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Aug. 15th, 2009 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themidnightsonEdward doesn't even try to leave Milliways. He doesn't need to look to know that his door is still there. An objective unchanging, a recrimination from one open mind to another open world. He doesn't look, doesn't go, where he knows he belongs (where the knowledge Bella's waiting weighs heavily). His steps, quieter and less traction than falling snow flakes, when he makes his way down the hallways to the jail cell.
He doesn't want to know why anyone named it Baby.
It's a shell holding them, while Mel waits for him to decide.
Edward sits on the stairs, not quite noticing, and definitely not caring, when his face ends up in his hands. The perfect disarray of bronze hair clinging to the sides of his cheeks while the heels of his hands are curved at his chin and along his jaw line. His shoulders don't shake and his eyes don't close, for minutes, maybe it's hours.
A perfect, vibrantly managed, marble statue.
He's focused as hard he can be on the singular set of thoughts two rooms, barely forty feet, away from him now. The voice that he hears to the exclusion of all the expected and foreign cacophony Milliways throws at him. This Carlisle has no filter, no distraction, nothing between the boysent to mock him he has not made and the onslaught of a world that has never seemed so vibrant, so fully present.
In having been the only family member who might have known everything, seen everything, here....here, where it does not know, cannot be softened for his palate, reprimanded with fondness to the present era, in the voice that knows he will listen....he has known nothing.
The problem is not that his reaction is dejection.
It would be predictable, containable, controllable if it were that simple.
It is only the lines of control -- of sanity long fought for and tried for and brought to life in decades of remembing and straining for humanity until humanity either remember an echo upon the whisper of their beings or was branded by their tireless pursuit of -- that keeps his feet on the stair two below where he sits. What he wants to do most is to run, faster than wind, and bury his teeth and his fingers tips and all his strength into the bodies of faces he has known this whole existence.
All of which have always been a world away from him. Worlds of endless days making up centuries of time changing, and at least an ocean. They had always very specifically avoided Volterra. There was so much more to see in the world, Carlisle had claimed, trying to make it joke and still yet a weary truth. He meant that there was better to see.
Edward had always wanted to be there. To repay the sins of the rebirth of his father.
The key to the door to Volterra and no one knowing any better is forty feet away.
He should tell his family -- tell Carlisle. Not Carlisle. At least not yet. He can't move away from the stairs. He can't even press his fingertips hard enough against his eyes.
It's not about making the decision. River was right about that without even asking or telling. There isn't a decision to make. Or options to weigh. What he should do is logical, but logic has nothing to do with it. And leaving could be a dangerously bad idea on so many different levels. If someone even so much as considered him sane and his small, two violations sentence was up, and he was let to the populace before Edward could return?
And how would (will) he convince Carlisle to just follow him back to Volterra door, to open it and walk through? Or is it, that Carlisle just would, without question, with his head down and his will cowed to shepparding that bothers Edward more? That that is for the best, is the way time is supposed to go and have gone and did?
He doesn't want to know why anyone named it Baby.
It's a shell holding them, while Mel waits for him to decide.
(It's not safe to let him near people.)
Edward sits on the stairs, not quite noticing, and definitely not caring, when his face ends up in his hands. The perfect disarray of bronze hair clinging to the sides of his cheeks while the heels of his hands are curved at his chin and along his jaw line. His shoulders don't shake and his eyes don't close, for minutes, maybe it's hours.
A perfect, vibrantly managed, marble statue.
He's focused as hard he can be on the singular set of thoughts two rooms, barely forty feet, away from him now. The voice that he hears to the exclusion of all the expected and foreign cacophony Milliways throws at him. This Carlisle has no filter, no distraction, nothing between the boy
In having been the only family member who might have known everything, seen everything, here....here, where it does not know, cannot be softened for his palate, reprimanded with fondness to the present era, in the voice that knows he will listen....he has known nothing.
(I can't leave him here, can't leave him there.)
The problem is not that his reaction is dejection.
It would be predictable, containable, controllable if it were that simple.
It is only the lines of control -- of sanity long fought for and tried for and brought to life in decades of remembing and straining for humanity until humanity either remember an echo upon the whisper of their beings or was branded by their tireless pursuit of -- that keeps his feet on the stair two below where he sits. What he wants to do most is to run, faster than wind, and bury his teeth and his fingers tips and all his strength into the bodies of faces he has known this whole existence.
All of which have always been a world away from him. Worlds of endless days making up centuries of time changing, and at least an ocean. They had always very specifically avoided Volterra. There was so much more to see in the world, Carlisle had claimed, trying to make it joke and still yet a weary truth. He meant that there was better to see.
Edward had always wanted to be there. To repay the sins of the rebirth of his father.
The key to the door to Volterra and no one knowing any better is forty feet away.
He should tell his family -- tell Carlisle. Not Carlisle. At least not yet. He can't move away from the stairs. He can't even press his fingertips hard enough against his eyes.
It's not about making the decision. River was right about that without even asking or telling. There isn't a decision to make. Or options to weigh. What he should do is logical, but logic has nothing to do with it. And leaving could be a dangerously bad idea on so many different levels. If someone even so much as considered him sane and his small, two violations sentence was up, and he was let to the populace before Edward could return?
And how would (will) he convince Carlisle to just follow him back to Volterra door, to open it and walk through? Or is it, that Carlisle just would, without question, with his head down and his will cowed to shepparding that bothers Edward more? That that is for the best, is the way time is supposed to go and have gone and did?
