EIDOLON
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Emmett dips a cloth into the basin, the water already frigid. He holds the compress to his brother's temples. Droplets pursue one another down his forehead and sink into his glossy, amber hair. His eyes are shut, but he's not sleeping. His expression is constantly changing, twisting with new lines to interpret pain.
"Edward," Emmett says, "you need to sit up and drink something."
Edward shakes his head. "No. I can't keep it."
"You need to try, or Father will come in and force it down."
"Leave me." A tear runs down his cheek. "I'm ready to die."
"Not yet, little brother." Emmett returns the cloth into the white porcelain once again, deciding then to fetch more warm water. "I'll be back."
Downstairs he greets Jasper in the kitchen. "I didn't know you returned."
Jasper looks at him over the smooth, wooden cup he has to his lips. He finishes his water before lowering it. "Yes. Not too long ago."
Emmett pauses. "And? What happened?"
"I accomplished my ends." He eyes the large porcelain bowl in Emmett's sturdy grasp. "And how is the favorite son today?"
"Ready to die."
"Shame."
"Do you think they can be trusted?" Emmett asks.
"No, brother, I don't, but we don't have a say. This is what Father wishes." He reflects for a moment, wondering if he should tell Emmett of the incident with Sam, but he turns away instead. "I need to speak with him."
He climbs the stairs to his father's study. This part of the house always seems quieter to Jasper. The few rooms in this hallway, mostly belonging to his father and mother, when she lived, once brought him great joy. Now they are stark reminders of the past lingering in the dark precipice of his mind. The large window at the end of the hall allows the late morning sun to light up the fineries adorning the walls and small tables; eloquent paintings, urns from the Orient, exquisite draperies exist to tell of a rich life, serving no other purpose except to please the eye. He knocks on his father's door, and his muffled voice rises from behind the thick wood.
Jasper enters, as his father requests him to do, and he finds him bent over his desk, inscribing ink onto parchment. Another large window brightens the room, giving the man adequate light to scribe his writings, no doubt of business. Jasper glances to the left corner, at the grand, stuffed mountain cat his father hunted in his youth. The dead, golden glare of the large cat had frightened him as a child and sometimes it still does. Carlisle Cullen looks up from the parchment, his glasses perched on his nose. "Jasper," he says offering a smile, "what news?"
"It is done. We are to bring Edward tomorrow night."
Carlisle's grin widens, and he's off his chair to congratulate his eldest by patting his shoulder. "I knew you could do it." He advances to the opposite side, freeing the decanter of it's lid and pouring the honeyed, single-malt into two bulging glasses. "What did you promise in exchange?" he asks, handing over one glass to Jasper.
"The remaining tobacco in the storehouse."
Carlisle takes a swallow then stops. "All of it?"
"Yes, Father. All of it."
His back straightens. The pleasing imprint Carlisle leaves in the air turns foul. "That is not within reason."
Jasper tilts the glass to his mouth, consuming the meager sip he's been given. "I didn't have much choice, Father. The chief refused to do business with me because I wouldn't agree to free their people, but the witchman heard our conversation outside and decided to perform the ceremony for all the tobacco. It's either that or your son dies."
Carlisle sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment, savoring the generous pour he allowed himself a moment earlier before finishing the whiskey in his glass with a single raise of his chin. He looks at Jasper when he finishes. "You're right. You made the right choice."
"I placed myself in your position," Jasper says, watching his father circle the desk then lower himself into the chair. "I was there in your stead, and I did what I thought you would. They wanted nothing to do with me from the first moment their eyes set upon me. When the witchman offered his service in exchange for the tobacco, I didn't think twice. It was the only way."
"Winter has broke us," Carlisle says taking a ledger from his drawer and opening it. He finds the inventory page of the bushels which remain in the storehouse and strikes through them with his ink-dipped quill. "I knew it would come to pass one day, but I didn't forsee it being from those savages. Those filthy heathens."
"Perhaps we should keep Edward here. Let us take care of him. He's a strong boy, a fighter. With enough clean water to flush the sickness from his body, he'll pull through. It's been one day. We should give it more time, Father."
Carlisle shakes his head, looking up at Jasper. "No amount of time will cure him here. God is punishing me for the trespasses I've made against him. He's my one reminder of how precious life can be. Remember when he was born, how your mother, bless her soul, fought to birth him?"
Jasper nods, remembering quite well. He remembers her screams from down the hall, and the confusion he felt. His seven-year-old mind couldn't understand the goings-on as women rushed to and fro with hot water and cloth. Sometimes they passed with blood-soaked scraps of white and he knew the new baby his mother passed into the world could only be a monster. Sometimes, he's not sure if he's truly forgiven him. "I remember," Jasper says.
"He's the last piece I have of her, and if I can do for him what I couldn't do for her, then perhaps her death will not have been in vain. We need medicine greater than our own. Magic. Even if it's against God, I will not lose my son."
"I can't ride," Edward says, pinning his gray cloak against his stomach. They inch down the manor's grand staircase. The movement causing the cramps in his body to pulse.
Emmett and Jasper hold onto his arms, tight against his ribs, keeping him standing. "You're not going to have to," Emmett says. "Father has ordered them to bring the carriage. You'll have an easy way. Only a few more steps to the door and we'll be there."
The sun has nearly set, leaving dark shadows to fall upon the house, but Aro is there, an oil lamp ready to guide them through the young night. Carlisle waits at the bottom, his hands together in front of him, watching his youngest son as he passes from step to step. The black carriage is grand and wide, drawn by two elegant mares of chestnut. Behind are Jasper's and Emmett's horses, for they are made to ride single in the dark and cold.
The raw air stings Edward's face, and he blinks then shuts his eyes to rest. In his seventeen years, he'd thought of how he would die more times than he cared to count.
Either in the moment, or late night wonderings while he waited for sleep to find him, he'd muse on events which had already passed. He'd fallen from a horse when he had but eight summers and the strike on his back when he landed on the ground stole the breath from his chest. He thought death had come for him in that instant, but as he lay there gasping for air the world had swirled around him. His father stole him from where he'd fallen and swaddled him until he could catch the air which had withdrawn as he struck dirt.
And the breath he takes now causes pain, cracking inside his body which he can't place, and it seems as though it's been hurting for so long, torturing him. He knows he's ready if the Lord is willing. A moan gurgles from his throat, and Carlisle, cradling Edward under his arm, says, "Keep your strength, son. We're nearly there."
When the carriage stops Edward smells the smoke from long-burning fires, the cooking of meat. He sees the round huts of the Natives, and their dark faces with lines of black paint under their eyes, on their cheeks, and their mouth.
Jasper and Emmett dismount and assist Edward as he bowls over, huffing and groaning. Carlisle follows, but doesn't linger by the carriage like his sons. He approaches the Indians, dressed in his gray suit which he wears as though it's armor. He gestures back to Aro with an open palm. "I've done what was agreed upon," he says, directing his attention to Chief. Next to him is the Wolf, interpreting as before.
Chief looks on as Aro unloads the bundles of dried tobacco leaves from the large crate tied to the rear of the carriage. He sets it at Carlisle's feet.
"Now will you attend my son?" Carlisle asks.
Chief motions for Edward to follow. Holding out his hand, as if to say he's okay, his brothers release him. They do with slow, precise movements so he may find his balance.
Edward straightens as much as he can and leaves the help behind at the behest of the people who are to save him. Inside, the structure is held firm by a frame of branches sewn together with strips of dried animal hide. Firelight flickers, sending shadows dancing onto the stiff walls. The people lower Edward onto a soft pile of pelts, positioning him so his legs are straight and his arms are by his side.
He doesn't feel any better like this and wants to curl in to relieve the ache more than he wants to please the medicine man.
"Must stay straight," Wolf says to him, positioning his arm again.
Edward groans as a man with many wrinkles and black paint hovers over him, a bone bowl in hand. He smears dark tint onto Edward's cheeks, on his brow, and along his neck. Upon an inhale, the stink of death permeating the air, Edward knows what he paints him with, beyond any question.
Blood.