Disclaimer: Twilight does not belong to me; I only borrow the characters (mainly Jasper in this case :p) and play around with them. No beta (and I'm french, sorry for potential misunderstanding with the english grammar).
Foreword: This OS, which isn't really one, is my second-chance entry for the "Borders and Regrets" writing challenge on the forum (July/August 2024). This submission is designed as part of a triptych (OS 4 and 5 follow directly and explore the same themes). The three texts can be read as standalone OS pieces (or as three chapters of a mini-fic). For context, I initially planned to publish everything at once, but with the addition of endnotes, it was just too dense/unreadable. So, I decided to break it up in three parts.
Happy reading!
March 14, 1861, White Oak, Texas
« One is not serious when one is seventeen*. »
Arthur Rimbaud - Roman.
Jasper crossed the hallway with the energy of a man on his way to the gallows. Night had fallen hours ago over White Oak, and the house was nearly silent, cloaked in shadows. A single candle—half burned—rested on the table in the sitting room, casting a faint, ghostly glow into a corner of the room where his father waited. A disapproving and drunken sentinel.
Jasper had gathered the few belongings he planned to take with him earlier in the afternoon: a handful of clothes, a poetry collection, and an old hunting rifle his great-uncle had gifted him a few months before his passing. He had been ready to leave for hours. Yet he had spent the latter part of the day lying motionless on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts drifted. Not because he doubted his decision—he had never been more certain of anything.
He could already picture it: a saber in hand, a banner snapping in the wind, galloping on a spirited horse. In his youthful mind, war looked like a heroic ride—what did danger or even death matter when fighting for the defense of one's homeland? He was impatient to join the ranks of the enlisted, exhilarated by the idea of fighting for a cause greater than himself. Eager to leave the somber atmosphere of his home behind and seek glory and honor on the battlefield.
The past weeks had felt interminable. He had followed every snippet in the local newspapers about congressional debates between December and late January with restless anticipation. At the time, he couldn't tell if the papers were sensationalizing the situation with their emphatic predictions of an imminent war. Since February 1, everything had escalated—and clarified. The papers hadn't exaggerated: Houston had been overruled, and Texas had seceded**. War was on the verge of erupting, and recruitment for the Confederate Army was in full swing.
The army needed to organize its forces so that troops would be ready to act when the time came. Cavalry units, in particular, were sparse; experienced horsemen were becoming scarce in larger cities like Houston and Austin, which benefited from robust rail networks. Recruiters scoured surrounding ranches and farms for boys of fighting age who could ride. Jasper had been approached by conscription officers barely two weeks after Texas officially seceded.
His father had received them coolly, tersely informing them that "his son wasn't of age" and that he himself was "in no physical condition to enlist." He refrained from making any cutting remarks about his opinion on the political situation, for which Jasper could only be grateful.
Jasper hadn't missed the officers' regretful expressions or the comment about how much older he looked than his actual age. A few hours after the men's departure, the idea had taken root in his mind and made itself at home. His resolve was set in stone: he had waited for his seventeenth birthday as though it were a symbolic threshold, marking the end of his childhood and the beginning of his journey into adulthood. And into battle.
Even through the haze of amber liquids his father drank in excess to numb the pain of his daughter's death, Rudyard Whitlock had seemed to sense Jasper's decision. For four days, he had been watching his son's every move with suspicion, trying each evening to draw him into one of his tedious tirades about the "moral failing" of the Confederacy's ideals. The discussions were futile and quickly ended when Jasper gave up or Rudyard, out of patience, insinuated—more or less directly—that his son was a fool.
They had been at odds for months. These recent arguments only confirmed to Jasper that the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. The simmering conflict had been brewing for years and reached a boiling point after his sister's death. There was no one left to temper their outbursts or keep their differences from spilling into the open. With every heated exchange, Jasper felt his resentment and inability to comprehend his father's stance growing. His father didn't seem to hold him in much higher regard, appearing increasingly irritated by Jasper's positions. Jasper struggled to cope with the disdain of a man he still respected, even as he found his political views incomprehensible. It was high time Jasper left before one of them said something truly unforgivable.
A part of him had hoped to avoid this unpleasant farewell. He had wished to slip away unnoticed, like a thief in the night. But another part, the more childish one, felt a lump in his throat at the thought of leaving without at least a "goodbye" from Rudyard Whitlock—if not his blessing, which was clearly out of reach. Jasper dropped his modest bundle to the floor, carefully setting the rifle against the wall, and waited for his father to speak.
The silence stretched awkwardly through the room for several long minutes—so long that Jasper began to think no words would be exchanged. Unsure of what to say himself, he gave up and bent down to pick up his belongings. He froze mid-motion, his stomach sinking at the sound of his father's gravelly, sharp-edged voice.
"You're leaving."
In the oppressive quiet, Jasper thought he detected biting judgment in the statement. He swallowed and raised his head to meet his father's gaze. He was struck by eyes that were piercing but clouded with bitterness and alcohol. Beneath the sternness, sadness seemed to churn. Jasper didn't know how to face the man. Straightening up, he held his ground, meeting his father's stare. The disapproval he found there immediately put him on the defensive. He tried one last time to plead his case—to reason with the stubborn man before leaving for war.
"Yes, I'm leaving. It's decided. The army needs men, and I intend to do my part."
Rudyard gave a dry, mirthless laugh. He straightened slowly, his trembling hands gripping the armrests of his chair tightly as if the motion could lend him strength for this final duel.
"Do your part… Don't give me that nonsense, boy. You're rushing headlong into this war without the faintest idea of what you're signing up for! You'll kill and die for lies!"
They were the same arguments his father had hurled at him for days. Jasper glared at the man who had taught him to read, to hunt, and to ride. The man he had idolized above all when he was just a boy. He didn't know how their relationship had grown so strained, but as they stared each other down, it felt like they belonged to different worlds. Strangers.
Jasper forced himself to respond calmly, though he could feel his fists clenching and his pulse quickening with anger.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I know exactly why I'm enlisting. Just because I disagree with you doesn't make me a fool. Do you think Lincoln or Congress cares about the fate of the Negroes? The goal is to destroy the South! To enslave us under their damned federalism. You fought for Texas—you, of all people, should understand the necessity of taking up arms to defend your state's freedom!"
This wasn't the first time they'd had this argument, but tonight something felt heavier. Perhaps it was the notion that this confrontation might be their last. Each sentence that spilled from their mouths seemed to build a wall ever higher between them. Jasper felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he forced himself to appear calm. He hid the slight tremor of his hands by clasping them tightly behind his back. He couldn't help but resent the image his father had of him—a foolish child who didn't understand the cause he wanted to fight for. He didn't know how to shatter that unfair perception. Though his voice was steady, the anger in Rudyard's eyes only fueled his frustration and the sense that the entire discussion was a lost cause. No matter what he said, he would never be understood. It was like trying to restart a derelict mill with a trickle of water.
A heavy silence followed Jasper's outburst before Rudyard suddenly rose to his feet, his once-imposing figure trembling with indignation. He staggered slightly from the alcohol but managed to point an accusatory finger at Jasper, who barely restrained himself from showing contempt for the man's current state. Rudyard's increasing reliance on whiskey since the death of his daughter*** three months earlier had made sensible conversations difficult. Jasper had to remind himself that his father was still in mourning to avoid being overly critical—or outright scornful—of him.
"The freedom of a state! And the freedom of men doesn't matter to you, does it? What I see is that you've swallowed the propaganda being peddled in the papers these past months. You're swept away by the hollow rhetoric of corrupt politicians sending young men to die while they stay safe and warm! I don't care what Congress wants or whether Lincoln is sincere. I care about the lives of the 'Negroes,' as you call them—you would, too, if I'd raised you better!"
Rudyard's voice, usually measured, now carried the weight of reproach and venom he didn't bother to hide. Even diminished, the man still possessed eloquence and a piercing gaze. He pressed on, relentless.
"I fought for Texas's independence, to change the world. You want to fight to keep it the same. To preserve the status quo. To let the wealthy prosper while slaves continue to die in cotton fields! Is that it? What a noble ideal! You're not fighting for yourself, or for us. And certainly not for justice!"
Something almost wavered in Jasper in the face of his father's impassioned argument, but he held firm, standing tall. His father was an idealist, a dreamer, incapable of clear analysis. If this was to be the last time they argued this absurdity, then he would see it through to the end and have the final word. Taking on a cold tone, he even allowed himself a smirk—a mocking expression, even though his heart wasn't in it. He knew he wouldn't convince his father, but he wouldn't be treated like a stupid child without delivering his piece.
"This isn't about the status quo. I want to fight for my homeland. What do you think? That I'll just sit here and watch the South collapse without doing anything? You can disapprove of slavery all you like, but you can't be blind to its benefits! If slavery is to be abolished, it should be the states' decision—case by case and gradually, so we don't ruin our entire economy! The priority is to fight for the South's future, not chase some lofty, unrealistic ideal. You can't even have a rational perspective on this—you're too ruled by emotion. The world must be simple when you're lost in a waking dream..."
Rudyard's fists clenched, his voice deep and still furious. His words were sharp as knives as he stared his son down.
"You're the one who doesn't understand what this is about. You speak of emotion and rationality, but that's exactly the heart of the matter, Jasper. This isn't just about adjustments or money; it's about human lives and dignity. That's more important than a state's pride, cursed plantations, or maintaining an economy. Let me tell you: if the South's economy rests solely on slavery, then it deserves to burn! An economy built on the backs of chained souls has no value and isn't worth fighting for. Going off to die to uphold a system that debases humans is far from honorable! I know you—if you survive this war, and I pray you do, there will come a moment when you realize what you've done wasn't heroic or just. By then, it'll be too late for regrets!"
A tremor of anger coursed through Jasper. He lowered his gaze briefly, full of scorn, drawing a deep breath to keep from exploding. Then, with a sharp gesture, he grabbed his pack. He was more than ready to end a fruitless discussion that would change nothing about what either of them thought. He and his father clearly had nothing more to say to each other.
"What do you expect me to do, Father? Stay in this house and watch the walls rot while you drown your regrets in whiskey? Cling to your misery and wallow in it, if that's what you want. But I'll do what needs to be done! I won't wait for a man who believes in nothing but empty dreams to give me permission to defend my homeland!"
His father remained silent, staring at him for a long moment, as if hoping to find some trace of the boy he had raised in the angry, disdainful young man before him. They were in a minefield, and the trench between them seemed carved into unforgiving stone. Rudyard's shoulders sagged slightly, a sign of defeat, as he shook his head. The bitter disappointment and faint contempt in his eyes stung Jasper more deeply than any angry tirade.
"Go, if that's what you want, Jasper. I won't stop you. But don't pretend you're leaving to defend your homeland, for glory, or for the South's honor."
He paused, his voice softening and breaking slightly, letting an indescribable emotion seep through.
"You're leaving to flee this house, and to avoid remembering it."
Abruptly, Rudyard grabbed the tobacco pouch sitting on the table and hurled it in his son's direction. It landed a few feet from Jasper, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Jasper clenched his teeth, lowering his head, furious and wounded that his father had brought up his sister's death in this context. Words burned on his lips—he wasn't sure which—but he didn't speak them. He had gotten his "goodbye"—or farewell—but couldn't find the strength to respond in kind.
Jasper swallowed hard, willing no emotion to show on his face. He nodded mechanically, stooped to retrieve the strange offering, and felt a wave of dizziness—whether from nausea or regret—threaten to settle in. Ignoring it, he silently picked up the rifle leaning against the wall, his fingers tightening around the weapon. He didn't dare look back at his father before turning his back on him. He felt as though the man's eyes continued to pierce him as he walked down the hall toward the vestibule, leaving without a backward glance. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, the sound echoing ominously in his ears. He had the mad impression that its beats made more noise than his steps on the floorboards.
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold. Without looking back, and without bothering to close the door behind him, he stepped into the night.
Notes:
*The three upcoming OS pieces open with quotes from Rimbaud. There's something in the figure of the "cursed poet"—brilliant, melancholic, ambitious, seeking a life of adventure and heroism despite a cynical view of war, and dying very young after questionable choices (enlisting in the colonial army, ambiguous support for slavery, arms dealing)—that resonates with my vision of Jasper as a human. Here, the mention of "one is not serious at seventeen" primarily serves to underline the character's age, which, while it doesn't justify his choices, may explain some of them. I've tried to portray him as significantly younger and more naïve than in "If This Were a Man." There's a huge difference between being seventeen and eighteen, after all. At this point in the story, Jasper hasn't yet experienced the direct, prolonged impact of war, nor has he been named Major or forced to make complicated decisions for men older than himself.
**Regarding key historical moments tied to Texas's entry into the Civil War: in December 1860, Texas counties convened an extraordinary congress to debate secession. Despite fierce opposition from Governor Sam Houston, the convention adopted an "Ordinance of Secession" by 166 votes to 8 on February 1, 1861. This was later ratified by popular referendum on February 23, 1861. On this occasion, the declaration outlining the reasons for Texas's separation from the Federal Union unequivocally affirmed its unwavering support for slavery, presenting the practice as a natural order stemming from the supposed superiority of the White Race over Blacks. Texas joined the Confederate States of America on March 2 of that year, after deposing Sam Houston, who still refused to swear allegiance to the Confederacy. The first skirmishes between Unionists and Confederates began in mid-April.
***The death of Jasper's sister a few months before the start of the Civil War is a non-canonical element I introduced in "Waiting for the Rain."
I may not have clearly emphasized it in my previous OS referencing this point, but making Jasper's father an idealistic humanist and fervent abolitionist was a deliberate choice. When I began writing "Waiting for the Rain" and delved deeper into Jasper's Confederate past, I immediately felt it would be too "easy" and not morally compelling enough to portray him as coming from a purely pro-Confederate/slavery background. Here, his moral missteps could be fueled by various other factors (local influence, historical context, ambition, egocentrism, propaganda, etc.). Still, I wanted to explore the impact of his personal decisions in this scenario. The goal is to show that even with relatively positive influences, a character who is ostensibly more intelligent than average (Meyer explicitly states his human intelligence in the canon ) can still make highly questionable choices, despite having the "foundation" to make better ones.
P.S.: See you soon for the next installment, and for those following the main fic, a new chapter of "Waiting for the Rain" is coming shortly! Sorry for the delay :')