Post by elphabacullen on Sept 25, 2011 16:36:54 GMT
“The Transformation of Isabella Marie Swan”
Prologue
84 days before Isabella Marie Swan moved to Forks, Washington.
A thin layer of water crystals some sixty-thousand feet high gave the light reflected from the moon an almost ethereal glow. A whitish blue frosted haze bathed the rivers, valleys, mountains and forests; painting the Olympic Peninsula below with its semi-opaque shimmering light. Creatures of the night basked in the moon’s glory, using it to augment their finely honed nocturnal senses, hunting and gathering, mating and killing; repeating their daily cycles yet never aware of just when their all-too brief existence would be brought to an end. For the mice and smaller mammals, the owls resting in almost preternatural stillness barely registered upon their consciousness, for the owls were experts of the hunt and experts at waiting. Their bodies still as statues but their eyes never stopped moving, scanning...tracking. They waited. Time was meaningless to them, as they watched until their unwitting victim was close enough and distracted enough for them to swoop down, sink their razor sharp talons deep into the animals flesh and lift them up into the night air. Their prey's life draining away in sync with the speed at which the ground fell away from their twitching feet. And from the tallest tree on the ledge of the western edge of a ravine, another creature of the night watched all of this—life and death, the majesty and tragedy of nature unfold, with cold dead black eyes and an even colder dead heart.
For hours it had sat there, perched on a branch three-quarters up the tree, never moving. Insects crawled across its skin, making their way around the 'new branch' as it if were a part of the tree itself. A spider had taken advantage of the shielding from the wind it provided, and had started to spin a new web between the truck of the tree and the hair on the back of the creatures head.
More hours passed, and the other creatures of the night could sense dawn coming, as if the time of day had a unique smell, and hurried back to their dens, roosts, burrows and nests and yet still the creature in the tree sat; never having moved even one millimeter as the night turned into another day.
Just as the spider returned to the center of its web—ready to begin its own hunt—it fell back towards the rough bark of the tree as part of its anchor was wrenched away. The creature leaped suddenly with no warning, as if it had already been in motion, and the world had just had the pause button released, and grabbed hold of a branch further up, using its two hands and nails as claws that sank deep into the hard wood of the tree as easily as a surgeons knife through the soft fatty tissue of a plump and rounded stomach.
Spinning around mid flight allowed the creature to climb the central trunk of the tree as easily as a human might use a ladder and ascended quickly to the top. Here, where the branches were less dense, and less sparse, foliage afforded the best view of the valleys and mountains below—a three hundred and sixty degree panorama of the majestic wilderness in all its beauty. From this height, even the faint spreading mass of lights of Seattle could be seen, especially on a night as clear as tonight. Even closer, a smaller and yet brighter cluster signified the township of Port Angeles, and closer still—seemingly close enough to touch—the much smaller lights of the local town of Forks, Washington.
The beauty of the vista sprawling out all around the creature was as insignificant as the dirt, webbing, insects and frost that adorned its body. The only thing of interest now lay in a small hollowed out section of the tree; the remains of a roost from some animals that had long since departed, made wider and deep by razor sharp and steel hard nails. In fact, its new tenant was already reaching one of its claws deep into the recess until it found its prey. Slowly, almost reverently, it withdrew its bounty—a small parcel wrapped in soft leather tied with a dirty yellow ribbon. Wrapping its two strong legs around the trunk of the tree allowed the creature to sit back, almost as if comfortably reclined in an evening chair. This position allowed it to use both of its two hands to lay the prize on its lap, and with reverent care and grace, it wiped away the dirt and insect matter from the package and slowly untied the bow.
The claws that had climbed the old tree, stripping it of its bark in their hasty ascent now tenderly unfolded the leather to reveal to the waning moonlight an old diary and pen. The diary, whilst obviously very old still, looked in almost perfect condition. The brown leather that bound the book was soft, clearly expensive, with only the words 'My Journal' embossed in gold leaf in the center. From the spin was another ribbon—this one red and thin and was used to mark the position of the owner’s last entry. The creature’s left hand grazed across the cover of the journal and moved down to the bottom, carefully opening the book by pulling very gently on the red ribbon. Pages of thick, almost sandy colored paper fell open to reveal beautiful and decidedly feminine handwriting; curling script, neat and of even spacing, forming almost perfect horizontal lines on the unmarked paper. Picking up the fountain pen in its right hand, it unscrewed the ebony and gold cap, and in the same feminine script, began to write...
"Dear Journal
His was the first face I saw, and I knew as soon as I fell into his pain-filled and heart heavy eyes, that I would love him forever.
I just knew we were right for each other; that any failings and faults I had, he made up for. Whatever he needed, whatever would bring life back to his deep ruby eyes, I just knew I could provide. It was destiny, and we could complete each other. We would become one. It would be hard to tell where I stopped and where he started. It would be so easy with him. I don't know if I had ever given much thought to 'soul-mates', and these days, the term is banded around with such wild abandon that its true meaning has become devalued and virtually worthless, but in that instant though, that is what I knew we were. Therefore, in just those few moments, the first moments of my life, the die was cast. I didn't know where he was, or how to find him — only that he was out there and in pain and so much sorrow. My life now had purpose; to find him as quickly as possible and love him, as he deserved. For even though his eyes hurt my heart to look into, I could still see the light they could hold — no, would hold again… when I found him.
My life really began that day, and he has told me over and over and over again in the years we've spent together, that his did too. It took so many years to find him, but I never gave up hope. In fact with each day that passed, I grew more and more excited, felt more joy and more alive than the last, with the knowledge that I was one day closer to finding him. It almost became a game, like he was playing hide and seek with me. It’s as though he was just around the next corner, waiting in the next town, just one taxicab in front of me, laughing as he led me on my merry chase. I never grew disheartened; in fact, I almost relished the chase. It gave me time to prepare, it gave my rich and by this point, very fertile imagination time to come up with new ways to surprise him, new ways to make him laugh, and new ways to love him.
When we did meet, I know I could barely keep my hands off him. Considering the complete gentleman that he is, it was hysterical trying to watch him calm me down and get me to explain why there in the middle of a diner, that this tiny bundle of giddiness was virtually all over him. Even now, I can still smile at his confused and embarrassed attempts to pull me off of him. It didn't help that it was — how do the young humans today call it? Oh yes, ‘the olden days’ and such public displays of affection were unheard of back then, at least outside of dark alleys where the prostitutes would roam.
He says that the second I stopped for breath and just stood there smiling up at him that he knew he loved me.
In the time we've been together, I have loved this man with all that I am. I have been there through every struggle he's had, every bitter moment of self-loathing and doubt. I've seen this man bloom under my love, and that of our adopted family and it has always brought me joy and a sense of belonging. It hasn't been one sided either. I may come across, as I have been told many times, somewhere between a golden retriever puppy and a kitten hopped up on cat nip — and don't ask my why I'm always compared to cutesy baby animals, because I don't think I really want to process the answer — but I can assure you that is not always the case. Whilst my life really started with him, it hasn't always been easy. I'm always an outsider. I know that I don't really fit in anywhere, and it hasn't stopped me from trying, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt sometimes. A lot. And he's always been there. Always knew when to try and lift my mood; and more importantly when to leave me alone in my pain, just sit there, holding me, or just touching me, until the clouds would part and I could find my way back to him again.
He's been my lover, my soldier, my gentleman, and my rock. My Jazz...
Until now.
The thing is nothing I've said has changed. I still love him just as much. I still yearn for him. I still want to make him happy and he still makes me happy. It's not that he's changed either. He's still attentive, playful and charmingly funny. His crooked smile and that glint in his eyes when he gets playful still makes my tummy flip. He still “does it for me” as they so unflatteringly say these days, and yet...
And yet there is something coming. There is another set of eyes.
…I feel sick and disgusted with myself.
Because for everything I've told you, everything I've ever felt for my man, my Jasper. Everything that we have meant to each other—and as wonderful and life saving it has been to us both—I know that it still pales to what I feel when I look into that other pair of eyes. And I hate myself for it.
There have been times when my so-called gift has been a curse. Spoilt surprise gifts, birthdays, etc, and don't even get me started on his proposal... but even then, no matter how much I knew about what was coming, it never really “hurt”. And it certainly had never hurt anyone else. I know I've prevented humans from finding us out, or prevented a very dangerous situation when I could see a human’s blood spilt and been able to steer my family. Edward especially, away, before the human even got themselves into trouble.
But last month, when I saw those chocolate brown eyes burning into me, I never hated my gift more. Jasper has known something has been wrong with me ever since, but as always, he's been the perfect gentleman, reminding me lovingly that I can talk to him whenever and about whatever, without judgement or recrimination. Just how damning is that!? He must know! And yet, he still makes love to me just as tender and giving as ever, and I still love him, with no reservations.
Only now, I have guilt to add.
With everything that he means to me, everything I've tried to be for him, and he's been for me. How can I do this?
No the better question is “why” should I do this? I don't have a clue whom those “eyes” belong to, and I certainly wouldn't recognize their name or their face. So maybe I've read it wrong? Could that be it?
Maybe what I'm feeling isn't really real — more of an echo. Yes! That's it! Maybe it's an echo of what someone else will feel when they look into those soft, molten orbs of brown silk and chocolate...
Damn! Stop thinking like that!
Damn brain!
Arrghh!
But maybe I'm onto something... maybe this person has some special meaning to someone close to me—that might be why I have such an emotional reaction to them—because they might.
Ec”
The pen froze, the second letter started but not finished leaving its character imperfectly formed; the writer no longer able to move, to visualize the words and translate them into swirling movements of the pen against the paper. And so the writer sat there, clinging to the top of the tree like a spider-monkey, pen frozen a hairs-breadth from the paper; still, withholding breath, frozen in place as the sun crested the horizon and turned its skin to diamonds.
Prologue
84 days before Isabella Marie Swan moved to Forks, Washington.
A thin layer of water crystals some sixty-thousand feet high gave the light reflected from the moon an almost ethereal glow. A whitish blue frosted haze bathed the rivers, valleys, mountains and forests; painting the Olympic Peninsula below with its semi-opaque shimmering light. Creatures of the night basked in the moon’s glory, using it to augment their finely honed nocturnal senses, hunting and gathering, mating and killing; repeating their daily cycles yet never aware of just when their all-too brief existence would be brought to an end. For the mice and smaller mammals, the owls resting in almost preternatural stillness barely registered upon their consciousness, for the owls were experts of the hunt and experts at waiting. Their bodies still as statues but their eyes never stopped moving, scanning...tracking. They waited. Time was meaningless to them, as they watched until their unwitting victim was close enough and distracted enough for them to swoop down, sink their razor sharp talons deep into the animals flesh and lift them up into the night air. Their prey's life draining away in sync with the speed at which the ground fell away from their twitching feet. And from the tallest tree on the ledge of the western edge of a ravine, another creature of the night watched all of this—life and death, the majesty and tragedy of nature unfold, with cold dead black eyes and an even colder dead heart.
For hours it had sat there, perched on a branch three-quarters up the tree, never moving. Insects crawled across its skin, making their way around the 'new branch' as it if were a part of the tree itself. A spider had taken advantage of the shielding from the wind it provided, and had started to spin a new web between the truck of the tree and the hair on the back of the creatures head.
More hours passed, and the other creatures of the night could sense dawn coming, as if the time of day had a unique smell, and hurried back to their dens, roosts, burrows and nests and yet still the creature in the tree sat; never having moved even one millimeter as the night turned into another day.
Just as the spider returned to the center of its web—ready to begin its own hunt—it fell back towards the rough bark of the tree as part of its anchor was wrenched away. The creature leaped suddenly with no warning, as if it had already been in motion, and the world had just had the pause button released, and grabbed hold of a branch further up, using its two hands and nails as claws that sank deep into the hard wood of the tree as easily as a surgeons knife through the soft fatty tissue of a plump and rounded stomach.
Spinning around mid flight allowed the creature to climb the central trunk of the tree as easily as a human might use a ladder and ascended quickly to the top. Here, where the branches were less dense, and less sparse, foliage afforded the best view of the valleys and mountains below—a three hundred and sixty degree panorama of the majestic wilderness in all its beauty. From this height, even the faint spreading mass of lights of Seattle could be seen, especially on a night as clear as tonight. Even closer, a smaller and yet brighter cluster signified the township of Port Angeles, and closer still—seemingly close enough to touch—the much smaller lights of the local town of Forks, Washington.
The beauty of the vista sprawling out all around the creature was as insignificant as the dirt, webbing, insects and frost that adorned its body. The only thing of interest now lay in a small hollowed out section of the tree; the remains of a roost from some animals that had long since departed, made wider and deep by razor sharp and steel hard nails. In fact, its new tenant was already reaching one of its claws deep into the recess until it found its prey. Slowly, almost reverently, it withdrew its bounty—a small parcel wrapped in soft leather tied with a dirty yellow ribbon. Wrapping its two strong legs around the trunk of the tree allowed the creature to sit back, almost as if comfortably reclined in an evening chair. This position allowed it to use both of its two hands to lay the prize on its lap, and with reverent care and grace, it wiped away the dirt and insect matter from the package and slowly untied the bow.
The claws that had climbed the old tree, stripping it of its bark in their hasty ascent now tenderly unfolded the leather to reveal to the waning moonlight an old diary and pen. The diary, whilst obviously very old still, looked in almost perfect condition. The brown leather that bound the book was soft, clearly expensive, with only the words 'My Journal' embossed in gold leaf in the center. From the spin was another ribbon—this one red and thin and was used to mark the position of the owner’s last entry. The creature’s left hand grazed across the cover of the journal and moved down to the bottom, carefully opening the book by pulling very gently on the red ribbon. Pages of thick, almost sandy colored paper fell open to reveal beautiful and decidedly feminine handwriting; curling script, neat and of even spacing, forming almost perfect horizontal lines on the unmarked paper. Picking up the fountain pen in its right hand, it unscrewed the ebony and gold cap, and in the same feminine script, began to write...
"Dear Journal
His was the first face I saw, and I knew as soon as I fell into his pain-filled and heart heavy eyes, that I would love him forever.
I just knew we were right for each other; that any failings and faults I had, he made up for. Whatever he needed, whatever would bring life back to his deep ruby eyes, I just knew I could provide. It was destiny, and we could complete each other. We would become one. It would be hard to tell where I stopped and where he started. It would be so easy with him. I don't know if I had ever given much thought to 'soul-mates', and these days, the term is banded around with such wild abandon that its true meaning has become devalued and virtually worthless, but in that instant though, that is what I knew we were. Therefore, in just those few moments, the first moments of my life, the die was cast. I didn't know where he was, or how to find him — only that he was out there and in pain and so much sorrow. My life now had purpose; to find him as quickly as possible and love him, as he deserved. For even though his eyes hurt my heart to look into, I could still see the light they could hold — no, would hold again… when I found him.
My life really began that day, and he has told me over and over and over again in the years we've spent together, that his did too. It took so many years to find him, but I never gave up hope. In fact with each day that passed, I grew more and more excited, felt more joy and more alive than the last, with the knowledge that I was one day closer to finding him. It almost became a game, like he was playing hide and seek with me. It’s as though he was just around the next corner, waiting in the next town, just one taxicab in front of me, laughing as he led me on my merry chase. I never grew disheartened; in fact, I almost relished the chase. It gave me time to prepare, it gave my rich and by this point, very fertile imagination time to come up with new ways to surprise him, new ways to make him laugh, and new ways to love him.
When we did meet, I know I could barely keep my hands off him. Considering the complete gentleman that he is, it was hysterical trying to watch him calm me down and get me to explain why there in the middle of a diner, that this tiny bundle of giddiness was virtually all over him. Even now, I can still smile at his confused and embarrassed attempts to pull me off of him. It didn't help that it was — how do the young humans today call it? Oh yes, ‘the olden days’ and such public displays of affection were unheard of back then, at least outside of dark alleys where the prostitutes would roam.
He says that the second I stopped for breath and just stood there smiling up at him that he knew he loved me.
In the time we've been together, I have loved this man with all that I am. I have been there through every struggle he's had, every bitter moment of self-loathing and doubt. I've seen this man bloom under my love, and that of our adopted family and it has always brought me joy and a sense of belonging. It hasn't been one sided either. I may come across, as I have been told many times, somewhere between a golden retriever puppy and a kitten hopped up on cat nip — and don't ask my why I'm always compared to cutesy baby animals, because I don't think I really want to process the answer — but I can assure you that is not always the case. Whilst my life really started with him, it hasn't always been easy. I'm always an outsider. I know that I don't really fit in anywhere, and it hasn't stopped me from trying, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt sometimes. A lot. And he's always been there. Always knew when to try and lift my mood; and more importantly when to leave me alone in my pain, just sit there, holding me, or just touching me, until the clouds would part and I could find my way back to him again.
He's been my lover, my soldier, my gentleman, and my rock. My Jazz...
Until now.
The thing is nothing I've said has changed. I still love him just as much. I still yearn for him. I still want to make him happy and he still makes me happy. It's not that he's changed either. He's still attentive, playful and charmingly funny. His crooked smile and that glint in his eyes when he gets playful still makes my tummy flip. He still “does it for me” as they so unflatteringly say these days, and yet...
And yet there is something coming. There is another set of eyes.
…I feel sick and disgusted with myself.
Because for everything I've told you, everything I've ever felt for my man, my Jasper. Everything that we have meant to each other—and as wonderful and life saving it has been to us both—I know that it still pales to what I feel when I look into that other pair of eyes. And I hate myself for it.
There have been times when my so-called gift has been a curse. Spoilt surprise gifts, birthdays, etc, and don't even get me started on his proposal... but even then, no matter how much I knew about what was coming, it never really “hurt”. And it certainly had never hurt anyone else. I know I've prevented humans from finding us out, or prevented a very dangerous situation when I could see a human’s blood spilt and been able to steer my family. Edward especially, away, before the human even got themselves into trouble.
But last month, when I saw those chocolate brown eyes burning into me, I never hated my gift more. Jasper has known something has been wrong with me ever since, but as always, he's been the perfect gentleman, reminding me lovingly that I can talk to him whenever and about whatever, without judgement or recrimination. Just how damning is that!? He must know! And yet, he still makes love to me just as tender and giving as ever, and I still love him, with no reservations.
Only now, I have guilt to add.
With everything that he means to me, everything I've tried to be for him, and he's been for me. How can I do this?
No the better question is “why” should I do this? I don't have a clue whom those “eyes” belong to, and I certainly wouldn't recognize their name or their face. So maybe I've read it wrong? Could that be it?
Maybe what I'm feeling isn't really real — more of an echo. Yes! That's it! Maybe it's an echo of what someone else will feel when they look into those soft, molten orbs of brown silk and chocolate...
Damn! Stop thinking like that!
Damn brain!
Arrghh!
But maybe I'm onto something... maybe this person has some special meaning to someone close to me—that might be why I have such an emotional reaction to them—because they might.
Ec”
The pen froze, the second letter started but not finished leaving its character imperfectly formed; the writer no longer able to move, to visualize the words and translate them into swirling movements of the pen against the paper. And so the writer sat there, clinging to the top of the tree like a spider-monkey, pen frozen a hairs-breadth from the paper; still, withholding breath, frozen in place as the sun crested the horizon and turned its skin to diamonds.