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every now and then the earth will decide it's high time for fire

Jasper/Bella, Jane/Alec, Aro/Jane.

Jasper/Tanya, Jasper/Rosalie, Aro/Marcus, Jasper/Jane/Alec.

written for tay (yoursolace at livejournal) for her birthday. this is going to be a five-part fic.

1. every now and then the earth will decide it's high time for fire

Rating 0/5   Word Count 1034   Review this Chapter

falling by s
lost again / disappear from everyone / stuck between / where i need to go / and where i'm going
it's all what you think it is / it's all the same in my head


Blood and rage are all the same and papercuts begin the game that ends when life is gone.

He needs to escape.

Visions of the future play behind his lids, because someone somewhere thinks it's amusing to give him his wife's gift for a moment -- no, an hour -- no, a year. (Time bleeds together when immortality is a fact of life, like the need for sleep or oxygen.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the day for his death is around the corner, waiting to ambush him with weapons fatal to his species.)

He sees the future in a millisecond.

Sees the cold body in his brother's cold arms, blood splattered across the room. And all the vampires are properly remorseful, showing all the outward signs of sympathy, except for the tiny part of themselves they attempt to suppress. The part that tastes the aroma of the red liquid and longs to feel it sliding down their throats.

Oh, but they're so fucking perfect, aren't they?

He sees her flushed face wide with fear and his conscious self -- the mind that's seeing this once-possible future -- wants to put a finger to her lips, say shh, and quiet her with a kiss. She'd blink but it would calm her heartrate, make the temptation easier to carry in his arms. But inside this vision, his only concern is the beating in her thin veins, pressure fit to burst.

Her mask of shock will be imprinted on his retinas for a while, he knows.

He remembers the tiny cut, a reel on repeat to mock his existence and leave him hollow. Yesterday's obstacles are still prevalent in his mind. The sun rises on his insecurities and he can't take it anymore.

I'm leaving.

The pixie's face is openly sorrowful and tired (exhausted, she's been waiting for this outcome for a while and one could argue her burden is worse than his). She should know better than to try and hide that relief while he's around, though. It's buried deep but he knows.

He's out the door in the next breath.

Granite limbs race across the landscape, tracking pain through every state. (He forgets to wipe his feet on the welcome mat. Maybe it's because he's not welcome anymore.)

They don't know where he is, and they don't know where he's going. He manages to disappear in that way, at least. The tiny silver phone is thrown like a pretty candy wrapper; he doesn't want to be tracked. (A third eye hovers over his head like a grey cloud of shame and it's the first time he wants her to leave him alone.) Let him fall off the map like a thief in the underworld, a magician's trick. They'll know if he comes back.

He knows where he should go. He should make his way through forest and snow, following a well-known predetermined trail that ends in white light. More specifically, the pale goddesses of the flesh who reside in the wild and who make pets of all men.

He should. And he knows -- he can predict, with this newfound ability to guess the future -- what will happen. His weakness will lure them in like moths to a dying flame, because they're all so vulnerable when it comes to vulnerable men. And one of them will take it upon herself to teach him things she deems he needs to know. (Which? The strawberry-blonde one, most likely, because in fights amongst the sisters she always emerges the victor.)

He'd learn more about satisfying his lusts than keeping them at bay.

No, he decides. Somewhere different, where they won't judge him for his petty indulgences. (It's just a candy bar. It's just one cigarette.)

The road map of his mind rotates clockwise and points him to a different sort of trio. These three are old, by eternity's standards, with ancient eyes filled with the wisdom of the world. Their followers are either more or less obnoxious, depending on their size: The bigger they are, the more they grate on his nerves like prickly desert plants scraped backwards over skin.

And the smallest, with those wide eyes and that mind like fire, is the only one he can actually tolerate.

He remembers her face in his mind and smiles grimly. Oh, but she will have so much fun upon his arrival. She has been predicting his "retirement" from the vegetarian lifestyle for decades. The glee he'll feel radiating from her direction will be a bit painful, but at the very least it will be a refreshing change from his family's reactions.

He shakes his head. No use dwelling on the past, not anymore -- even though his regrets stain the white silk of his mind with scarlet ink, spelling out the letters of his demise. The sharp quill of hindsight rewrites what might have been.

No time for that. By the next day, he's in Volterra.

The stone walls rise above his head, blocking the moon's rays from touching his skin. The pretty receptionist smiles nicely at him, asking him his business, and he supposes it would be rude to feed off her, right now.

(He's thirsty, after all, and it's difficult to resist. Years with the Cullens are paying off.)

Before he can open his mouth, the very woman he has been waiting to see sashays through the doorway, which has to be difficult considering she has no hips to speak of. It's attractive, actually: he considers his wife to be much more aesthetically pleasing than his blonde "sister" (as for other pleasures, the statuesque vampire always has quite a few delightful tricks up her sleeve) which should say something about his preferences in women. This one has the same slender build, a small thin waif he could easily hold in his arms.

He doesn't see her as young, either.

A bad omen: he is getting easily distracted.