His temper, so frayed and so worn, seemed to snap in an instant. "Aren't you?"
"You'd know better than most," he returned and it was true— Jasper did know. He knew the depth of everyone's displeasure, from his father's disappointment to his wife's bubbling, seething rage. He knew Emmett's ire too— an urge towards violence, a simmering fury that he only just kept under wraps. His love for the girl, contrasted so sharply with his disdain for the choices their brother had made…
Jasper turned his head away.
"I know you don't want to," said Emmett, and Jasper could feel the rising anxiety, so like Bella's, deep in his own chest. "I know you don't want to… but I think you should, Jasper. It's not healthy."
"What isn't healthy?"
"Letting yourself be a siphon for the whole family without any outlet for yourself," he said. "You're the only person in the world your gift can't reach, Jasper. You help everyone else all the time, so let us help you."
"I don't want help…"
"No, but I think you might need it."
Jasper scowled, his teeth bared.
"There's nothing you can do for me," he said, and he began to walk through the ravine. "Not unless you can fix her."
"She will be fixed…"
"Not soon enough."
Emmett frowned, his face tight.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that she's still suffering," said Jasper, at once agitated and angry. "I mean that she'll continue to suffer."
"How do you mean?"
"You know what he did to her," Jasper returned. "What Edward said to her, when he left."
"No." Emmett shook his head, his face unreadable. "No, Jas. I don't."
"She's his mate!" His shout echoed from the trees, sending a flock of tittering birds to the sky. "She's his mate, Emmett… there is no separation. There never could be."
"Rose and I…"
Jasper's laugh was hard, spiky.
"Your bond with Rosalie is as clad as iron," he returned. "You might have your differences, but in the end, Emmett, you are bound to her like the moon to the earth. Just like Alice and I. Just like Carlisle and Esme. There cannot be one without the other. Not for us."
And Emmett said nothing, for he knew that it was true. Jasper had caught the flavour of his brother's fledgling bond long before even Edward had realized it— had felt the strange, unnatural attachment between the two of them, even when their interactions had been antagonistic and unkind. Bella hadn't even liked him at first, and Jasper could hardly blame her. Throughout those early days, before either had them had realized just what their bond really meant, she had barely tolerated him, but still, she had been drawn to him like water to the shore.
"It is an egregious crime, Emmett, to do what he did to her. She is human. She doesn't have the power, the endless time of immortality, and she is so tightly bound by the limitations of her kind. She's barely even grown, Emmett— almost a child, still— and he took from her the only stability, the only real love she will ever know. Edward knows this— he knows what the mating bond does to the psyche, to the soul, but he abandoned her anyways, and left us here to clean up his mess."
"She's getting better…"
"She won't get better," said Jasper, and this time, Emmett frowned. "Not really. She might go on, in whatever fog she's been living in, but there will be no real life for her. She won't find a human to match our brother. She will never marry for love, or have those beautiful babies he's so keen to give her."
"She might still…"
"She won't," said Jasper, and there was a finality in his voice that made even Emmett pause. "I promise you, she won't. I told Alice— promised her— that we would not make the same mistakes twice, and I intend to keep that promise, but Bella needs more than we can give her, Emmett, and I don't know if I have it in me to watch our brother hurt her again."
"He wouldn't…"
Jasper laughed.
"He absolutely would, if he thought it was right," he returned. "I love Edward as only a brother can, but he is a moral, brooding fool who knows so little of the world it's almost laughable. For all his years, he's really only a child himself."
There was a long pause, so quiet, and so still.
"I told him this would happen, you know." Emmett only stared. "I told him she would end up like this, once she found out we were leaving. I couldn't know about the other threat, of course, but that's only icing on the cake at this point."
"She will heal…"
"In time," Jasper said, and Emmett shook his head. "She will heal in body, and perhaps in mind, but her soul, Emmett… for all Edward preaches his concern for it, he has done very little to safeguard it in his absence."
"She has us."
"I know."
"She'll always have us," he went on, his voice hard. "I'm not going anywhere, Jasper. Not after what I've seen, and I'll be damned if I let anyone else go, either."
"You're not getting it," said Jasper, and this time, he heard Emmett's rumbling frustration. "You're not hearing what I'm telling you… that girl is my sister, Emmett, but she is not my mate. She's not yours either. We can't love her like she needs… can't do for her what he can."
His voice was bitter, resentful. It had been his hands that had brought her back from the dead, his lips that had forced the breath of life back into her. It had been his face that she'd seen, when she'd opened her eyes on the beach, and his voice she'd heard, in her moment of panic and pain. Jasper had felt it like it was his own— the disbelief, the horrible, dreadful fear… and he'd soothed it, softened the sharpness of its edges. He had done whatever he could to take away that suffering, to ease its tyranny over her heart, but there was nothing he could do for that eerie, hollow ache— the ache of a soul split asunder, bleeding and raw.
When he met Emmett's gaze, peering into the hard, black eyes, he saw the resignation there, the acceptance. His next words were harder, more compact, and earned such a feeble response that Jasper felt bad giving it a voice.
"And so what else can we do?"
"We pray to God that our idiot brother finds his sense," he replied, his words short and stiff. "We pray to every god we know that he realizes what he's done, and that he comes back, either to grovel at her feet or to beg her forgiveness. Preferably both."
"It has to be hurting him as much as it's hurting her…"
Jasper hissed, his eyes flashing a warning that Emmett did not heed.
"I know it's hurting him," said Jasper, and venom slicked his throat, his mouth. "I know it is, because it's the only thing in the world that's kept me from dragging him back myself, to show him the damage he's done."
"Shush."
"He'd deserve it, and more, ten times over…"
"Quiet!"
And at once, before he could make any sense of the interruption, he felt his whole body coiled with seething, raging fury.
The breeze, so soft and so gentle here in their pit, did not blow harshly through the trees and the grass. The rain above did not reach them, and the canopy of trees kept the weakening sunlight from their iridescent skin. It was a quiet space— particularly chosen for that especial attribute— and so when they heard it, so faint and so distant, it was at once alarming, and rife with grim, terrible satisfaction.
In a flash, they were out of the ravine and back on the mountain slope, faces upturned towards the mist, listening, waiting.
"West," Jasper said, and at once, his feet were moving.
For on the wind, not three miles from where they were, was the sound of running footsteps, and the sickly, sugary scent of her.
A/N: I hope this chapter wasn't too hard for you to follow. Thanks again for all your love. A few thoughts:
First, Jasper's thoughts at the end came as a bit of a surprise, even to me, but I'm glad he got a chance to make himself heard. I had planned to give him a bit of attention a few chapters from now, but he just had to butt in early.
Second, I know lots of you are clamouring for a non-canon pairing (especially Bella/Emmett), but I want to reiterate that first and foremost, this is a story about FAMILY. In my version of events, Emmett loves Bella, but she is his sister. I don't know if my take on the mating bond is canon (the nature of these relationships is left a little nebulous in the source material), but in my mind, immortal mates are bound for life. People like to crap on Rose for her poor attitude (and this will be addressed later in this story, I promise), but sometimes, we forget where Rosalie comes from and why Emmett matters so much to her. Rosalie loves her family and her mate- that has never been an issue- but she DOES take umbrage with change. She has never been perfect, though some people like to paint her as such, and she's jealous and unkind, but I think, at heart, she's fundamentally good. Emmett loves her- both in my story and in the source texts- and I don't plan on undoing any of that.
Thanks again for listening.
XO
