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The Hiddin Swing

She never meant to, of course. It was an accident—an overwhelming, unstoppable, beautifully horrible accident. Their eyes meeting, their souls setting fire, the betrayal: none was ever planned or even wanted, in the end. Emmett/Rosalie/Dimitri


2. Chapter 2

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When Alice and Jasper returned to the room Rosalie was stoic—her mind was rolling around and around in empty loops.

Minutes after Dimitri had fled the room Rose had gone suddenly still; her breathing halted and she stared stonily at the luxuriously decorated stone wall before her. She numbly traced the large picture of Jane, Alec, and Aro with her eye, using one small fractional bit of her mind, the other part of it—with all that extra space inside of her—Rosalie used to lock away Dimitri. She hid away his voice, his laughter, stored off his perfectly angled face, his silky, ragged black hair; blocked off his touch, the way his lips had whispered with hers, the way he had made her really laugh. How long had it been since laughing had come naturally? Too long. She erased the way he’d made her feel free, wiped away the confined delusion she’d wrapped around herself—that just because her heart had stopped beating didn’t mean that life had to end there. And finally, the last thing she hid so far back that it couldn’t possibly resurface—she gave up her love for him.

After that she’d just sat on the

bed, empty and numb, waiting for Alice and Jasper to return.

Jasper had no idea—he only felt the random bursts of agony vibrating throughout the castle grounds, unaware they

were coming from Rosalie. He didn’t know that two hearts were being crushed, that a chain of events were being triggered. And that he’d felt the shock in Alice’s emotions beside him. She stiffened.

“It’s nothing,” Alice lied, “Just Emmett being stupid. Redecorating while we’re gone and Rose’s not going to like it much,” she smiled up at Jasper, finishing off the pile of lies. Alice used just enough amusement and disapproval in her voice that Jasper believed it.

In truth Alice had seen it all, watched as Rosalie argued with Dimitri, and then as Dimitri had slid out of the room and Rose had broken down. She’d seen the empty months lying ahead for Rosalie.

So when Alice cautiously entered Rosalie’s room, she wasn’t surprised at what she found, but still just as horrified as could be expected. Rose was there, sitting in the middle of the king sized bed with her head bowed. Her glossy blond hair fell over her face and around her beautifully.

“Rosy?” Alice whispered, scared to touch her frozen sister.

Rosalie’s head twitched in response but moved no more, “Can we leave?” her voice was empty and flat.

Not sure what to say and wanting to keep Rosalie calm, Alice nodded, “The werewolf worry was settled. Aro will leave them alone. For now,” Alice tried to smile but it didn’t work. Rosalie wouldn’t have noticed anyways.

“Right now?” Rose pressed. Each second there was engraving Him into her soul deeper and deeper, whether she realized it or not. When Alice hesitated for an instant Rosalie slowly looked up from the quilt she had been memorizing. “Alice?”

Alice worked not to stumble back as she met Rosalie’s gaze. Her gold eyes were wide, blank and unseeing. Alice had never before seen them so unemotional. Rosalie’s eyes were usually narrowed in annoyance or anger—always bright and living and vital. Now they were slack, wide and desolate.

“Okay. Now, then. I—I’ll go get Jazz ready,” Alice turned and ran out of the room and into her own. She threw herself into Jasper’s arms, refusing to answer his questions. Dimitri was Rose’s business and Alice wouldn’t interfere or give her away.

Rosalie didn’t even notice Alice’s behavior, but flew around and, without any recollections as to how she got there, was packed, changed, and waiting at the door, standing silently at the door.

Jasper pretended not to notice, ignoring Rosalie’s sudden shut down in both words and emotions. Obviously, Alice would’ve explained it all to him if he was supposed to know. Jasper would not pry. He would rather not be involved in situations like Rose’s, anyways—their pain was his, whether he wanted it or not.

Before Rosalie could acknowledge much, before she could bring herself to care, she was high in the air, flying far away from the sunny, sugary dream she’d stumbled upon.


Emmett was, of course, the first to notice the irrevocable difference in his wife. Yes, she was still breathtakingly beautiful, and she still had that silky voice. But her hair was left down around her and her cloths didn’t match. She didn’t smile when she saw the hulking Emmett in the airport, but rather drew deeper into herself. Her eyes were flat and empty. Nothing. They didn’t sparkle viciously as they used to so often do.

“Rosy…” Emmett’s greeting died off in his own bewilderment. Who was this stranger in his wife’s shoes?

Rose was hardly aware of him. She didn’t hear Esme’s delighted laugh or feel her touch as she hugged each of them. She didn’t realize it when a fifteen year old looking Neisse ran and threw her arms around her. Rosalie didn’t even hear her responses to Neisse’s many questions about the Vulturi. She didn’t see Bella and Edward watching her—it was all an insignificant haze of gray nothingness.

But, with Alice soon naturally avoiding any thoughts about the Vulturi incident, no one could come up with a reason to Rosalie’s sudden change, much less a cure, thought everyone was conscious of the disappearance of the Old Rose, Emmett most of all.

But whenever Emmett pressed her, begged her to explain, she simply wouldn’t answer or exit the room immediately.

During the days she could escape into school, rushing throughout the school, where no one could really question her publicly. Nights were the hardest for her to deal with. Kissing Emmett was like pressing hot, flaming coals to her lips. It went against everything inside of her. Worst of all, Emmett understood nothing. He watched helplessly as, day by day, his beloved died more inside. He could see her fading away.

So she pretended to hunt every night, throwing herself out into the rainy forests surrounding the house. She would wander the empty, cold Alaskan hills and mountains.

Sometimes, a rare treat, she would hear His voice, hear him whispering through the restless trees. And for that one instant of that one second, she would be alive again. She could laugh and sing and dance again. But mostly she just listened.

It was in those first few weeks of wandering blindly that she found the swing. Rosalie had been just wandering blindly through the enormous woodlands. Silvery snow fell slowly down through the design of branches from high above, getting in her hair and sticking wetly to her skin; it didn’t melt. It built up in her eyelashes and hair and on her face but she didn’t bother to wipe it away. It felt good, like little butterfly kisses covering her. The millions of falling flakes made a hushed whisper; Rose could hear every one as they spiraled downwards.

While she listened to the

snowflakes, hoping for a delusion of His voice, she came to a sudden clearing. Dull moonlight gave everything a silvery tint as snow danced to the ground. Standing tall in the middle of the clearing was an enormous tree—free of any leaves, the branches rose high and tangled; a thin layer of light snow were frosting them.

Rosalie paused, caught by its sudden appearance and dead like beauty. Silently, her feet hardly touching the snowy ground, Rosalie blurred from the edge of the clearing to the trunk of the looming tree. Cautiously, hand trembling just a little, she reached out and touched the rough bark.


A surprised gasp and a pained laugh jerked out of her throat; it came out garbled and sounded more like a sob. Rosalie’s lips trembled.

Feeling stupid and probably

insane, Rose spoke,” I—I miss you,” Of course she wasn’t talking about the tree.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the clearing, sending her hair flying for a second. But in that wind she heard a new sound—it was light and had a metallic clicking to it. Like an iron whisper.

Keeping her hand on the tree, Rose slowly circled the tree. Halfway around, swaying limply in the wind and snow, was a swing. Long, thick chains rose high into the tree, disappearing into the mass of tangled brown branches. A simple oak plank was between the chains. There was a dusting of white on it from the snow and frost, making it look like a silvery reflection of a dream. Nothing seemed quite real.

Carefully, slowly, Rosalie sat down in the swing and grasped the chains. It groaned a little under her weight, but held well. She tried to remember the last time she’d ever sat on a swing—probably as a little girl. Maybe never. It didn’t seem like something she would do as even a child.

Hesitant, feeling increasingly foolish, Rosalie leaned back and kicked out her feet. The swing moved a little. She pushed forward then, pulling with her tiny bit of momentum.

Back and forth. In and out.

It was only a few short seconds before Rosalie was flying into the bitter air, wind tugging at her hair, pushing the snowflakes into her face.

As the minutes continued in silence—the only sound was the swing chains grinding gently together—the world stopped. There was no pain. No Dimitri. No Emmett. Nothing mattered anymore. For some reason, while Rose watched everything pass by, nothing was moving, nothing hurting.

And so for a little bit, she was okay.