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Moonlight's Shackles

There are consequences to a love as deep as Edwards and Bella’s and they will not be ignored. Is there such a thing as love, or is all love inherently a triumph of imagination over intelligence, emotion over the deepest most profound truth. Is love freedom or only our acceptence of Moonlight’s Shackles. [Set in AU New Moon with no Jacob.]

Disclaimer: I don't anything from Twilight, never have never will. Note to Reviewers: If you review you get a teaser for the next chapter, so if you read and think to yourself oh I would like some more post and you'll get it. ;]
Authors Note:
What if there was no Jacob when Edward had left, assuming that Bella somehow persevered I’d assume she’d come out of the whole situation a lot differently. I liked Twilight and even New Moon, but after that it just got a little too nice for me. Everyone except for the villains was just too kind. The mystery was gone. This fic is trying to get it back. Enjoy. However I am trying my best to keep Bella from going batshit crazy either; I think it’s a progression. People are complicated.

6. Chapter Five: The Triumph of Love

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Chapter Five: The Triumph of Love

In a house where all the rooms were wide and white, where there was so much light that everything tried its best not to glow, there was, in the middle of the widest, most open room, a piano – the lid open and a flock of notes, Chopin, she guessed wearily, hurried out of the keys.

The sound was painfully beautiful, but most exquisite when he paused just before introducing the higher melody, which floated below the now subdued base. It was almost a duet.

When he finished, resolving from harmonic minor into a pianissimo minor, he looked up at her almost abashed. “I’m sorry that was really quite thoughtless of me.”

“What?” Bella asked quietly still stuck in the reverie of the music.

Suddenly, he was at her side pulling her lightly toward the piano. Bella arched herself toward the firm plain of his chest, rubbing herself lightly against him. He stopped breathing, and in return she stopped her ministrations not wanting to press his control any further. He whispered in her ear the response to her earlier question, trying to bring them back to the matter at hand, “Not to stand when a lady enters the room.” He pulled her onto the polished ebony bench.

“Oh, no,” she said lightly pulling her hand away from the piano, “I am not going to be the second act after that performance.”

He put his large hand on the keys and then placed her smaller one on top of his gently. “No one is listening, Bella,” he cajoled. He pressed down on A sharp and she watched as her finger was left hanging in mid air right above his.

She shivered when he released the key and once again his cool flesh met hers. “Edward.”

He rolled his eyes at her, misinterpreting her stutter as one of fear. “Just watch me then.”

She moved her hands away from the keyboard setting them demurely in her lap. He repeated the higher melody above the stormy section. His hands moved so tenderly against the keys: like he was stroking a baby’s face, like he was stroking her face. He was enjoying taking his time, even though the melody itself wasn’t that slow. Eventually he stopped and motioned to her breaking her reverie.

Bella blushed. “I’m sorry, I missed that.”

“The third time?” He replied with an arched eyebrow. “May I ask why?”
Oops, she thought. “Umm,” she blushed turning away. “Your hands are really fast.”

His face lit up, and then those same hands that had touched the keys were brought up to her face. Edward trailed a path at the crossroads between her jaw and cheek and she let out a breath through her teeth. As his hand continued to trace little eddies inches above her most vital arteries, she wondered, not for the first time, if all of her back luck, all of her danger, was some kind of price she had to pay in order to have Edward. She would pay it, she thought, sighing into his hand. She would pay it every time. For once in her life Bella felt as if she was exactly where she wanted to be. Every cog, every screw, every detail had not only fallen into place, but it seemed as if it had been etched into stone.

Bella moved to turn her head to kiss him. Somehow this caused discordance, it was if she was of two bodies, one was the Bella from the memory and other was the present ghost-Bella. The ghost Bella desperately pressed her cheek on his but he didn’t move. Suddenly, she realized she couldn't feel his hand anymore, and although she saw his mouth moving, speaking, she couldn’t hear anything.

The vision was disappearing. In its place the harsh florescent lights of the basement were reappearing along with voices.

“I told you we shouldn’t have waited, Damien.”

“I was being cautious, Erin! We barely know anything about her.”

“We know she’s got the same thing I have, the same fucking thing. What if she doesn't wake up? What then?” The second voice, Erin, Bella dimly registered, was rising in pitch and intensity.

“Oh, calm down, Erin. No need to go all Hulk on my ass.” He sounded frustrated, too, and actually worried, Bella realized. Why would they be worried about her?

Bella’s eyelashes fluttered and she moaned.

Erin smiled at Damien encouragingly, but Damien merely pursed his lips resolutely. “Good. You’re awake.”

Bella sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. They were looking at her like she had three heads she realized dimly. “What?”

“You just passed out.” Damien stated crisply, and then added checking his watch, “To be precise... three hours and fourteen minutes.”

“Damien,” Erin reprimanded, throwing the brunette a cursory glance.

“Are you determined to send her right back into that coma?” Her eyes glittered hardly like the shells of beetles, “If you can’t tell her without sending her off into her own head, then I will.”

“Fine, fine.” He motioned aside, “–You wouldn’t be able to tell her, anyways. I’ve got you to worry about, too.” He turned his face towards Erin and made what Bella supposed could be called a tender smile, but it was nothing dazzling, just simply there.

Bella poked her head up a little farther interjecting, “Excuse me, but exactly what are you guys talking about?”

Damien rolled his eyes and motioned to the couch, “You better sit down, if you pass out again, –” Erin shot him daggers and he continued in a more measured town, “which you will not because I will be more careful,” Damien added hastily. “– we’d be officially fucked.”

“Can you start from the beginning?” Bella asked, as she was guided towards the futon from her position on the floor.

“I should probably leave then,” Erin added quietly looking away towards the still slightly ajar door.

Bella squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of being alone with Damien with his acerbic wit and strange eyes. She turned to look at Damien who was nodding his head in agreement.

After the door closed behind Erin, Bella turned back to Damien for some kind of explanation. He pressed his fingers wearily to his forehead. “Hey I still don’t understand either of you guys but,” he added smugly, “I’m probably the only one who can even get marginally close.”

“I don’t even know what there is to understand,” Bella added honestly, shrugging her sore shoulders and relaxing into the couch.

“Love,” he began softly, but with that ever-present spark of apathy, “is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.”


“H.L Menken, humorist and cynic of the late nineteenth century.” Damien offered wryly.

Bella’s face was still blank, and she felt almost a little embarrassed. But then again, she didn’t have a huge basement library.

He sighed. “Like Oscar Wilde.”

Understanding lit up Bella’s face. “Never really liked him, I prefer Austen.”

“Girls,” he muttered lamely. “The point is that love is a construction of the human imagination: it isn’t real.”

Bella fought the ire that screamed its way up her throat. “That’s not true! I know I may not be the best person to say this, but love isn’t just something found in novels! It’s real.” She struggled for words and finally, with one, last try, settled back onto the couch. “It’s not eloquent, okay, but it’s real, I swear to God.”

“You may be right,” Damien amended, “but you aren’t in love with…” he paused about to say his name and then reconstructed his sentence.

Bella growled... a habit that she hadn’t even realized she had picked up. “What do you know? You just sit in your basement all day.”

“You don’t know a thing about me,” he protested weakly, but Bella could see that her barb had hit the mark. She felt a strange combination of remorse and exhilaration; Bella had never intentionally hurt someone like that before. It was kind of intoxicating. Damien’s hand played with the entrance to the pocket of his jeans. “And that is not the point of this conversation.”

“Then what is the point?” Bella asked lazily, a sense of lethargy creeping over her. There, she thought, give him a taste of his own medicine.

He sighed. “I guess I should probably start at the beginning.”