The Fan Fiction
Norilsk
It’s ten years since the closing events of Breaking Dawn. The Cullens have left Forks for an isolated little Russian town, leaving behind Jacob, who has now come to see Renesmee for the first time. This is told from Renesemee’s perspective.
I remembered him. I remembered him in the same way that I remembered my mother looking horribly damaged but elated, or the explosion of relief when the fearful red-eyes had slunk away into the forest. Memories that were as brief and hazy as the last ethereal wisps of summer cloud that dissipated into the bright sunshine, but brought with them the same soul-stirring warmth. Memories of him stirred in me feelings of elation and anticipation. I was overwhelmingly happy to see him.
He was tall, far taller than me, and his burnished skin, so incongruous in this place, stretched and rippled across his taut muscles, glowing almost as much as mine in the weak winter light. His brown eyes matched my own and regarded me with a curious mixture of overwhelming devotion and uncertain suspicion. I felt a moment of alarm. Had it been too long? Did he not recognise me? Had I been wrong to go away?
“No,” my father said gently, hearing my thoughts. “We had to go. Jacob agreed.”
I felt bitterness and blame fighting in my chest. The truth was I had to go. They might have stayed in Forks but for me. The beautiful, devoted newlyweds who didn’t age, with the child who aged enough for both of them. Without me they would have enjoyed maybe three or four more years in the home they loved, surrounded by the family who were devoted to them. With me they had had to keep moving. Always cold, dark, dreary places. Alaska first, then north Wales, and finally here to Norilsk.
Forks, I remembered, had soaring forests that added a green haze to the enveloping mists. Wales had stunning mountains and ancient castles. Norilsk was bleak; the temperature rarely rose above freezing, the population suffered from heavy metal poisoning from the nickel mines, and during winter the sun rarely made an appearance at all. That suited my parents just fine; I craved warmth and light.
Jacob had understood that I had to be kept moving, kept hidden, kept safe. I remembered that he had told my father he could not come with us because he needed to stay with his pack. I remembered that I didn’t need my father’s mind reading ability to know that this was not true, that he was making an excuse to step aside so that my parents and I could be a family, just us, for as long as my childhood might last. I remembered also that I didn’t need Uncle Jasper’s ability either to feel the waves of sorrow and despair coming from Jacob. Those memories too seemed far away and as difficult to grasp as flowing water.
But now I was fully-grown, and Jacob, the warmth and light I craved, had come to me. He stood on the open porch of our isolated home, the barren snowy landscape laid out behind him as far as the distant Yenisey river. He was bare-chested and bare-footed, from which I surmised with delight that he had travelled from the station in wolf form.
I could not help but be aware of every part of him, every restless movement, from the bobbing of his adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously to the shifting of his weight from one bare foot to the other and the long, strong arms which hung pendulously at his sides, their fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to ease his anxiety. He was extremely striking, of course, but that was almost incidental to my feelings, as though I would have felt the same irresistible pull toward him even if he had been in wolf form. I should probably feel nervous too, I suspected, given that I had been brought back to Jacob to marry him, but I remembered him well enough that I could never be afraid of being with him. I wanted to be with him. I loved him already, and suspected I had since the day of my birth.
I heard my mother’s tender voice reassuring me. “Nessie, go ahead.”
Without a backward glance I did as she suggested. I took a step forward, through the front door of our comfortable home, towards this man who seemed to draw me like a magnet, seemed to mean so much to me. My betrothed. How was it that he had imprinted on me and yet I found myself so captivated, so fixated, that I had dreamed of him every night over the last ten years? This day had long been the focal point of my existence and I knew that in the same way the short centuries were delineated with BC and AD, for me my life would forever be divided into Before and After Jacob.
“Rensemee?” Jacob breathed, in a voice I could worship.
Close enough at last, I laid a hand on his hot chest and showed him, as quickly as possible, the last ten years of my life and my own joy at being with him again. I wanted to get the formalities over.
“I’ll have to tell you the long way,” he apologised, his big hand covering mine.
“We have time.”
His eyes hadn’t left my face since I had opened the door. “You are so beautiful!” he exclaimed quietly, as though to himself. Perhaps that explained why he hadn’t even looked at my parents yet. Maybe he didn’t need to. I was very like them.
This close to him I could smell the musky earthiness of his blood and hear it pulsing though his veins, but it didn’t make me thirsty; it made me… something else. I wanted him, but not for nourishment of that appetite. I just wanted him. My father sensed what I was going to do the instant before I did it and I heard his nervous gasp at the same time as I stood on tiptoe and pulled Jacob’s perfect head down to mine, pressing my lips against his full ones and feeling them yield, exult, respond. As his strong arms slowly wrapped around me, lifted me off my feet and pressed me to him I rejoiced in the completeness and perfection of our love.
I had been a small child last time we had been together, and this new dimension to our relationship might have been awkward. But it wasn’t. It was right, and good, and forever. He was vital and living and beautiful; he was my Jacob and always would be.
Caring for Mrs Evenson
In Eclipse, Rosalie tells Bella that she has never tasted human blood, and in this that she is “better even than Esme.” I was intrigued by the hint that sweet, motherly Esme has indeed killed at least one human, and the following story attempts to fill in the background to that event based largely on some of the information given in The Twilight Guide.
I am Vera Shorley, and I was, at the material time, Assistant Matron of Ward 7 at Ashland Hospital. This is my own account of something curious which occurred many years ago during the course of my employment there.
On the date in question, Dr. Cullen asked me to come with him in his motor car to a small farm cabin several miles outside Ashland. He told me that he was treating a patient there, but that she was too ill to be moved. He spoke to Matron to get me leave from the ward and had me pack a bag for a stay of two days.
I thought it a little odd, yet I was very happy to spend this time with Dr. Cullen. He was much admired among the nurses and I was flattered that he had selected me to provide care for this woman.
The cabin was sparsely furnished yet comfortable. The woman lay on a low pallet and I was shocked to see that she was restrained with thick leather straps, and was screaming and thrashing in a most distressing way as though in the greatest pain imaginable. Her blood-curdling screeches were unlike anything I had heard before, and I turned to Dr. Cullen in consternation.
“Is there nothing you can do to lessen her suffering? Chloroform?”
“I have already treated her all I can and there is nothing else I can do to help.” Dr. Cullen had always been most professional, but there was no disguising the distress in his voice. He cared very much for this woman, I deduced.
“You know her?”
“I treated her for a broken leg once. Her name is Esme Evenson. Please treat her with the greatest care and respect, speak reassuringly to her even when it seems she hears nothing. I would remain myself but I cannot get away from my duties at the hospital. Many others will die if I stay with her.”
“Is there anything else you wish me to do? Mop her brow or clean her?”
“No. Do nothing of that. Keep your distance, and if anyone should happen along, assure them that Mrs Evenson is receiv
ing treatment and urge them to keep far away to lessen the chance of infection. I need you only to watch her, to ensure that she is safe. She must not be left alone. I will return as often as I can.”
It was fortunate that I had had the presence of mind to pack several books for, aside from listening to Mrs Evenson’s shrieks of despair and agony, and murmuring occasional platitudes, there was little to do. No farm labourers wandered by, and whilst I appreciated the break from my duties at the hospital, it was very dull sitting in the corner of that musty little shack.
Dr. Cullen returned each evening when his shift ended but could not leave her to drive me home, so I slept on a bunk while he sat at Mrs Evenson’s side. But on the third day when he came he seemed agitated and alarmed to find that Mrs Evenson was no longer exhibiting any signs of pain. Instead she lay quite still, and looked radiant with renewed health. I saw for the first time that she was an immensely beautiful woman, and knew, not without jealousy, why Dr. Cullen felt so much for her.
“I am too late!” He cried as he looked at her and reverently touched her face. She flinched, but did not open her eyes.
“On the contrary,” I reassured him cheerfully. “I believe you are just in time to see her awaken.”
He was suddenly close beside me. “Take my car and drive as fast as you can back to the hospital.”
I laughed, not knowing why. “But Dr. Cullen, I cannot drive!”
His eyes flashed with urgency and I saw that they were the most hypnotic golden colour. “Then run.”
“But it’s many miles! Why must I leave when the patient is about to wake up?”
“She will be full of rage,” Dr. Cullen said. “She had a cruel husband, and recently lost her baby. She is unstable and very strong. She may hurt you. You need to run.”
But there was no time to run, for at that moment Mrs Evenson spoke, and not only was there was no dryness or hoarseness in her voice, but it was as even and strong and beautiful as a peal of bells.
“Is this heaven?”
Dr. Cullen was instantly at her side, his hands on her shoulders.
“Quiet. Rest a little longer.”
“I have been through purgatory–or maybe hell–and here you are, my angel of light, the man I have dreamed of for so long. I died, and yet now I feel strong and vibrant, so what else am I to think but that this is heaven?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Evenson. Because of what I have done heaven will never be yours.”
She was suddenly standing. If she had heard him she made no sign of it, for now she was looking at me, and I saw for the first time what Dr. Cullen had meant about the madness within her. Although her face was exceedingly beautiful, her eyes were a deep and unholy red and flashed murderous desire in my direction. Dr. Cullen grasped her and wrestled her to the ground as I turned and ran, faster and further than I had ever run before.