A/N: I don't usually do this, but my song inspiration for this chapter is called "The Place Where They Go" by Carlos Cipa. It's a piano instrumental piece and you can find it on YouTube or on Spotify (and possibly Apple Music, though don't quote me on that).
Chapter 15
The world outside was a tempest and Edward watched it rage.
In the silence of the living room, completely alone in the vast, empty space, Edward watched the whirling, scrambling storm as it roared through the trees like a wild thing, snarling and hissing in the great beyond. It was early April now— a time when snow should be long gone— and yet here was this early springtime storm come to decimate the world outside. It raged and howled between the trees, buffeting the windows with icy sleet that stuck in patches on the glass. The wind was strong as it blew those fluffy, wet flakes from side to side and all the while Edward watched it, his heart black with anger and terrible, stifling worry.
The day was young, only just past witching hour when the night was alive with ghosts, and Edward endured them with a subdued tolerance that was not at all calm. He felt the rage in his heart— that terrible, demanding urge to act, even when there was nothing left for him to do— and he was glad that he knew enough to wait, and to simply watch as the snow fell down in torrents.
He knew he was a fool— a terrible, proud, and overbearing fool— and as he listened to the sound of that living heart upstairs he felt such a tumult of emotion that he could hardly sort one from the other. There was gladness for that rhythm, beating strong and true, and there was fear that it might stop again. There was disgust for himself and the liberties he'd taken, and a searing pity that he knew she would not want, but that he let loose anyways. There was joy for her survival, and terrible anger at the thought that she might not want it, and such a seething hatred and roiling love that he could hardly sort them out, could not extract one from the belly of the other.
He hated the mistakes that he had made in his impulsive bid to keep her safe, and he hated the wrongs that she had done in her desperation to rid herself of the mortal coil that had made her so miserable. He hated the things he'd seen in his sister's head, the feel of her sharp, angry hand still flaring on his cheek, and he hated the violence he'd caused, the destruction he'd wrought. He hated his brother's memory of the blood in her kitchen, and his father's recollection of how she'd felt, so cold and so limp beneath his trained and able hands. He had felt Carlisle's worry for her— had felt the quick, sharp anxiety that he might not be enough— and then the despair that had risen when he realized that he could not give her the immortality she'd been so eager to claim not half a year before. He would not do that to her— not when she had made her wishes so blatantly clear— and Edward hated that, too.
But beneath that discord, at the root of everything he was or ever would be, there was such a fiery, burning love that not even his hatred could quell. He was angry— with himself and with her— but that anger paled in comparison to the love he held for her, even now when she did not want to see him. He didn't blame her— what had he done for her that had helped? What service had he rendered that had not ended in chaos and oblivion? If he could have, he would have avoided himself too, but that, it seemed, was impossible, for he did not even have the reprieve of sleep to relieve him. He deserved no reprieve— deserved no release from the fraying bonds he'd severed, or the terrible, aching worry that had become his vision and his life. He deserved the fear he felt for her body and her soul, and he deserved every waking moment of the torment he endured, for she had endured it too, and more harshly than he ever would.
For him, there was no risk of danger— he could not be touched, could not be taken by one so desperate as the huntress in the night. Victoria held no threat for him— she was not a fighter, and there were no loyalties among her brood to keep them intact— and he would eliminate her when the time was right. He would rip her to pieces, relishing each blow beneath his angry, trembling fists, and he would do it gladly for the liberties that she had taken. A mate for a mate— for he was sure, now, that that was her intention— was ludicrous. He should have known it— should have anticipated this violence before it had come to such a vivid and ugly head— but alas, he had overlooked that, too, and there were no words in all the world that could make such violence right.
Charlie Swan hadn't deserved it, had not deserved such a brutal and violent end, and Bella had not deserved to find him, to see such carnage brought down upon her kin. She had so little family to begin with, so few bonds of love that each was precious and sacred, and to know that this one had been so brutally severed was inconceivable to him, unconscionable.
Edward had seen violence, Edward had participated in violence, but never, in all his life, had Edward committed brutalities. He had hunted, and he had killed, but the end was always clean, always kind even when his prey did not deserve it. He did not play with his food, did not taunt and torment before he went in for the kill. He did not taint those last, precious moments with the adrenaline of the fight and the rancid stink of fear.
Upstairs in the bedroom, where he was not wanted, there was a whimper and a cry and at once, Edward's attention snapped to the staircase. He could see everything clearly, even in the dark, and he could hear her as plainly as if she were here before him. At the sound of that distress he heard his brother rise and the soft squeak of mattress springs as he lowered himself to the bed beside her, where Edward watched through his keen and piercing eyes.
She was there, in Emmett's head, tousled by sleep with a face pinched in distress even as she woke from her nightmare. He could hear her through Emmett's ears and through his own, the sounds of her fear like a soundtrack for the darkness,and it was enough to peel him away from the black window to rest instead by the long, ornate banister. He knew better than to intrude— knew better than to present himself again at that door, where his brother would be sure to remove him— and he forced himself to be still, and to watch.
"Hush, Bella." His brother's whisper was loud in the quiet, but she did not seem to notice. "Hush, doll. It's alright…"
She stared at him in a state of bewilderment, her eyes frantic as they roamed his face in the dark. Edward knew that she could not see him well— he could see how her pupils were dilated, and how her pulse throbbed anxiously in her neck— but Emmett was patient with her, and he waited. She blinked in the blackness, settling only when she felt his fingers brush her cheek, and when she glanced around the room, as if orienting herself to a space she did not know, she sighed, letting her head fall back against her pillow.
"Sorry."
"You've nothing to be sorry about," said Emmett, and Edward saw his pity, then, and so did she. He saw the tightening of her jaw, the sudden outflash of temper that might have made him laugh, had she not been so serious, but Emmett was unperturbed. He grinned at her, impish and hopeful, and she relaxed only slightly when he tapped the pad of his finger on the tip of her nose.
Emmett had always been mesmerized by her warmth, always taken by the constant movement of blood beneath her skin which thrummed with a life so tenuous and unfamiliar. He longed to feel it even now and Edward might have been worried for her, but Emmett was stronger than he'd given him credit for. He had lost the impulse to bite, the urge to consume long ago, and it was only appreciation that drove him now— a curious wonderment at the feel of that smooth and downy flesh.
"Are you still tired?" he asked. "It's very early."
"I don't know."
"Alright…"
And then, though Edward was nearly green with envy, he watched as his brother did something that he, himself, would have given a king's ransom for. He did not say another word, did not let anything else shatter the perfect silence of the house before he simply lay down beside her, letting her tuck her cheek against his arm. It seemed so easy for him—Edward supposed that in weeks of late, it had become so— and there was no fear, no hesitation. Edward had always known that Bella was intimidated by his brother because of his size, if nothing else, but that seemed to have vanished in his absence, melted away like snow in a thaw. She shivered against him, though he'd pulled her blankets tight, but she did not move, and though Edward felt Emmett's mild concern for her comfort, he did not move away.
"You really should sleep," he said when the silence had dragged on too long. She said nothing. "It won't kill you."
She snorted, and Edward cringed.
"I can't sleep," she yawned, and Emmett stifled his grin. "I don't want to sleep."
"Alright then."
"Is everyone…?"
"Gone," confirmed Emmett. "Except Ed. He's downstairs."
"Oh."
Edward could not see her face— Emmett was not looking— but there was a tension in that word, in that lonely, quiet syllable.
"They'll be back at daybreak," said Emmett. "In a few hours. It won't be long."
"Are they…?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Don't worry about it, Bella," said Emmett and when he glanced down, Edward saw the flush of her cheek, the sudden embarrassment at being caught out. "They'll come to no harm."
"How come you're not with them?"
"Because I already know how to fight," said Emmett and there was a grin— almost cocky, in Edward's eyes— but it did nothing to soften the girl who remained stiff and unhappy. There was a pucker between her brows, a sudden, worried energy that made her tense and awkward, and when Emmett gave her a gentle squeeze she sighed, shaking her head.
"It's not right."
"It's necessary," he corrected, "and so it is right. They will come to no harm tonight, Bella. They're in no danger."
"But soon…"
"Yes." Emmett's sigh was heavy and Edward felt that threatening anger boiling up in him again. "Yes, soon. But not yet, honey. Not quite yet."
Edward returned to the window with a hiss and a scowl, staring once again into the blackness of the night, into the swirling vortex of snow and ice that pelted down from clouds as heavy as iron. In the place where those flowers had been— in the spot where he'd watched, over a series of hours and days, as those tiny, soft forget-me-nots had budded and blossomed into azure blooms— there was only snow, now, and frost. The days had gone by so slowly, trickling like grains of sand in an endless hourglass, but the ripening of those flowers and the destruction they would bring had spurred them into motion, had made them urgent in their mission to protect, and to train.
Edward knew, of course, where his family had gone, for they had left for the same place every single night for the past week and a half. They cycled through their fighters— sometimes Alice stayed, or sometimes Esme or Carlisle— and tonight it had been Emmett, along with Edward brooding by the window, who were left to guard the girl. She could not be left alone— not even when she was sleeping— and so they took it in turns to watch her, to make sure that she did not pitch herself through a window or string up a noose with which to hang herself.
Edward was sick at the thought of it— the vivid vision of her swinging from the banister, or bloody and broken in the flowerbeds below the windows. He had seen her dead— Alice's memory, her clear and accurate recollection, had been piercing and sharp, and it stuck with him like a bad smell. He would remember it always— would keep that image in his head like an oil painting— and it would haunt him even long after this terrible time had passed.
So in the night, when his family went to spar under Jasper's careful tutelage, Edward watched the world outside and he waited, in vain, for the moment when he might be allowed back in. Out in the wilderness, in a clearing amongst the trees, his family fought, and he, standing alone in the empty house, waited and brooded in the dark.
"But I wish I could know," said Bella, and Edward was distracted again. "I wish I could know for sure that nothing would go wrong…"
Emmett said nothing to her and Edward did not blame him, for there were no promises that he could make, no assurances that he could give. Edward knew this— he knew that there were no guarantees, even as they prepared themselves for the confrontation— and this only made it worse, the lack of knowing. He wished he could give her that assurance, that he could promise her that there would be no damage done, no loss too great or terrible, but the truth of it was that he couldn't, and neither could his brother.
"I know," said Emmett, and he heard her hitch of breath, her soft, quiet sniff. "I know, Bella, but we'll be alright. No matter what happens, we'll be alright."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do."
"How?"
"Because we're a family," said Emmett, "in every sense of the word, and that's what a family does. They hold you together, even when you're in pieces, and that's exactly what we'll do when this fight is won."
"But at what cost?" she mourned, and Edward heard it then— the fear not for herself, but for them. That completely selfless disregard for her own safety, her concern for them at the expense of herself that was so ludicrous that Edward stared at the ceiling in disbelief.
"We all act willingly, and we all act with love, Bella," said Emmett. "It's our choice to make. No one is forced to fight."
"But she only wants me."
"And she's not going to have you," he said, and there was such confidence, such certainty that even Edward was inclined to believe him. "She won't, Bella, because we won't let her."
"She might…"
"Hush now." Edward watched as Emmett's finger went to her lips, silencing any further arguments. "Be still, Bella, and calm. You've got nothing to worry about… we're more than capable of keeping you safe."
"I'm not worried about me."
"And maybe you should be," chastised Emmett. "You should worry about yourself, because when all of this is over, you're going to have some choices to make."
"Yeah…"
"You don't sound convinced."
"Because I'm not."
"And why might that be?"
"Because I don't know, Emmett. I don't know whether I'm coming or going…"
"Then just know this," said Emmett, and Edward saw his love— his lips against her hair. He felt Bella's shiver, felt Emmett's complete and total dedication as he spoke his truth even though he knew Edward would be listening. "Know this, Bella… whatever you choose, however you decide, just know that you'll have our fullest support. I know you're confused and I know you're sad, but just know that when it comes down to it, we're all behind you, one hundred percent."
"I don't know what I want," she said, and he laughed then, soft and indulgent. "I have no idea what I want anymore…"
"And that's okay," he said. "You don't need to decide all at once. You're so young, Bella… you've got plenty of time to make mistakes."
"I'm sick of mistakes."
"Aren't we all?"
"I don't know what to do."
"You will," he said, and he squeezed her again. "You will, Bella. Just give yourself some time to figure it out. There's no rush."
"It's already snowing…" Edward saw her head turn, saw how she moved to peer through the window, beyond which raged the blowing snowstorm that had painted the world white. Alice had told her what she'd seen— there had been enough concealment, enough lies to last a lifetime, and Alice would not tell her any more— and so she knew what that snow meant, what it would bring. She knew that the fight would come when the flowers froze, and as the temperature dropped ever lower while the dark of night bore down, even she could see, with her feeble human eyes, that those blooms would not last long.
"Leave that to us," said Emmett. "That's our concern, not yours. There's nothing you can do to stop it, just as there's nothing we can do, and so we'll weather it the best we can. You'll hardly know a thing, Bella… these fights are quicker than you might think."
"Not quick enough…"
"No," agreed Emmett. "Never quick enough, and it's this waiting that's the worst of it all. The waiting, and the not knowing."
When she turned her head away, Edward knew that she was crying though there was nothing in the world that he could do to stop it.
"There will be better days," Emmett promised, and she only sniffled, her voice lost. "There will be better days than this, Bella… I can assure you of that. They won't all be like this one, or the ones that came before."
Bella said nothing to this— neither to agree nor to refute him— and she simply listened. Edward heard the promise in those words, the certainty that he was right, and Edward hoped that he was. He hoped there would be better days, that there would be sunshine, again, to chase away the cold, but just now he could not see it, and neither, he suspected, could she.
"But you should rest," said Emmett, when the tears had dried and her eyes had fallen shut again. "You should sleep, Bella, while it's still dark."
"I don't want to sleep…"
"No, but I daresay you need it," he argued. When he shifted himself away, slipping silently and slowly against the sheets, Edward saw how she frowned, how she curled herself a little more tightly beneath the golden comforter. "Everything will feel better in the morning after you've had a good rest. Give yourself that chance."
"I don't want to dream…"
"Dreams won't hurt you," Emmett whispered, and though she shivered in the dark, he rose. "Dreams can't hurt you, Bella, and if you need me again, you only need to call. I'll hear you, wherever I am." He lingered by the bedside for only a moment— just long enough to run his hand down her hair again while she stewed in her own silence— before he turned on his heel and moved for the door, leaving her alone with the worries that he could not assuage.
When he made it downstairs in a fraction of a second he was on Edward at once, his frown telltale and his gaze unhappy.
"It's rude to eavesdrop," he said as he came to join him at the dark, wintry glass. "She deserves her privacy… what little of it she has left."
"I know."
"Yet you watch her anyways."
Edward hung his head, feeling the guilt, the shame in the pit of his stomach. Emmett's eye was curious, peering at him with careful calculation and though the gaze was hard, it was not cold. Edward had grown accustomed to Emmett's shrewdness, to his unerring attention to his every, waking move, and though it had ceased to irritate him, he had not grown fond of it. Edward did not like being watched and he appreciated the irony of that quite deeply, and he knew that his brother, too, would call it out, and so he did not voice it.
Give her time. Emmett's thought was loud and intrusive. Give her time, Edward, to figure out what she wants to do.
If only, Edward thought, they had the time to spare.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"I don't know how," he said, and Emmett's sigh was sympathetic, if not entirely supportive. "I don't know how, Emmett… not when she's up there, like that."
"I know."
They both knew, for they both felt it— that bond of matehood, that longing urge to soothe and to comfort when there was pain or distress— and Edward knew better than most just how well Emmett understood. Emmett knew what it was like to be bonded to one that wanted out, to be bonded to someone who wanted nothing more than for life to return to the way it had been before. He knew what a challenge it was to overcome that longing, and what a terrible trial it was to watch that suffering without a hope of a cure. Edward recalled the early days of Emmett's mating bond with his sister— the way he had tried and failed to do what he thought was right— and he shivered. It shouldn't be that way, he knew. It shouldn't hurt to love, just as it shouldn't hurt to live, but that was not the way of things in a world that was not fair, and so they would endure it. They would continue on until that ache receded, and when he was let back in, he would do his best, though he knew it would never be good enough. Just like Emmett could not erase the past, could not undo all of the wrongs that had been done, Edward, too, was doomed to fail, though he would go down trying, no matter what the cost.
He left his brother there, standing in his stead at the window like a guardian. The night was still so dark, without so much as a star to light the sky outside, and Edward felt restless. He did not like this waiting— did not like to sit idle while the storm raged on with his family in its grip— and so he began to tinker, ever so lightly, with the ivory keys on the dusty grand piano.
That piano had been a gift for him from his father to thank him for his companionship and his care— the latest instrument in a long line that had come before, new iterations and improvements arriving with each passing decade. The piano had been Edward's first and only love for years after his Change, and his respect for the instrument had flourished into great and powerful music throughout the years as he'd mastered the keys. Edward loved the melodies, found solace in the songs he played from great composers and his own, humble talent, and he found that love again now, though it was muted and sober.
The keys were glossy still, hidden from the dust beneath the ornate cover that lifted soundlessly beneath his fingers. It had not been tuned— Edward would trust no one but himself to do it, and he had not so much as laid his eyes on it since his return to the house— but when he played a scale, he found that it needed only minor tweaks. When he sat down before it, his fingers resting on the keys, he felt a surging thrill that he had missed, and when he began to play, the notes came as easily as breathing.
Music was his home, as important to him as this house that sheltered him, and though the night was dark and the storm was cold, the notes he played seemed to soothe him, to bring him life. He did not know the song he played— it was new, and it was sweet— and as his fingers danced, he began to lose himself.
Music flowed from him like blood, spilling out into the night to fill the room with its warmth and its life. He did not know where the song came from— did he hold it in his heart, or did it come from somewhere else?— but in that moment, he did not care. He played the song through once, and then he played it over again until it was committed to his memory, the sounds drifting across his mind like notes on a page that he would transcribe later. He did not notice that Emmett had turned, or that the music he made had filled the room with sound, but when he heard that first, gentle footfall at the top of the second floor landing he faltered, his fingers tingling.
"Don't stop," Emmett said, and he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder. "Whatever you do, Edward, don't stop."
He picked it up again.
Edward listened as the sound of his song filtered through the air and the darkness like a siren's call. He could hear her footsteps, her quick and shallow breaths, and when he saw first one foot, and then another, he forced himself to play on.
She sat on the steps, far enough up the staircase that he could not see her face, but she listened to that music— every soft, sweet note. He heard her when she sighed, smelled the salty brine of her tears that rose, and then fell down her cheeks. She wiped them on her sleeve— he could see the way she brought her arm up to touch her face— but she did not move another inch until the song had ended once again, and the room went still, and quiet.
The silence was long as his hands drifted down from the keys, and he longed to move, though he knew he shouldn't. There was a full minute of that quiet, and then a second and a third, and by the time the fourth had gone by in a stagnant, stifling stillness, Edward was on the verge of rising, though he made himself stay still. Emmett's eye was on him, his mind warning him not to push, and he was glad that he obeyed when he heard the shuffle of her feet again, and another small, padding step on the stairs.
And then, like a little, pale ghost, she came, peeking into the living room with a hesitant frown as she took stock of the occupants therein. She saw Emmett first, leaning against the back of the sofa with a careful frown and he grinned at her, though only briefly. It took longer for her to notice him, hidden as he was on the piano bench, but when she did, Edward felt such a thrill of hope that it left him breathless and weak.
To see her in the flesh was like coming up for air and he breathed her in, every last inch. He had seen her through Emmett's eyes, through his sister's memory, and his father's worry, but he had not seen her for himself, had not laid his eyes on her, other than that brief glimpse upon his arrival, for six, long months. There had been changes, it was true— she was thinner, her face was paler, and there were circles under her eyes to rival his— but she was still herself, still the same girl that he remembered. There was still that unidentifiable something in her deep, brown eyes that spoke to him without words, without even conscious thought. That pull he felt was strong, his draw to her undeniable, and when she faltered and fell back it was like a punch to the gut.
Her eyes dropped at once as if he'd burned her and there was a sudden, ungainly tension to take the place of his ease, his hope. When Emmett rose with concern from his place by the couch she latched on to him, letting him block her view of the piano and forcing Emmett stand between them so that he could no longer see her, either. They stayed like that for a moment, his brother holding her in a way that Edward couldn't, and though Edward was grateful for his brother's love of her, he was envious of it, too.
"Sit," said Emmett after a long, quiet moment, and she listened, plunking down on the sofa with a sigh. "It's alright, Bella… everything is fine."
"I'm sorry…"
Edward rose at once.
Though Emmett's eyes flashed with silent warning, Edward paid it no mind as he came first to the side, and then to the front of the sofa where she sat with her elbows on her knees. Her head hung low, her hair falling forward to shield her face from him, but she saw the way her spine stiffened, the way her body rose as if he were a threat to her, a danger. He supposed he was, in a way, though he would never dare to lay a hand on her, and she was not wrong to protect herself from him, to guard herself from any further hurt.
When he knelt, she did not move, either to let him in or to push him away. Emmett hovered close, his disapproval strong in the quiet of the room, but Edward paid him no mind as he reached first one hand, and then another, to rest on her curled knees. His touch was light, and it was brief, but it ignited like a fire in the instant that they connected and he knew that she felt it too when she gasped, her eyes pinched shut.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Bella," he said, and she began to tremble ever so slightly beneath his touch. "There's nothing in the world for you to apologize for, love…"
The endearment made her eyes pop open, the liquid pools hardening, and he could almost taste her anger, her desperation. When she spoke her voice was rough and her words were like ice, cold and hard. They pierced him, though he did not let it show, and once they were said she pulled away from him, curling her knees up so that he could not reach her again.
"Don't call me that," was what she said, and Edward let out a breath.
"I'm sorry."
"Just don't."
Edward did not know what to say. He could see her roiling anger, the furious frustration that he thought he would be able to feel, if he could just reach out his hand to touch it, and he took it all in his stride. He could not read her, not in the way that he was used to, and so he struggled to make sense of the inner workings of her mind. In the lingering silence he posed the only question he could think of, though it hurt him to give it voice.
"Do you want me to leave, Bella?" he asked. "Do you want me to go? If you do, just say so… I won't impose myself, if that's not what you want."
"I just… I… no. I don't know." She shook her head as if to clear it, though the fog was heavy and thick. "I don't know what I want, Edward. I really don't know."
"It's alright…"
"No, it isn't." Her teeth began to chatter and he brought her a blanket that she shrugged away. "It's not alright. I'm not alright…"
And Edward, never more thankful for his brother than he was now, watched as Emmett began to rise from the sofa, his gaze flitting nervously between the pair of them as if he was watching for something, waiting. Bella said nothing more though Edward could see the panic rising in her chest, and when Emmett rested a hand on her shoulder, she hardly seemed to notice. He could hear his brother's black thoughts, filled with frustrated curses and angry inaction, but he backed away when Edward reached again, leaving the two of them alone together. It was all Edward had wanted— all he had been asking for, since his return to the house— and he heard Emmett's warning as he moved towards the front door, donning his boots and a useless snow jacket to keep the worst of the storm away.
Make it right, he said, and Edward watched as he disappeared into the trees in a fraction of a second. Make it right, Edward, and don't screw this up.
"If you want to be alone, darling, you only need to say the word," he said, and this time she did look, both at him and for Emmett. She frowned at the empty space behind her where his brother had been, glancing out instead towards the footprints that he'd left in the pristine, white snow, and she sighed, shaking her head again.
"I don't know what I want."
Edward sat on the floor before her, his legs folded beneath him and he waited in the stillness and the silence until she found her words again, and they flowed free from her lips like water.
"I just… don't know anymore," she said, and the words were so thin, so tired that he felt it in his own self. "I don't know anything… not anymore."
And he could not say a thing because this was a struggle that he did not know, a circumstance with which he could not empathize, because he had never been there. Edward had never felt the pain of loss— not like she had— and he did not know the terrible grief of abandonment. He knew what it was to love, and he knew what it was to lose that love, but it had always been his choice, and his decision. She had never made those choices for herself— had never walked away from love for good or for ill— and he wondered, now, just how much his vanity had truly cost, how terribly his interference, however well-meaning, had thrown her world into chaos. He would not say I'm sorry again, for it was nothing but an empty platitude, but neither could he sit there like a spectator to her sport of misery.
"I wish I knew what to say," he whispered and she shrugged her shoulder up, pressing her face to her arm. "I wish I could say the right thing, Bella, but I don't know how."
"Me neither."
And in his heart, he felt the burn— the aching tug of her against him, her resistance and her sorrow. They were bonded together like two halves of a whole, broken and beaten as they were, and he needed her like she needed the air she breathed. She was his balm and his comfort, his purpose and his goal, and he would never be through regretting the things he'd done, the terrible words he'd said.
"I never meant to hurt you, Bella," he said, and this time her eyes flashed with anger. "I never meant for any of this to happen like it did…"
"It doesn't matter what you meant."
"I know…"
"Then why bother even saying it?" she demanded, and there was irritation, now, to bolster that anger. "What's the point of even saying it, if you know it's useless?"
"Because it's all I have to offer," he said, and even to him, the excuse was feeble. "It's the only thing that I can give you now, even though I know it's not enough…"
"I gave you everything I had," she returned, and her voice wavered, shook with sudden grief. "I gave everything I had to you. I would have done anything, been anything you asked me to be, just so long as you would stay."
"I never wanted that," he said at once. "You never have to change for me, Bella…"
"It never made sense, you know," she went on, and there was a hollow laugh, a quick, wet tear. "It never made any sense."
"What didn't?"
"You," she said, and when she looked at him, he saw the depth of her doubt, both in him and in herself. "That you were here, with me…"
"It's the only thing in my life that makes any sense," he countered. "You're the only thing I've ever known that makes any sense to me…"
"You're perfect," she sniffed, and then she looked away as if she could not bear the sight of him. "Everything about you is so hopelessly perfect, and I'm nothing Edward. I'm nothing."
This declaration broke his heart and he took a moment to gather himself, though the admission came quickly, and without hesitation.
"I am far from perfection, Bella… so far that you can't even fathom it. I've lied, I've cheated, I've killed before, and all for my own satisfaction, to gratify nothing but my own lust for power, or greed, or thirst. I've ruined lives, destroyed families… hell, I've almost destroyed you, and even still, you call me perfect."
"You didn't destroy me."
"Not quite."
"You were right to leave," she said, and she looked away again, her face in her knees. "You were right to leave me, because what you said was true."
The words in the forest, the words he'd spoken to set her free, burned in his chest like acid and ate away at the fibers of his memory until he could remember little else but the stinging betrayal on her face, the scent of her tears in the loamy, mossy woods. I don't want you, he'd said, and you're no good for me. You're no good for me… you're no good. He knew the words were cruel— he had known it even then— but to see her accept it so quickly, to find false truths in that wrongful accusation had been heartbreaking, and altogether too easy.
"It wasn't true," he replied, and she laughed at him then, sudden and loud. "It was the absolute opposite of truth…"
"I've never understood it," she went on. "I never understood why you would find anything of interest in me. It makes no sense, Edward… I can offer you nothing. I can give you nothing."
"I don't care what you can give me…"
"But I do!" Her voice rose louder. "I care! Because what use am I— what good am I— if I can't give you anything in return?"
"You gave me yourself, Bella," said Edward, and when she tried to turn from him again, he took her face in his hands. Her cheeks were blazing hot, her rising emotion turning them mottled pink and red, and he relished the heat of her, the burn. He made her look at him— made her really look, though she tried to avoid it— and when he was sure that she was listening that she would hear him, he spoke most clearly and with greatest, tenderest care.
"You are the greatest gift that I could have ever received, Bella, whether you believe me or not. Before you, I was nothing… not quite living, not quite dead, but caught like a fish in a net, never moving forward. We can't grow, Bella— you know that— and so you must know how special it is when you find something that helps you move."
"I never…"
"You did," he said, and when he kissed her, his lips on her sweet, warm cheek, she shuddered. "You brought me light, Bella. You brought me love. We are not like humans… we do not change and we do not grow, and so you must know that whatever I've said, however poorly I've acted, there has never been anyone else in the world that I care for more than you. I've made mistakes, Bella, and plenty of them, and all I can do now is beg for your forgiveness and spend the rest of my time on this earth hoping, praying, that you'll find it in your heart to let me back in."
She didn't say a word— not another sound as his admission washed over her— and Edward watched the cycle of disgust and disbelief roll over her in waves, each crashing into the next until he could hardly tell them apart.
"And what will you be?" she asked, and there was fear there, a nervous doubt. "What will you be to me, Edward, now that you've come back?"
"Whatever you need me to be, Bella," he said, and she swallowed hard, her brow furrowed. "I will be whatever you need, for as long as you need it."
"But why?" She spoke as if she truly did not believe, as if all the words he'd said meant nothing. Her lips were flowing over with doubt, with that terrible uncertainty that had become her norm and her defense, and though he could not fault her for it, he could not let it go. He did not speak in response to this question, but instead took her warm, trembling hand in his and brought it to his chest, right over the place where his heart should be. He knew that she could feel it— that she could feel that bond like a cable of steel that ran from his heart to hers, and though the connection was raw and wounded, it was healing. It would always be there, connecting them through time and space, and so, too, would he, for he had learned his lesson a hundred times over, and he had learned it well.
"Because I know you feel it," he said, and though she pulled her hand away him, he saw how the other lingered on the invisible, jagged wound he'd left in her own chest by his departure. "I know that you know what I'm talking about, even if you don't have the words for it."
"It still hurts."
"I know, love…"
"I don't want it to hurt anymore," she said, and this time, she really did begin to cry. He hated the sight of it— hated each, pearly drop on her smooth, pink cheeks— but they would not be stifled, would not be held. "That's all I want, Edward… for it to stop hurting."
"I know…"
"Alice knows it too," she whispered, and he felt the fear then, reigniting like a torch in his belly. "Alice knows it too, and that's why she won't leave me alone."
"No…"
"But that's all I want, Edward… I don't want to go. I don't want to leave here, to leave behind a corpse for you to bury. All I want is for it to stop. For it to finally, finally stop."
And that, he knew, was the terrible, awful truth of it— the truth he'd so long denied, and the truth that she could hardly bear to speak. He had hurt her, so deeply and so brazenly, and that hurt had only led to loss and to tragedy. He knew what Alice had seen in that vision— knew what the future would hold if Bella were to be left alone— and he hated himself for what he'd done, for what he'd done to her. He had wounded her, and she had fled, and in that flight had been pursued. She had been chased, and hunted, and turned to sport for a creature far beyond her depth, and that chase had ended in such destruction and such utter, total chaos that there had been no recourse left for her— no other path to take but the one that would lead her home. It was a path he could not follow— a path destined only for the righteous, and the good— and the fear it struck in him to think that she might take it and leave him behind was as consuming as it was repulsive, and he could not let it stand.
"It will stop, Bella," he said, and when he pulled her to him to touch her, to feel her warmth against him, she did not resist. "I promise you, my love… it will stop. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but you will feel better than this. You will heal, because that is what you are designed to do. You will grow and you will rise, and when you do you'll be glad that you stuck it out. There is so much more of life for you to live, Bella, and so much more to love. Don't throw it all away now… not before you find that light again."
When her arms came up to hold him, her trembling grip fiery-hot and tense, he let his chin drop to her hair, his eyes falling shut. Outside, the storm raged on, snow blowing in torrents and in waves through the trees and the sky, though inside it was warm, and calm, and safe. She was not crying now— her tears did not stain his collar— and he simply held her, breathing in her smell, her sweetness. There was still work to do, and Edward knew it well, but this was not the end. As he held her there, in the stillness of the night, he thought that maybe, just maybe, they had made a start.
He would wait for her, would do whatever she asked of him, and if that meant a gift of time or space, he would give it. If she wanted him close, he would stick by her like glue, and if she wanted to leave him, he would let her go. He loved her enough for that, he knew— loved her enough to set her free, if that's what she needed— and he would do it gladly, if it meant she could be happy. That was all he had ever wanted— her safety, and her gladness, and her joy— and he had failed so miserably in the past that it was only right that she should decide for herself in the future, without his influence and without his interference.
"I love you, Bella," he said, and he heard her sniffle and her sigh. "You don't need to say it back— you don't even need to feel it, if you don't want to— but I want you to know that. I love you now and I'll love you always, no matter what happens from here on out."
She nestled her face a little closer, pressing her cheek to the hollow of his throat.
"You take all the time you need," he said, "and when you're ready, I'll be here. I'll always be here, until the minute that you order me away."
He should have known that this calm would be fleeting— should have known that his time with her in his arms would not be long enough. There would never be enough time— not for him, and certainly not for her— and when he heard the sudden noise that shattered the calm, he knew that she could feel his tension.
"What?" she asked, and she looked at him in surprise. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing…"
Edward heard it first in the trees, though he could not make sense of it in the moment. The sound was frantic, so sudden and so heated that it took him a second to figure out just what it was, and that second was precious, and taut. When he shot up Bella blinked, her catharsis melting into terror in an instant, and when Esme came through the door he knew at once what had happened. He could read it in her mind like a book, his anger overcoming his shock, and it lit him from the inside out, burning like magma in his belly.
It's started, Esme thought, and Edward heard the cacophony of sound, the terrible flash of violence in her mind's eye. She had run fast, and she had run true, but even now, if he strained himself to listen, Edward could hear the raging battle, the roiling confrontation in the denseness of the trees, hidden behind the guile and blackness of the storm.
"They need you," said Esme, and Edward was on his feet, Bella staring wildly between the two of them with her heart in her throat. "They're asking for you, Edward, and you're stronger than me. I'll stay with her here, I'll keep her safe, but they need you now. It's already started."
It was too early, he knew, and altogether too soon. The storm should have passed before they came, according to Alice's timeline. The flurry outside should have lessened to only a light fluttering of sleet and snow before there was even a hint of worry, or concern. He did not know what had happened to change those plans— what had gone so wrong in that vile camp to advance the assault— but he could smell the truth of it on Esme's clothes in the form of that acrid reek, the telltale scent of burning.
"Is it…?" Bella's voice was shaking, and she was on her feet. "What's happened, Esme?"
"I must go, Bella," Edward said before his mother could answer, and Bella's fear shone bright from every pore. "I'm sorry, love. I must go now. Esme will stay with you. Go on upstairs."
"Edward?"
"I'll be back," he promised. "Don't worry about me, Bella. I'll be back…"
"Esme?"
"Come, darling," said Esme, and at once, Bella was in his mother's arms. "Come. We have no time to waste, now…" I'll keep her safe, Edward… now please. Go.
Edward did not need to be told a third time, and he ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, through the door and down the yard. Behind him, her nose pressed against the glass of an upstairs window, Bella watched in bewildered terror as he retreated, and he had just a moment to see her tearstained face before he saw his mother's hand on hers, gently coaxing her away from the window. She went with some resistance, her fingers brought up in a tremulous farewell, but Edward could not dwell on that now, and he began to run.
Behind him, he heard the metal clinking of the shutters before he sprinted, headlong, towards the rising sound of the fight from the clearing in the woods.
A/N: Holy crap. Alright. So. My apologies for the lateness of this chapter (though in reality, it's only been a little over a week). For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you already know that this chapter was an absolute BITCH to write. This is the fifth version that I wrote, and the previous four were fully finished and fleshed out before they were scrapped. That means that this week alone, I've written over 35,000 words of useless content for this story, all in an effort to make this chapter make sense. I've been working up to it for so long and I had so many wonderful plans for how it would pan out, but it turns out that in the end, everything got scrapped because it simply didn't work.
I'm not entirely happy with how this fifth version turned out, but it's certainly much better than what came before. The first four were the wrong POV (I went with Jasper first, and then a Carlisle/Emmett split chapter, and then two shots at Bella, who absolutely REFUSED to cooperate and stop throwing tantrums left, right and centre). The first version was too choppy, the second was just weird, and third and fourth versions just ended up being whiny, and so they will never see the light of day so long as I have control over where this story goes. Those of you who write will understand - sometimes characters just refuse to cooperate, and you end up with no alternative but to scrap them and try again.
For those of you holding out for a non-canon pairing, I apologize again. This story was never intended to be that way and as much as I love your enthusiasm for it, it's simply not right for me in the context of this story. Also, don't take Bella's kindness as forgiveness- these two still have a lot of work to do before they're anywhere near ready to try again.
For those of you who read the note at the start, the song at the beginning ("The Place Where They Go" by Carlos Cipa) is what I listened to on repeat the whole time this version of the chapter was being written. It's how I imagine Edward's song to sound, and I really, really like it.
Sorry for the cliffhanger. Next chapter, we'll see some fighting.
