INCOHERENT CONSTRUCTION
"I wish I had a strong hand for the sole purpose of thrusting it into this incoherent construction that I am. And yet what I am saying here is not even precisely my opinion, not even precisely my opinion at this moment. When I look into myself I see so much that is obscure and still in flux that I cannot even properly explain or fully accept the dislike I feel for myself."
—Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice
—
DECEMBER 5TH 2039
7:04PM MST
NEDERLAND, COLORADO
Jasper watched with concentrated attention as Carlisle stretched Peter's arm across his lap. He asked Peter to tell him if anything hurt while he handled his arm and Peter did not reply. Jasper watched anxiously as Carlisle poked a thumb across the inside of Peter's forearm, pressing against the tendons and waiting for his fingers to curl.
Eventually the fingers on the end of his arm began to every-so-slightly twitch in response. Carlisle asked Peter if he could make a fist and Peter did not try. Carlisle asked Jasper if he would come get him if they needed anything and Jasper did not reply either.
Carlisle left then, and Jasper stared at the skin around the wound that connected Peter's hand and his wrist. It had reconnected soon after they'd pressed the flesh together (skin was always the easiest to attach, but everything within the body took longer to mend) but other than searing pain, Jasper knew that Peter would not be able to feel much of it until the reconnection process was complete.
Jasper thumbed a similar scar around his own forearm, and found himself momentarily trapped in a memory. A cool summer night, a wound full of dirt, Maria's venom burning its way across his awareness as she reattached the arm.
It was one of only a few times she'd ever helped him back in his first decade. He hadn't needed the aid much as time passed, but those small handfuls of memories had always remained firmly and easily accessible; both sticky and uncomfortable. It was because of her that Jasper knew how to fix this exact wound.
It was because of her that he had received any wounds to begin with. But at least she'd helped him, once upon a time. Though to be fair, it had probably been because he'd still been fucking her then.
He shoved at the memory as Peter made a small sound under his breath. The almost-grunt was soft enough that Carlisle wouldn't come running to see, but still, Jasper leaned forward and picked up the small remote that Ness kept on the coffee table and pointed to the fan in the corner. The white noise wouldn't cover much, but as long as Peter didn't make any louder noises of pain, then Carlisle would stay distracted elsewhere.
Peter's left palm remained turned up and open, and slowly he began to make a fist. He opened the hand and closed it a few times, only his brow twitching with the movement. He and Jasper had always been similar when it came to how they dealt with pain. Quietly, alone, and with fury igniting their bones.
Peter's fury was not alone nor was it the loudest emotion in the house. It was stifled by confusion and horror and grief so strong that it cast the room in a sort-of shadow. People walked by them with regularity, since this room connected two ends of the house together, and Jasper sometimes watched them move, transfixed by the way they were able to stride through the blackened purple haze without flinching. He was focused idly on their ability to move without Peter's despair weighing down each of their limbs, forcing them into inaction.
Instead they marched on through, useless words falling from their mouths; their own auras were a mixture of fear and sadness and terror and worry. Even his family's grief did nothing to distract Jasper from the crippling sorrow permeating the entire house.
It was excruciating.
He would not leave though. Jasper would sit at his friend's side and wait until Peter returned from wherever he'd retreated in his head. A place he'd been ever since they'd returned from their desperate, immediate run toward the depths of the Rockies.
Peter sat beside him, alive and unwell, but Charlotte was dead, her ashes lying in a ravine at the bottom of Mount Bethel. They had been cool to the touch by the time they made it across the bend.
Jasper was no fool. He had been right all along.
Follow the light—Westward—bend the height—around the curve of the Continental Divide—love for the land costs a hand.
They'd found Peter in Loveland, about 30 miles north of their home on the outskirts of Nederland.
They'd found Charlotte's ashes at Loveland Pass, to the southeast.
Jasper wished he hadn't been right.
No, that wasn't true. His determined optimism hadn't affected their efforts negatively in any way. They just made him feel like a careless, useless idiot. The second location had been obvious. They'd all known it. It had been fucking obvious and yet still they hadn't seen what was coming for them. The trick of it all.
"Newborns," Peter finally spoke, his voice clear despite the misery pulsing out of him, thick and steady. "I could tell just by the strength of their grip. It was an army for sure."
"You didn't recognize anyone," Jasper guessed. The entire house stilled now that Peter was speaking. Rosalie and Ness were the only ones still making noise.
There had been few things left of Charlotte when they'd arrived. Peter absentmindedly flicked one of Charlotte's rings between the fingers of his right hand. The rest of her rings, necklaces and bracelets sat in his front pockets. He shook his head. "Not a soul. None of the scents were familiar at all."
Jasper didn't want to ask. He asked anyway. "Maria?"
The ring stilled on top of his knuckles. "I don't know. It didn't seem like it."
There was a sick relief inside of Jasper. He had doubted Maria's involvement earlier in the day, and so had Alice, but…
Jasper shifted on the couch and fought the urge to stand and pace. Instead, he brushed his thumb against the ragged side of his index finger and focused on that movement instead.
Esme slipped into the room and sat beside him, giving him enough space that he didn't feel crowded, but the comfort of her presence was immediate. Even when she was sad or worried, her aura had always been calming to him. Jasper forced himself to emerge from his thoughts to reach over and squeeze the top of her hand gently. He wasn't okay—quite far from it—but there was enough to worry about. He didn't need Esme worrying about him specifically.
Especially when this was his fault.
"There are…" Peter paused, and Jasper turned his head to look at him. He could just barely hear Edward, Carlisle and Bella walk into the room. Peter was struggling for words. He looked up at Edward and nodded toward him, "Anything?" Peter asked, and Jasper knew they had missed some sort of unasked question.
Edward shook his head and Peter huffed quietly. "I don't remember parts. I don't remember being separated from Charlotte," he paused as her name left his lips. Jasper pretended not to notice the way Peter's misery intensified. Peter swallowed loudly and continued, "I don't remember moving at all. Not more than a few dozen miles, I mean. I would have sworn we were still in New Mexico. Or that we'd be dragged back further south."
Jasper must have reacted to that in some way because Peter was looking toward him next. "I got careless," he let out a quick, humorless sound. "Thought that since we'd been traveling for a century without issue that it would be safe." His frustration increased as his grief expanded.
Esme scooted closer and rested a hand on Jasper's forearm. He appreciated the sentiment.
"I don't know why I can't fucking remember."
"I can't see anything," Edward spoke out loud. "I don't want to look too far into it, but it could be an ability. Something affecting memory."
There was a pang of anxiety from the kitchen. Jasper turned his focus away from the sensation and back toward the conversation.
"Fuck," Peter finally moved his left hand and relief flooded the room in a quiet, collective exhale. He was silent for another long minute.
They all focused on the sound of Rosalie and Ness moving about while they waited for Peter to speak again, or for someone to ask some sort of question. It sounded as if Rosalie were putting items in a box; Char's boots, one of the pins from her jeans, a half-charred, mostly empty wallet, pale strands of hair from the inside of a black sack. She had collected everything except Charlotte's severed hand.
That sat in the canvas bag on the back step. If Jasper turned his head fully and leaned forward he'd be able to see it out of the glass door from where he was sitting.
He didn't look.
There was a loud scrape of bar stools when Rosalie and Ness returned to the kitchen.
"Shit changed hands so often down around Nuevo Leon," Peter nodded toward Jasper as he spoke, "even in the while you guys had me I remember Torreón saw at least four control swaps that I remember."
"Five," Jasper muttered, remembering the way they had avoided going anywhere east for the first quarter of the twentieth century. It had been for good reason. He didn't know which of the eastern warlords were still alive.
"You're sure they're from Mexico?" Carlisle asked.
"One hundred percent. They mostly spoke in Spanish. A little English. Rarely a combination." Jasper nodded along to Peter's words. That had been more common in the upper half of Mexico. In regions closer to the United States' border. "They didn't speak any names. I—" he swallowed again, his lips twisting into an angry grimace "I've got fucking nothing. Not a clue. I—I don't—"
Peter hated every part of this. He hated all of these eyes on him. He hated the fact that he hadn't fought back. The fury and hatred rose in Peter so swiftly that for a few seconds Jasper forced himself to turn his attention back onto Esme. In contrast, her own sharp, painful grief felt like a summer's day.
"I'm just going to say it," Emmett chimed in. He'd been sitting silently at the kitchen table the entire time, facing both the backyard and the den. "It could be the Volturi."
"No," Carlisle shook his head, and even though Jasper also disagreed with the suspicion, he did not enjoy the easy dismissal and the very faint annoyance he could feel from Carlisle. "Alice has been watching."
Alice's misery flared at those words, and Jasper fought back a physical flinch. He did not look toward the kitchen—he knew she was sitting beside Emmett, her attention focused on thousands of visions—and instead he trained his attention back onto Peter.
"It's not them," Alice spoke anyway. They were the first words she'd offered to any of them since they'd returned home. The buzzing flicker of her visions was beginning to lessen.
Jasper only turned toward the kitchen when he heard her push away from the kitchen table and mutter a small thanks to Emmett as he steadied her. He was thankful to his brothers when Emmett stood and led her into the den, passing her off to Edward who placed her in the small seat by the corner.
"If it's not Maria or the Volturi, do we know who it could be?" Rosalie spoke the question that Jasper had so desperately wanted to avoid. The question that had to have been in the back of everyone's mind. Because one thing was certain: if anyone could deduce who it was, it was Jasper, and only Jasper.
Alice hadn't seen Charlotte. Alice had thought her dead before she was and then it had been too late to change. Alice did not react to Rosalie's question, nor did she reply. Alice's frustration was as strong as Rosalie's doubt.
"Even if we don't know who it is," Carlisle spoke before the silence could linger, "we have to brace ourselves for anything. We have to assume they know everything about us; our strengths and our weaknesses." No doubt Carlisle, too, knew where everyone else's mind had gone.
Alice had been wrong about Charlotte. She could very well be wrong about this.
Jasper met Edward's eyes and looked away quickly. I know, he thought quickly, pointedly. Sorry. I know.
It wasn't Alice fault. Jasper's guilt knotted in his chest and he spent a few seconds focusing on taking in slow, even breaths to shake it off. There was enough guilt in this room coming from him, and too much coming from Alice.
His fingers twitched at his side. Esme finally reached for his hand, having noticed his unease, and Jasper simply let her sandwich his hand between both of hers. It was more for her benefit than his, really. The only person whose comfort he wanted was Alice.
But he would be lying if he said he wasn't upset with her. Which just made him feel worse.
"I don't think we can rule out Maria," Peter spoke slowly, and Jasper nodded in reply, hating the likelihood.
"In the meantime," Rosalie moved into the middle of the room, commanding everyone's attention, a large piece of paper and a pen her hands. She smacked the paper onto the wooden coffee table—it shuddered beneath the impact but Esme said nothing—uncapped the pen, and started to draw. It took two seconds for Jasper to realize she was mapping out the entirety of Mexico and the southwestern United States. He leaned forward as she perfectly outlined each country and, lighter, each state.
Then, in the margins she drew a long rectangle. "Start naming people," she looked up at him and Peter. "I don't care what order." She wrote Maria's name at the top of the list and then fixed them with an impatient look. "If narrowing down who it could be helps, then let's do that first."
A/N: Apologies for the delay between chapters. The end of the semester + moving + working insane holiday hours + podcast tasks = no time for updates. On the bright side, you have a few new chapters to look forward to this week.
