themidnightson: ([New Moon] Into the Sun)
[personal profile] themidnightson
He didn't care about the subtle threats.
They only serve to prove his plan will work.




There are so many ways he could. He's been thinking them out since he bought the plane ticket in Rio. Volterra was the safest city in the world. From vampire attacks, that was. There were rules there. Their protection of the golden, secret city held since the Etruscans, was beyond manic. Innocent and beholden and owned. Immured. Never to question or be threatened.

It would take so little to bring that crashing down. A killing spree in the city where no one is allowed to feed. Walking into traffic or down the street, lifting cars over his head and throwing them into other ones. He could attack any one of the guards. He'd been charitable to ask first, and was livid in being refused. Placated. Invited. Forgiven.

His void thoughts winded blacker than night.
And he knew what he had to do now.




What better way than flouting
the cardinal rule of Volterra.

He'd go hunting.






It doesn't take long to find a highly populated area.
To slide open doors to the silky, compartmentalized past.

This one is too young. That one is too old. There are children here. A sister running to hand off a purse. Affixing the time piece in a pocket watch. That one sounds annoying. She's walking a dog. They're obnoxiously affectionate. Tickets to a movie. The click of heels on the sidewalk. The squeal of wheels.

Too much thinking, too much thinking. The next one. Whoever walks out this door next.
The knob twitches and he crosses the space in seconds. The world's pinprick of light gone.

The man bumps into him hard. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Like the last one.
Everything in Edward froze as he stared. Black eyes with purple circles.

"Ragazzo! Fa attenzione a dove camini."

Locked perfectly still. He'd promised. No one else. Ever again. Never.
What had this man ever done to deserve dying so that Edward could?
What would Carlisle say, feel, when he found out about his last acts?
He would have enough to live with without that on top of it.

When Aro wrote him gloating about his child's fall.

Divine providence did not keep Edward from snarling at him.
The man startled back, terrified. And ran. Like an animal.


Leaving Edward alone on the street.


Alone. In Volterra. Alive. Still.








He wander only to find his feet having returned him to another of the Volturi's entrances. He was a wraith in the shadows. People parted way, whispered around him. This was the mark of what had become of The Stregone, what happened to his kind. Thoughts, words. It didn't matter which. He didn't care about them.

Refused to be fed again. Disgusted at the idea of any nourishment.
He walked the walls of a room he had once only seen in shared memories.
Still here. Still part and parcel of their dark and twisted subterranean world.

He needed a nonviolent means. His death would be violent, swift justice, metered out in only seconds. Torn and burned. But his making of it did not have to be. He could still be better than the monster's he took sanctuary and manipulated mercy from. And when it came to him, it seemed like a blessing.

The simplest of holy unforgranted's.









He picked the clock tower of Plazzo dei Priori. March 19th. St. Marcus Day.

Fifteen hundred years of celebration, of the vampire scourge removed from Volterra forever. He couldn't have picked what tomorrow would be, but the black irony was impossible to miss. They would be on even higher guard of anyone ruffling their careful veneers today.

And he was being watched incredibly closely now. Orders had been given.

He watched them milling. The people, rather than the guards. Sheep in red cloaks, with red scarves and red hats, holding red banners and flags, which all wove in the wind, like blood blanketing the sky when it would tear across the vibrant spring blue. They knew nothing of the lies they assumed.

They knew nothing of despair so deep that even miracles could not touch it, families and love could not heal it. They rang their noise makers, bought their street side food, laughter at their jokes and made fun of the past which ran blood under their feet every day.

In mere moments the clock tower would strike noon. The zenith of the sun. The midday.
Edward peeled off the white shirt he'd been gifted and dropped it on the alley floor.
He would be seen by a crowd of thousands. Unforgettably different. Alien.


His eyes closed as he listened to the clock beginning to chime. Soon it would all end.
Soon the despair would be obliterated. Soon there would be no waiting.
The greatest debate of his life would pass beyond even remembering.

It wasn't worth remembering. Who was right and who was wrong.


Only they were. His family. His mother. His brothers and sisters.
The little time he'd had with Bella. The years spent with Carlisle.
The miracle of Alice coming into his life when and how she had.
To hope that their endless time to come would only be better.




The eleventh chime rung and he lifted his foot, stepping forward

-- as, with violent force, he was slammed into.











Edward opened his eyes to meet the onslaught of his fate, the final promise of release -- to two brown warm eyes, in a face that could never be forgotten. That was so perfectly imperfect no memory or art piece could have done it justice. Bella. Bella in his arms. Warm and wide-eyed. It was already over. So much faster than he'd expected.

So much more than he'd ever expected to be waiting for him here.
Ever his angel in her life, challenging him, making him a better man.
And now, she was here, too. Beyond the sunlight, beyond the pain.


"Amazing," he whispered. Amused, exquisite wonder.

Relieved to be -- "Carlisle was right." -- wrong.

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themidnightson

March 2012

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