AUTHOR NOTE: Vampires in this version of Twilight do not sparkle, they have blood coursing through their veins.
THREADS OF RED
The night was still around him, heavy with a silence that pressed against his ears. Sirreth sat on the porch steps, the lighter clicking in his hand as the rhythmic motion filled the quiet. The half-empty packet of cigarettes sat at his side, the stub of his last one crushed beneath his heel. He didn't want another. Smoking had done nothing to settle the unease crawling through him.
He was painfully aware of time now. Each second felt stretched, deliberate, as if the world itself had slowed down to mock him. He could feel every passing moment with an unbearable clarity that gnawed at his edges. The haze that had once dulled his senses was gone, leaving him exposed, raw. The lucidity was sharper tonight than it had been all weekend, and with it came the memories—relentless, jagged things clawing their way to the surface.
Friday night was the start of it. The blood dripping from his nose, pooling in the sink as he scrubbed at his skin in a futile attempt to erase what had happened. His eyes had glowed, their lilac hue distorted into something chaotic, alive, a kaleidoscope of shifting light. His veins had writhed beneath his skin, alive in ways veins shouldn't be. He'd told himself it wasn't real, that he was imagining it. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he knew it was real.
It had been after that night that he'd started feeling it—the creeping awareness, the memories forcing their way forward, and the thing inside him.
He shifted on the porch, the lighter clicking again in his hand. Every memory that surfaced came with a searing ache, a pressure that built behind his ribs and spread through his limbs. It wasn't just pain. It was something else. Something alive.
It was as though whatever was buried in him had started to stir, clawing at the walls of his mind, forcing its way through his body. He could feel it now, faint but insistent, writhing beneath his skin. It moved in time with the memories, as though they gave it strength. Each flash of the past made it grow stronger, and more present.
He pressed a hand to his chest as if he could stop it, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. The sensation wasn't constant, but when it came, it was overwhelming—a crawling, twisting thing that seemed to vibrate under his skin. He couldn't explain it. It wasn't something he could name or describe. It was just there. And the worst part was knowing it wasn't going away.
Sirreth exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the cool air. He was aware of every second passing, every breath he took, every faint pulse of blood in his veins. It was as though his body had turned against him, forcing him to feel things he had spent years avoiding. He could feel the illness at work, tugging at his memories, dragging them into the light one by one, even as some other part of him—something desperate and alive—fought to hold on to them.
The lighter clicked again, its spark flaring briefly before fading. He couldn't tell Charlie. Couldn't tell Bella. They'd tell him it was in his head, that the lucidity, the memories, the thing inside him—it was all a hallucination. A byproduct of the illness or a side effect of the injections. Carlisle would dissect it with his calm explanations, trying to make sense of what Sirrethknewwas real.
But how could he explain what it felt like? How could he describe the sensation of something alive within him, crawling under his skin, clawing at his chest, writhing against his ribs as if trying to tear its way out? How could he make them understand the way his memories surged forward with pain so sharp it left him breathless?
He tightened his grip on the lighter, letting the cool metal bite into his palm. He couldn't tell them because they wouldn't understand. And even if they did, what would it change? Charlie would still look at him with that helpless, broken expression, and Bella would try to fix something she couldn't even see.
The lighter clicked shut, and Sirreth tilted his head back, resting it against the wooden railing. His gaze drifted up to the faint stars scattered across the dark sky, their light blurred by the dim glow of the streetlights. Every moment felt endless now. Time stretched on, each second a reminder of the thing inside him, the thing that refused to be ignored.
Under every memory that surfaced, he could feel it stirring, alive and desperate, crawling through him like it was searching for a way out. It wasn't just his illness anymore. It was something more, something deeper, something that made his very blood feel like it was burning.
He let the lighter fall into his lap, his fingers trembling slightly as he stared out into the night. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn't going to stop. The lucidity, the memories, the thing inside him—it was all growing stronger.
And he wasn't sure how much longer he could endure it.
The next morning felt inevitable, pressing down on him like the weight of an unwelcome truth.
Sirreth hadn't slept. The hours of the night had stretched endlessly, each one pulling him further into a sharp, unbearable awareness. The sound of his own blood rushing through his veins had filled his ears, a constant, twisting rhythm that refused to quit. His skin prickled with a crawling sensation he couldn't ignore, and the blanket had become a suffocating weight, brushing against him like needles. The ache in his body simmered just below the surface, searing every time he moved.
By the time the first grey light of morning filtered through the blinds, Bella and Charlie were already gone. Bella had muttered something about Edward before leaving, her words brushing past him like static. He hadn't moved to acknowledge her, hadn't said anything at all. Now, though, he was outside, the sharp morning air biting against his skin as he smoked on the front porch.
The cigarette trembled faintly between his fingers as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling out in jagged trails. He didn't remember deciding to come out here or lighting the cigarette, but now he waited. For Angela. The realisation hit him suddenly, an uninvited thought surfacing from the restless churn of his mind. He couldn't remember why, but he knew he was waiting for her.
This wasn't the only memory that had forced itself on him this morning. No.
His medication had been another. The memory had crept in, sharp and unrelenting, dragging him to the bottles on the counter as though his body moved independently of his will. He'd taken the pills without hesitation, his hands working with a precision that felt foreign and invasive. The act itself unsettled him more than it reassured him. Each pill swallowed had been accompanied by a fresh stab of pain, a burning ache behind his eyes that flared as though something in his mind had gripped the memory tight, forcing it to take root.
Every remembrance came with pain, an impenetrable sting that left him paralyzed, unable to react. It wasn't just his thoughts—it was his body too, his blood curling and digging beneath his skin, twisting with a life of its own. He could feel it now, the movement faint but insistent, dragging his awareness deeper into the sharp, unwelcome lucidity that had taken hold since Friday night.
He tilted his head back slightly, his lilac eyes following the birds flitting between the branches above. Their wings cut sharp, deliberate lines through the pale sky, their movements precise and purposeful. It was like seeing the world for the first time, each detail painfully vivid. He watched as one banked sharply, disappearing into the trees, and for a fleeting moment, the sharp ache in his chest gave way to something unnameable.
The crunch of gravel broke his concentration, pulling his gaze downward. He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"You're up early," Angela said, her voice soft but matter-of-fact.
Sirreth flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before responding. "I was waiting," he murmured, his voice low and distant, like the words had slipped out unbidden.
Angela stepped onto the porch, pausing at the railing. She didn't ask why he was waiting or comment on the faint traces of smoke still lingering in the air. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her gaze following his as she looked up toward the birds.
"They're early today," she said simply, her tone light, unassuming.
Sirreth didn't answer right away. His fingers brushed absently against the lighter in his pocket, its cold surface a faint contrast to the burning heat beneath his skin. He could feel the minutes dragging by, each one carrying a sharp, stabbing reminder of his lucidity. The inevitability of school loomed ahead of him, a weight he couldn't shake.
"You ready to go?" Angela asked after a while.
He wasn't. He doubted he ever would be. But he nodded once, his movements slow and deliberate, as though trying to summon the will to keep going.
The birds scattered as he stepped off the porch, their wings catching the light before vanishing into the trees. Angela fell into step beside him, silent as they started down the path toward school. Sirreth barely noticed the crunch of gravel beneath his boots or the faint chill of the air brushing against his skin. His thoughts churned, sharp and unrelenting, the ache in his mind a constant, unspoken presence as the morning pressed on.
Angela's quiet goodbye barely registered as Sirreth pushed open the door to the front office. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their sharp glare cutting through his already over-sensitized mind. He stepped inside, expecting the same as every other morning, but the moment his eyes fell on her, something shifted.
Rosalie was waiting for him, just as she always had been, standing near the desk with her usual composure. She held a stack of papers—his notes and assignments—arranged neatly in her pale hands. She glanced up as the door creaked open, her golden eyes locking onto his.
And for the first time, he really saw her.
It wasn't her presence that caught him off guard—he'd grown used to that over the past week. It was everything else. The way she stood too still, too perfect, as though every muscle in her body was calculated down to the smallest degree. The way her golden eyes seemed to glow faintly under the harsh lights, too vibrant, too alive, as though they didn't belong in the same world as the dull browns and blues of the students walking through the halls.
Her skin was another matter entirely. Pale, luminous, almost reflective under the flickering fluorescent bulbs. It wasn't the pallor of someone sick or cold. It was something else—something smoother, almost marble-like, as though she'd been carved rather than born.
Even the way she held the papers in her hands struck him as strange, the motion too precise, too deliberate like she wasn't holding them so much as presenting them.
He blinked, trying to process what he was seeing, and it hit him like a jolt to the chest: Rosalie didn't look human.
Not entirely, anyway.
His breath hitched as her gaze caught his, unflinching and steady. There was nothing predatory about her expression, no malice or aggression, but there was something unshakably off. Like she existed on a separate plane, barely tethered to the reality he understood.
"Sirreth," she greeted, her voice smooth and measured, the faintest trace of warmth in her tone. "You're here. Good."
Her smile was small, and polite—like the kind you might give an acquaintance at a passing glance. But to him, standing under the glaring lights with his mind buzzing, it felt like an unnatural mask, practised and deliberate.
He hesitated as he stepped closer, his hand twitching slightly before reaching out to take the stack of papers she held. The moment his fingers brushed hers, the flicker came.
It wasn't a thought, not exactly. More like a feeling, sharp and visceral, pulling at the edges of his mind. A memory, maybe—faint and fragmented, something he couldn't quite place. It left him momentarily frozen, staring at her face.
"Are you okay?" Rosalie asked, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as she tilted her head. Her voice didn't change—calm, patient—but her gaze sharpened like she was assessing him.
"I..." His voice faltered as another wave of clarity washed over him, sharper this time. He blinked again, his chest tightening as the flicker sharpened into something recognizable.
Her smile.
Not the polite curve of her lips she wore now, but something brighter, lighter. Amused. A smile from a different moment, one he couldn't fully grasp, but it was there—her face warmer, her presence less rigid, her voice soft with quiet laughter.
The memory slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving an ache in its place.
"Sirreth," Rosalie prompted again, and this time, her hand moved to his shoulder. The touch was cold and startling, but not unpleasant.
"I'm okay," he managed finally, his voice lower than he intended. He tightened his grip on the papers, the sharpness of the memory still lingering like an afterimage.
Rosalie's tawny eyes kept on him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then, with a faint squeeze of his shoulder, she stepped back, her composure slipping effortlessly into place.
"Good," she said, her tone returning to its usual efficiency. "Let's go. You've got everything you need for today."
As they started down the hall, Sirreth's mind stirred, the ache in his chest flaring with every step. That flicker of memory—her amused smile, the warmth it carried—gnawed at him. He hadn't thought much about Bella's words before, about her overhearing Rosalie's argument with Edward, but now the pieces started to align.
Bella had said Rosalie was angry because he'd been hurt. At the time, it hadn't meant much, but now it felt heavier, more significant.
She'd cared.
He glanced at her as they walked, catching the sharpness of her profile, the flawless stillness of her face. Whatever she was—whatever made her seem so unnatural, so otherworldly—it didn't change the truth pressing against the edges of his mind. She cared. She'd cared enough to argue, enough to stay with him, enough to take on this strange, quiet role beside him.
Even now, the familiar pain coursing through him, he could see it. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Thankfully, the start of lessons drowned out the noise in Sirreth's head, the relentless thrum of pain that had been his constant companion all morning. He let himself focus on the steady rhythm of the day—the droning voices of teachers, the faint scratch of pens on paper, and the muffled chatter of students around him. He didn't write, his pen lying untouched beside his notebook, but he absorbed everything, clinging to the structure of the lessons to keep his thoughts at bay.
Rosalie sat beside him, her posture as perfect as her movements were fluid. She took notes in a flowing script that was both unnervingly precise and oddly old-fashioned, the kind of handwriting that seemed to belong to another era. Every stroke of her pen was deliberate, unhurried, as though she had all the time in the world. Sirreth caught himself glancing at her paper once, watching the way her hand moved with effortless control. The perfection of it unsettled him, a quiet reminder that there was something about her he couldn't quite name.
By the time they reached biology, his chest felt heavy again, the ache settling just beneath his ribs. The familiar classroom was filled with its usual faint smell of cleaning chemicals, the black tabletops gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Sirreth slid into his usual seat near the middle of the room, Rosalie settling beside him. She placed her notebook on the table, her golden eyes scanning the room with an alertness that didn't seem to match the mundane chatter around them.
Up front, Mr. Banner cleared his throat, commanding the room's attention. "Alright," he said, his voice sharp but not unkind. "Today's lab is a little more hands-on than usual. We'll be determining your blood types." He gestured to a stack of small cardboard boxes on his desk. "These kits will help you identify your type using a simple finger-prick test. Don't panic—it's painless for most people."
As he spoke, Mr. Banner motioned for a student near the front of the room—Lauren, Sirreth vaguely recalled—to begin handing out the boxes. She grabbed a stack, her bracelets jangling faintly as she moved between the rows of desks, placing one box in front of each student.
"Okay so, everyone, I want you all to take one piece from each box," Mr. Banner continued, producing a pair of rubber gloves from the pocket of his lab jacket. He pulled them on with practised ease, the sharp snap of the gloves cutting through the hum of the room. To Sirreth, the sound felt sharper than it should, almost intrusive.
"The first should be an indicator card," Mr. Banner said, holding up a small white card divided into four clearly marked squares. Lauren continued moving down the rows, her pace unhurried, the stack in her hands shrinking steadily. "The second is a four-pronged applicator," Mr Banner added, picking up a strange tool that resembled a nearly toothless hair pick. "And the third is a sterile micro-lancet." He held up a small piece of blue plastic, snapping it open with a faint click. Though the barb wasn't visible from this distance, Sirreth felt his stomach churn at the thought of it.
Lauren dropped a box onto Sirreth's table with a faint thud before continuing down the row. The small package felt heavier than it should as he stared at it, his chest tightening slightly.
"I'll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards," Mr. Banner added as he moved to the first table. "Please don't start until I get to you."
Sirreth glanced sideways at Rosalie, who sat perfectly still beside him. She hadn't even looked at the kit in front of her, her golden eyes instead fixed on Mr Banner as he demonstrated the process. Her hands rested lightly on the edge of the table, her posture as composed as always, but there was something sharp in her focus that made her seem... different.
"Once your card is ready," Mr. Banner continued, "you'll carefully prick your finger with the lancet." He picked up a student's hand at the front table and pressed the lancet to their fingertip without hesitation. "Then you'll put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs," he explained, squeezing the student's finger until a bead of blood formed and dripped onto the applicator. "Finally, you'll apply the blood to the card." He held up the now-speckled indicator card, the stark red against white catching the light in a way that made Sirreth's stomach twist further.
"The Red Cross is having a blood drive in Port Angeles next weekend," Mr. Banner said, sounding oddly cheerful as he set the card down. "I thought you should all know your blood type. Those of you who aren't eighteen yet will need a parent's permission—I have slips at my desk."
The room hummed with nervous energy as the rest of the boxes were distributed, students exchanging glances and muttering under their breath. Sirreth barely noticed the noise. His focus was locked on the kit in front of him, the sterile lancet nestled innocuously inside, but his chest tightened as though it were a threat.
He recognized the feeling immediately—a slow, insidious crawl beneath his skin. Hesitation. It clung to him as Mr Banner moved between the rows of tables, dispensing drops of water onto the indicator cards with practised precision. Sirreth's gaze fell to the kit in front of him. The sterile blue lancet rested innocently within, but the sight of it made his chest tighten.
The image forced its way into his mind: blood spilling forth, twisting, writhing as though alive. The memory of it moving beneath his skin when the ache burned sharpest was too vivid, too consuming. His stomach churned. It wasn't the prick of the needle that frightened him, nor the sight of blood. It was what his blood might do.
"You're staring at that like it's going to bite you," Rosalie said, her golden eyes flicking toward him. Her voice wasn't teasing this time—just quiet, with a touch of curiosity. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "Do you even know your blood type?"
The question drew his attention to her. Her voice was calm, almost casual, but her expression softened slightly. She wasn't pressing him; she was giving him an out.
"No," he admitted after a pause, his voice barely audible over the hum of the classroom. "Carlisle's done tests, but... he's never told me. I never asked."
Rosalie's lips quirked faintly, though her usual sharpness lingered. "Typical Carlisle," she murmured. "Aurium. Or AuR," she added after a moment, her fingers toying absently with her lancet. "Not something most people would recognize. It's rare—practically nonexistent."
The word felt foreign as it settled in his mind. "Aurium," he repeated softly. "Why wouldn't he tell me?"
Rosalie shrugged, her gaze drifting toward Mr. Banner as he approached their table. "Maybe he thought it didn't matter. Or maybe he didn't want you overthinking it."
Before Sirreth could respond, Mr Banner arrived, his smile as practised as ever. "Alright, you two know the drill," he said, setting up their cards with quick, efficient movements. "Just a quick prick and we'll see what your blood has to say. Shouldn't take more than a second."
Rosalie arched a brow at him. "Fascinating," she said dryly, her tone laced with polite disinterest. But as Mr. Banner moved to the next table, her attention returned to Sirreth, her expression softening again when she caught the tension in his posture.
"You're not scared of a little lancet, are you?" she asked, her voice quieter now. There was no teasing in it this time, just something steady, almost patient. "You've dealt with worse."
His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, his knuckles pale. "That's not it," he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear.
Rosalie tilted her head slightly, watching him closely. She didn't press further, but after a moment, she sighed softly, her sharp demeanour easing just a fraction. "I'll go first," she said, her tone lighter but purposeful. "Watch."
Sirreth blinked, startled by the offer. Rosalie rarely did anything without reason, but her movements were already fluid and precise as she opened her kit. "Relax," she added without looking at him. "It's not a big deal."
She pressed the lancet to her finger with practised ease. The faint sting didn't even register on her face as a bead of blood appeared. Tilting her hand slightly, she let the drop fall neatly onto the applicator, where it spread evenly, inert and still.
"See?" she said, setting the card down with a faint smirk. "Easy."
The sight of her blood—so normal, so compliant—only heightened his own dread. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for his lancet, but he froze halfway, unable to close the distance.
Rosalie noticed. Her golden eyes softened slightly as she leaned forward. "Do you want me to do it for you?" she asked, her voice low but gentle. "It's not complicated."
Sirreth hesitated, then nodded, his throat tight with unspoken apprehension.
"Alright," she said simply, reaching for his hand. Her fingers were cool but steady, her grip firm as she guided his hand over the card. "It'll be quick. Don't overthink it."
The sting came quickly, sharp but fleeting. His breath hitched as the bead of blood welled up, shimmering under the fluorescent light. For a moment, he thought he saw it shift—just a flicker of motion beneath the surface. His chest clenched in panic.
But it didn't.
The drop fell onto the applicator, pooling in a small, ordinary blot. Rosalie pressed it to the card with calm precision, her movements smooth and methodical.
"There," she said, leaning back slightly as she set the card aside. "Done."
Sirreth stared at the card, his chest still tight. The flicker of motion he thought he'd seen gnawed at his mind, vivid and unrelenting. But the blood was still now, inert and unremarkable. Was it just a hallucination?
Rosalie's voice pulled him back. "See? Nothing happened." Her golden eyes met his, sharp but steady. "Told you it wasn't a big deal."
Her tone carried its usual confidence, but there was an undertone of reassurance—quiet, subtle, but present. Sirreth exhaled slowly, trying to shake the lingering unease. It's just blood , he told himself again. But the words felt thin, hollow. Isn't it?
The relief was palpable when lunch came, washing over him like a wave as they stepped away from the sterile air of the science classroom. Away from the blood. Away from the weight of expectation and the thoughts that had gnawed at him since the moment the lancet touched his skin.
Now, the familiar quiet of an empty classroom offered a reprieve. The low hum of the overhead lights filled the space, a soft background noise that helped steady his frayed nerves. Rosalie sat across from him, her golden hair glowing faintly under the fluorescent light as she flipped through his notes. Her movements were calm and methodical, her pen gliding effortlessly across the page as she made small corrections or added extra details.
Sirreth leaned forward, his head resting on his folded arms. He watched her work, the rhythmic scrape of her pen oddly soothing, but his thoughts refused to settle. They swirled with fragmented memories, flashes of light and sound, fleeting sensations that felt both familiar and foreign.
Her voice, was quick and firm, with a warmth hidden beneath its sharpness. His laugh, carefree and unrestrained, echoed between fragments he couldn't place. The way her hand rested on his shoulder, steadying him as they stood in the sunlight, her golden hair shimmering. These moments came and went like waves crashing against his mind—blinding, overwhelming, and impossible to hold onto.
He shifted slightly, burying his head deeper into his arms as he tried to push the fragments away. But the question he hadn't meant to voice escaped before he could stop it.
"Why do you help me?"
The words hung in the air, soft but heavy. Rosalie's pen stilled mid-stroke, her golden eyes lifting to meet his. She blinked, her expression unreadable for a moment before a faint smirk tugged at her lips.
"You're talkative today," she remarked, her tone light but laced with curiosity. "What's gotten into you?"
Sirreth tilted his head slightly, his cheek pressing against his arm. "I'm curious," he said simply, his voice soft and steady. "Why do you help me?"
Her smirk faltered, her expression shifting as though the question had caught her off guard. She leaned back slightly in her chair, her golden eyes narrowing. "Why not?" she replied, though the words came slower than usual, less certain.
"That's not an answer," Sirreth murmured, his gaze steady despite the quiet insistence in his tone. After a pause, he added, "Were we friends before?"
The question froze her entirely. Her posture stiffened, and her golden eyes locked onto his, wide and unguarded for a moment before she looked away. "Do you remember that?" she asked cautiously, her voice quieter now.
"Partially," he admitted, his brow furrowing as he tried to cling to the flashes in his mind. "It's... pieces. Like a burned film. I can't piece it together."
Rosalie's jaw tightened, and her gaze dropped to the desk. Her fingers tapped against the edge of the notebook, her movements suddenly more restrained. She knew the truth—she remembered everything, from the moments they'd shared to the fracture that had erased it all for him. But she wouldn't tell him that. She couldn't.
"We were," she said, at last, her voice measured and distant. "A long time ago."
The words struck a chord deep within him, unsettling and familiar all at once. He lifted his head slightly, his voice soft as he asked, "Why did it stop?"
Her golden eyes flicked back to his, sharp but guarded. For a moment, it looked as though she might answer, but then her expression hardened, and she leaned back in her chair. "Because it had to," she said briskly, her tone clipped but devoid of malice. "That's all you need to know."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, laden with things left unsaid. Sirreth leaned back into his arms again, his gaze drifting to the desk as the flashes returned, fractured and unbidden. Her voice, her laughter, the ghost of her touch—it all lingered on the edge of his mind, tantalizingly close yet maddeningly out of reach.
Across from him, Rosalie resumed her work, though her movements seemed slower now, less precise. After a long moment, she glanced at him again, her golden eyes softening slightly.
"Focus on your notes," she said, her voice quieter now, almost gentle.
Sirreth didn't respond. The pieces of his fractured memories slipped further from his grasp, leaving only the void in their wake. Whatever they'd once had, it lingered here, tethered to the silence between them.
But the why remained maddeningly out of reach.
He didn't press her again, though the urge clawed at him, insistent and sharp. Her words sat heavy in the space between them, unresolved, but the weight in her tone made it clear she wouldn't say more. He nodded faintly, an empty gesture, and reached for his notes, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages as if the motion might anchor him.
Then he felt it.
A faint warmth, wet and intrusive. His breath hitched as his gaze dropped to the table. A single drop of blood had fallen onto the pale surface, stark and vivid. Another followed, spreading into a small, glistening pool. It wasn't much, but it was enough to set his pulse hammering, the tightness in his chest swelling like a vice.
His vision narrowed, tunnelling in on the red stain. The memory of Friday loomed, sharp and oppressive. His chest constricted, his breath hitching in shallow, uneven bursts. What if it happens again? The thought spiralled, dragging him down with it.
"Sirreth." Rosalie's voice broke through the growing fog, sharp but steady. The scrape of her chair startled him, her golden gaze snapping to him as she stood. Concern flickered in her expression, but it was the way her tawny eyes narrowed, assessing him, that struck something deeper.
She crossed the room quickly, crouching beside him. "This has happened before, hasn't it?" she asked, her voice lower now, more focused.
He couldn't speak, his throat tight as the sharp ache in his temples began to spread, radiating through his skull. He swallowed hard, nodding faintly. "Friday," he whispered, the word barely audible, broken.
Rosalie studied him, her expression sharpening as her gaze darted between the blood and his pale face. "And?" she prompted, her tone edged with patience, but when no further explanation came, her brow furrowed. "What happened on Friday?"
"I don't know," he muttered, his voice trembling. His hands gripped the desk, the wood biting into his palms as his breath quickened further. The ache in his head throbbed in rhythm with his pounding pulse, the two sensations feeding each other in a vicious loop. His fingers twitched, trembling faintly as his gaze locked onto the blood.
He could feel it—the panic creeping in like a physical force. His chest felt impossibly tight, his breaths too shallow. The room seemed smaller, the air thinner. His heart raced, erratic and insistent, while a faint ringing began in his ears.
"Sirreth," Rosalie said again, her voice quieter this time but no less commanding. He flinched as her hand brushed his shoulder lightly. "Breathe," she urged, her tone calm but firm.
He couldn't meet her eyes. His skin felt hot like it was closing in around him. "Don't tell Charlie," he whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Please. He doesn't need to know."
Rosalie tilted her head slightly, her golden gaze narrowing as her hand hovered near his. Her expression softened—barely—but her voice held steady. "Why?"
"He's already worried," Sirreth rasped, his voice breaking. His chest heaved, his breath catching on the words. "He doesn't need more to worry about. Please, Rosalie. Don't tell him."
She stayed silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on him, sharp and unwavering. The faint tremor in his hands, the way his breath hitched unevenly—she could feel the panic radiating off him like a tangible thing.
After a long pause, she exhaled softly and straightened, though her movements were measured. "Fine," she said eventually, her voice quieter now, though a certain weight remained. "I won't tell Charlie."
Sirreth sagged slightly, his shoulders still tense but loosening as the words reached him. His chest still felt tight, but the sharp edge of his panic began to dull.
"But I'm telling Carlisle," Rosalie continued, her tone firm but even. "If he thinks it's serious, he'll ask to see you. Charlie doesn't have to know unless it's absolutely necessary."
Sirreth stiffened slightly, his jaw tightening as her words settled over him. The pounding in his head persisted, but his pulse slowed incrementally as her calmness steadied him. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.
Rosalie's gaze didn't waver. She reached into her bag, pulled out a tissue, and pressed it gently to his nose, tilting his head back with careful hands. "And we're going to the nurse," she said matter-of-factly. "You need something for the headache. It's too much to ignore."
He opened his mouth to protest but stopped, the words catching in his throat. She wasn't asking. The throbbing in his skull made it hard to argue, and the way she worked—quick, sure, but with a faint undercurrent of care—left him with little room to resist. Slowly, he nodded again.
"Good," Rosalie said simply, adjusting the tissue against his nose. Her fingers were cool, her touch firm but not forceful. "It's stopping," she added after a moment, her tone softening. "But you can't let this go, Sirreth."
He didn't respond, his eyes closing briefly as the pain dulled slightly. The relief of knowing his skin wasn't moving, that his veins weren't rippling, settled over him like a cold cloth. It wouldn't happen again—not like Friday.
The silence stretched between them, but Rosalie stayed close, her presence steady and grounding. "Come on," she said after a moment, extending a hand to him. "Let's get this over with."
Sirreth glanced at her hand, hesitating before letting out a slow, uneven breath. He took it, her grip cool and steady as she helped him stand. For now, the lingering ache and the weight of her words were enough to keep him quiet.
The walk to the nurse's office was sobering, the quiet tension between Rosalie and Sirreth broken only by the echo of their footsteps against the tiled floor. Rosalie kept her hand light but steady on his arm, her grip a silent reassurance. She said nothing, but the sharp flick of her golden eyes toward him every few moments was enough to tell him she was watching closely, measuring his every unsteady breath.
The bell rang just as they reached the office, its shrill sound slicing through the stillness. Sirreth flinched, the noise reverberating against the relentless throb in his head. Rosalie guided him through the door with smooth precision, closing it just as the tide of students began to flood the hallway.
Nurse Phelps looked up from her desk, her brows lifting in surprise before her expression softened. She rose quickly, a warm smile breaking through her mild curiosity.
"Well," she said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt, "I was wondering when I'd see you. A week and a day—pretty impressive streak."
Sirreth lowered himself into a chair with slow, deliberate movements, resting his elbows on his knees as he dipped his head. The crumpled tissue in his hand was forgotten, its dampness a distant memory now that the bleeding had stopped. The ache behind his eyes, however, pulsed on, sharp and unyielding. He didn't respond, too focused on steadying his breath.
"He needs his medication," Rosalie said simply, her voice calm but threaded with an urgency she didn't bother to hide.
Nurse Phelps nodded knowingly, moving to the cabinet. "Sit tight, Sirreth. I'll get it for you."
Rosalie knelt in front of him, her golden gaze scanning his face with methodical precision. She studied every flicker of discomfort in his expression, the faint crease in her brow deepening as her sharp eyes flicked briefly toward the door. Sirreth noticed the tension in her frame, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as muffled voices echoed down the hall.
The commotion grew louder, punctuated by the sound of a familiar voice—Mike Newton's—rising over the noise. Rosalie stiffened, her irritation flashing in the tightening of her jaw just as the door swung open.
Mike stormed in, his face flushed with frustration. Behind him came Edward Cullen, carrying Bella in his arms like a porcelain doll. Bella's face was pale, her head resting limply against Edward's chest, her eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again.
"What the hell, Cullen?" Mike snapped, his voice sharp with indignation. "Mr. Banner asked me to take her to the nurse. Not you!"
Edward didn't spare him a glance, his voice smooth and unbothered as he addressed Nurse Phelps. "She fainted," he said simply, the faintest trace of amusement curling his lips. "Apparently, she's not a fan of blood."
Nurse Phelps barely glanced at Mike as she gestured toward the cot at the back of the room. "Lay her down here," she instructed briskly. "Carefully."
Edward moved past Mike without a word, his movements effortless as he carried Bella to the cot and set her down gently. Mike lingered near the door, his fists clenched as he muttered under his breath, his glare bouncing between Edward and Bella.
"There's always one," Nurse Phelps said under her breath, her dry tone laced with faint amusement as she glanced at Mike. "If you're not hurt, you can go."
Mike sputtered, his face reddening further, but Rosalie's sharp gaze flicked toward him, cutting off any retort he might have had. He huffed, stomping out of the office with a muttered, "Unbelievable," as the door swung shut behind him.
Bella stirred faintly on the cot, her eyes opening slowly. She blinked, her gaze drifting across the room until it landed on Sirreth. Her brows knit together slightly as she studied him.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice hoarse but gentle.
Sirreth met her gaze, his voice soft and steady as he countered, "Are you?"
A faint, self-conscious smile tugged at Bella's lips as she pushed a hand to her temple. "Since the accident," she murmured, her voice quiet but clear, "I can't stand the sight of blood. It makes me... weak."
Sirreth's brow furrowed slightly, her words settling heavily in the air. His gaze flicked briefly to Rosalie, who had straightened beside him. Her arms crossed, her golden eyes burned with irritation as they locked onto Edward, whose casual demeanour seemed to grate at her.
Edward, standing a few feet from Bella's cot, glanced briefly at Sirreth before returning his attention to Bella. "You'll get used to it," he said lightly, though his tone carried an undercurrent of something sharper. "You're tougher than you think."
Nurse Phelps checked Bella's pulse with swift efficiency, her demeanour professional but warm. "Well," she said, her tone softening slightly, "fainting at the sight of blood isn't uncommon, but we'll keep you here until you're steady enough to leave."
Bella nodded faintly, her gaze flicking back to Sirreth briefly. She opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to think better of it, letting her eyes drift back to the ceiling.
Sirreth remained quiet, the throb in his head dulling slightly as he leaned back in his chair. The tension in the room, however, hung thickly, Rosalie's unspoken frustration radiating like a storm cloud.
As he sat there, Sirreth's world blurred at the edges, narrowing to Rosalie. She knelt in front of him, her golden eyes fixed on his face, calm but searching. Her hands wrapped firmly around his, cool and steady against the tremor in his fingers. The hum of voices from the cot—Bella's faint murmurs, Edward's smooth replies—was distant, drowned out by the storm rising inside him.
The memories stabbed at him, jagged and sharp, flashing through his mind in disjointed fragments. He didn't want them, couldn't face them, but they came anyway. Each fragment bloomed like a thorn, raw and vivid. His breath caught, shallow and uneven, as he tried to focus on anything else—on the present, on Rosalie.
But then the sensation began.
At first, it was faint, almost ignorable—a subtle itch under his skin, like a phantom whisper. But it didn't stay faint. It grew, spreading with an unbearable intensity, like fire creeping through his veins. His chest tightened, his breath hitching as panic surged.
Itch—
I need—
To scratch—
The thought pounded in his mind, primal and relentless. His free hand twitched, the instinct to claw at the sensation overwhelming. But before he could move, Rosalie's voice broke through the haze.
"Sirreth," she said firmly, her grip tightening slightly. Her voice was steady and calm, but laced with quiet urgency. "You're in the nurse's office. At school. You're safe."
The words hit him like a faint echo. He knew where he was—of course, he knew—but the crawling, burning sensation made it hard to hold on to anything real. His fingers twitched again, his gaze darting to the floor as if looking for escape.
"Sirreth," Rosalie repeated, her tone softer but no less commanding. "Look at me. Focus on my voice. You're here because of the headache, remember? That's all. Nothing else is happening."
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to focus. But the itch didn't fade. It grew sharper, twisting into something new. His veins—were they moving? The crawling sensation felt alive, writhing beneath his skin, and his panic swelled to the point of breaking.
His grip on Rosalie's hands tightened, desperate and almost painful. She didn't flinch. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly as she leaned closer, her gaze searching his face. "What are you feeling?" she asked quietly, her voice tinged with concern. "Talk to me."
He couldn't. His throat tightened, the words suffocated by the rising fear. It's not real. It's not real. He repeated the thought, but the itch clawed at him, insistent and maddening. His free hand jerked slightly, and Rosalie moved quickly, catching it with her other hand.
"Stop," she said softly, her voice unwavering as she held both his hands now. "You don't need to scratch. It's not real, Sirreth. Just breathe. Focus on me."
Her touch was cool, and grounding, but it wasn't enough to drown out the sensation that raged inside him. His chest heaved with uneven breaths as he fought against the overwhelming urge to claw at his skin, to prove that the crawling wasn't there. But what if it was? His thoughts spiralled, tangled and incoherent.
"Stay with me," Rosalie said, her thumbs brushing gently over his knuckles. "You're in the nurse's office. You're safe. Nothing is wrong. You're stronger than this."
Her words fought to tether him, but the itch intensified, spreading like a living thing beneath his skin. His veins—they couldn't be normal. This wasn't normal. My blood isn't normal. It can't be. Can it?
His fingers tightened further around hers, trembling violently now. He couldn't stop. He couldn't trust himself. The crawling, the burning—it wasn't fading. It wasn't stopping.
"Sirreth," Rosalie said again, her tone softening but not losing its edge. "You're okay. You're safe. You're with me. Just hold on."
From the cot, Bella's faint voice broke the tension. "Rosalie?" she murmured, her tone hesitant, laced with confusion.
Rosalie's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away from Sirreth. Before she could respond, Edward's smooth voice cut in. "She's fine," he said evenly, his golden eyes flicking briefly to Sirreth before returning to Bella. "There's nothing to worry about."
Bella stirred slightly, her pale face drawing into a faint frown as she glanced at Edward. "You didn't have to carry me," she murmured, faint embarrassment colouring her tone. "I could've walked."
Edward smiled faintly, his tone calm but pointed. "You fainted," he said lightly. "I wasn't going to let you fall again."
Rosalie ignored them entirely, her focus unwavering as she squeezed Sirreth's hands gently. "You're still here," she murmured, her voice soft but steady. "You're in control. This will pass."
But it didn't pass. The itch burned beneath his skin, his veins still feeling wrong, alien. Sirreth's breath came in shallow bursts as he clung to her hands, the coolness of her touch the only thing keeping him from breaking entirely. It wasn't real, he told himself, over and over, but the doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind, heavy and insistent.
The silence between them stretched, taut and fragile. Rosalie stayed with him, her golden eyes unwavering, her touch firm but calm. Sirreth couldn't speak, couldn't move beyond the war raging inside him. But he didn't let go of her hands. He couldn't.
—
LAST EDITED:03/12/2024