Twilight -- Beauty In the Breaking [Edward/Rosalie]
Title: Beauty In the Breaking
Author: Mariusgirl
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Slight Rosalie/Edward
Prompt: Flower (
t_w_c)
Word Count: 1,190
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The scars that pattern across each of their souls are a shared understanding. Much like the wildflowers, they too have reached an impasse. But this is one wrong that cannot be righted.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: Written from Rosalie's POV. And boy was this hard to write. It DID NOT want to cooperate in any way, shape, or form. I don't claim to write Rosalie well, but this was screaming to be written from her POV. I'm not happy with this piece, but here you go.
No matter how your heart is aching, there’s beauty in the breaking.
-------
It has become a litany in her mind as her still heart aches for a life that is no longer hers - a path that she can no longer tread - and there is no light at the end of this tunnel. There is only the silent darkness that burns her soul a little more with each passing day - a pile of ashes at her feet - the only reminders of everything she once was.
Winter brushes over her skin, the cold not even registering on the surface, but the chill it leaves behind buries itself deep within her soul. Light airy skies fade to a cold, heavy gray and she finds herself staring blankly out the window, her thoughts spinning wildly out of control. She watches as the last of the ardent wildflowers fall victim to Mother Nature and surrender to the coming storm, their petals falling one by one until nothing but the pitiful stalks remain. But that too, does not last.
It strikes her as ironic then - how much like the flower she is - she too is a victim of winter. Taken in the dawn of life, she has fallen from grace, but not by any doing of her own hand.
She remembers blood, and pain before the darkness. Laughter, callous and drunk on the tragic pleasure of life, resonates bitterly through her mind, unbidden and indubitably unwelcome.
The days ink by and weeks bleed into months, and still she watches the world around her. Frozen, vacant, comatose. Just like her.
Her eyes prickle with the phantom sensation of tears that she can no longer shed and a curious emptiness creeps into her soul, forming a yawning chasm that neither Esme nor Carlisle, her adoptive parents, seems capable of filling. She’s mourning the loss of innocence- the life which was snatched from her grasp as her fingertips brushed along the surface, desperate to hold on but ultimately clutching at empty air.
She’s torn - struggling to let go of the life she left behind and attempting to adjust to her new life among the ranks of the undead. But not even Edward - the nosy bastard lurking in the shadows and prodding her mind at awkward intervals - can help her. She keeps up her vigil by the window - a funeral for her once loved youth - clinging to echoes and derisive shadows.
“What do you want,” she whispers one day, her breath involuntarily catching in her throat as he steps out of the shadows and joins her on the couch.
She casts another fleeting look in his direction and instantly feels a stab of resentment at his aberrant perfection. One glance in a mirror would tell her that she too is as beautiful as he, but she has always been vain, there’s no denying that, and she hates anyone to keep pace with her or, worse yet, outshine her.
He considers her for a long moment and she turns her head away, wishing more than anything that he would say what he has come to say and leave her in peace.
“How long are you going to do this,” he asks, his voice appallingly perfect, breaks through a bit of the gloom surrounding her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she retorts, the words more biting than she intends. “I’ve got all eternity.”
A look of sadness mars his handsome features and she wonders what heartrending story lies buried beneath those golden liquid eyes and guarded smile.
He’s tragic, like her, and so they have something in common, something that draws them together. Like soldiers in a forgotten war, only they know the truths from the half lies, and the scars that pattern across each of their souls are a shared understanding. Much like the wildflowers, they too have reached an impasse. But this is one wrong that cannot be righted.
The gentle touches, so innocent and benign, become something deeper as winter languishes. She welcomes his eager attention as a blissful distraction from her own melancholic thoughts. He leaves a trail of fire in his wake as strong, yet graceful, hands dance across her flawless skin - their silent hearts beating in sync to a timeless rhythm.
“You’re beautiful.” Whispered words in the dead of night soothe the ache, but only for a moment. Such transient distractions disappear with the breaking dawn.
He watches her, his dark eyes full of sadness, watches and sees far too much for her liking - almost as if her soul is an open book for him to leaf through at leisure - he sees but does not judge. She knows by the look on his face that he disapproves of her brooding, but he never comments on it.
Weeks fade into months, one shade of grey after another, and Edward never strays far from her side. He’s always there, ready to pounce and bring her back when her thoughts wander too far into the dusk of her humanity.
Spring arrives with the scent of lilies and wildflowers, and the world bleeds to life in a genocide of color. She watches from the window and feels a sliver of ice imbue her stinging soul with its painful chill.
Her first spring in death, but she can no longer relate to the flower. Like a phoenix from the flames it rises again to meet the coming dawn. Newborn buds blossom into breathtaking beauty, stretching up to meet the sun in unabashed desire. Vibrant yellows, brilliant blues, and radiant reds color the horizon, painting the hills and shining like myriads of stained-glass through the early April drizzles. But there is no such renewal for Rosalie and the irony of that is not lost on her.
Hard, cold, and shockingly beautiful, she is perpetually eighteen. Frozen in time as it rushes past her - all she can do is hold on for the ride - an endless tryst with eternity.
The pain lingers but eventually fades to a dull throb as her human memories begin to ebb into the background - swallowed by the darkness that still loiters like an unwelcome houseguest in the recesses of her heart. But the furthest distance she has even known is from her head to her heart, and it takes many years of gentle coxing on Edward’s part, and later on Emmett’s, before she is able to begin the process of completely letting go and healing.
But whenever the monster flares dangerously - the heavens losing its color and the sun turning gray in her sky - she finds herself staring out the window, her legs brought up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them. It’s always Edward who finds her in these moments. He sits beside her and watches. Watches and sees. Sees straight through her - straight through all of the well practiced lies and the unbreakable façade that she throws up in her weak moments - but he never comments.
Together they watch the world as it cycles relentlessly through the seasons - life and death - burial and resurrection - phoenix and flame.
Rosalie sighs heavily. Spring is always the hardest to swallow.
Spring and all its damn flowers.
Author: Mariusgirl
Fandom: Twilight
Pairing: Slight Rosalie/Edward
Prompt: Flower (
t_w_c)
Word Count: 1,190
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The scars that pattern across each of their souls are a shared understanding. Much like the wildflowers, they too have reached an impasse. But this is one wrong that cannot be righted.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: Written from Rosalie's POV. And boy was this hard to write. It DID NOT want to cooperate in any way, shape, or form. I don't claim to write Rosalie well, but this was screaming to be written from her POV. I'm not happy with this piece, but here you go.
No matter how your heart is aching, there’s beauty in the breaking.
-------
It has become a litany in her mind as her still heart aches for a life that is no longer hers - a path that she can no longer tread - and there is no light at the end of this tunnel. There is only the silent darkness that burns her soul a little more with each passing day - a pile of ashes at her feet - the only reminders of everything she once was.
Winter brushes over her skin, the cold not even registering on the surface, but the chill it leaves behind buries itself deep within her soul. Light airy skies fade to a cold, heavy gray and she finds herself staring blankly out the window, her thoughts spinning wildly out of control. She watches as the last of the ardent wildflowers fall victim to Mother Nature and surrender to the coming storm, their petals falling one by one until nothing but the pitiful stalks remain. But that too, does not last.
It strikes her as ironic then - how much like the flower she is - she too is a victim of winter. Taken in the dawn of life, she has fallen from grace, but not by any doing of her own hand.
She remembers blood, and pain before the darkness. Laughter, callous and drunk on the tragic pleasure of life, resonates bitterly through her mind, unbidden and indubitably unwelcome.
The days ink by and weeks bleed into months, and still she watches the world around her. Frozen, vacant, comatose. Just like her.
Her eyes prickle with the phantom sensation of tears that she can no longer shed and a curious emptiness creeps into her soul, forming a yawning chasm that neither Esme nor Carlisle, her adoptive parents, seems capable of filling. She’s mourning the loss of innocence- the life which was snatched from her grasp as her fingertips brushed along the surface, desperate to hold on but ultimately clutching at empty air.
She’s torn - struggling to let go of the life she left behind and attempting to adjust to her new life among the ranks of the undead. But not even Edward - the nosy bastard lurking in the shadows and prodding her mind at awkward intervals - can help her. She keeps up her vigil by the window - a funeral for her once loved youth - clinging to echoes and derisive shadows.
“What do you want,” she whispers one day, her breath involuntarily catching in her throat as he steps out of the shadows and joins her on the couch.
She casts another fleeting look in his direction and instantly feels a stab of resentment at his aberrant perfection. One glance in a mirror would tell her that she too is as beautiful as he, but she has always been vain, there’s no denying that, and she hates anyone to keep pace with her or, worse yet, outshine her.
He considers her for a long moment and she turns her head away, wishing more than anything that he would say what he has come to say and leave her in peace.
“How long are you going to do this,” he asks, his voice appallingly perfect, breaks through a bit of the gloom surrounding her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she retorts, the words more biting than she intends. “I’ve got all eternity.”
A look of sadness mars his handsome features and she wonders what heartrending story lies buried beneath those golden liquid eyes and guarded smile.
He’s tragic, like her, and so they have something in common, something that draws them together. Like soldiers in a forgotten war, only they know the truths from the half lies, and the scars that pattern across each of their souls are a shared understanding. Much like the wildflowers, they too have reached an impasse. But this is one wrong that cannot be righted.
The gentle touches, so innocent and benign, become something deeper as winter languishes. She welcomes his eager attention as a blissful distraction from her own melancholic thoughts. He leaves a trail of fire in his wake as strong, yet graceful, hands dance across her flawless skin - their silent hearts beating in sync to a timeless rhythm.
“You’re beautiful.” Whispered words in the dead of night soothe the ache, but only for a moment. Such transient distractions disappear with the breaking dawn.
He watches her, his dark eyes full of sadness, watches and sees far too much for her liking - almost as if her soul is an open book for him to leaf through at leisure - he sees but does not judge. She knows by the look on his face that he disapproves of her brooding, but he never comments on it.
Weeks fade into months, one shade of grey after another, and Edward never strays far from her side. He’s always there, ready to pounce and bring her back when her thoughts wander too far into the dusk of her humanity.
Spring arrives with the scent of lilies and wildflowers, and the world bleeds to life in a genocide of color. She watches from the window and feels a sliver of ice imbue her stinging soul with its painful chill.
Her first spring in death, but she can no longer relate to the flower. Like a phoenix from the flames it rises again to meet the coming dawn. Newborn buds blossom into breathtaking beauty, stretching up to meet the sun in unabashed desire. Vibrant yellows, brilliant blues, and radiant reds color the horizon, painting the hills and shining like myriads of stained-glass through the early April drizzles. But there is no such renewal for Rosalie and the irony of that is not lost on her.
Hard, cold, and shockingly beautiful, she is perpetually eighteen. Frozen in time as it rushes past her - all she can do is hold on for the ride - an endless tryst with eternity.
The pain lingers but eventually fades to a dull throb as her human memories begin to ebb into the background - swallowed by the darkness that still loiters like an unwelcome houseguest in the recesses of her heart. But the furthest distance she has even known is from her head to her heart, and it takes many years of gentle coxing on Edward’s part, and later on Emmett’s, before she is able to begin the process of completely letting go and healing.
But whenever the monster flares dangerously - the heavens losing its color and the sun turning gray in her sky - she finds herself staring out the window, her legs brought up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them. It’s always Edward who finds her in these moments. He sits beside her and watches. Watches and sees. Sees straight through her - straight through all of the well practiced lies and the unbreakable façade that she throws up in her weak moments - but he never comments.
Together they watch the world as it cycles relentlessly through the seasons - life and death - burial and resurrection - phoenix and flame.
Rosalie sighs heavily. Spring is always the hardest to swallow.
Spring and all its damn flowers.