𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
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THE WEIGHT OF A HUNTING RIFLE had ached little Zachary Todd's muscles to the point of welled tears as a boy. He had begged, Zachary recalls, with a tug of his father's sleeve and a stomp of the canary rubber of his yellow wellington boots to hold the unloaded firearm. A weekend amongst their hunting party, moreover a gaggle of middle-aged men reliving their youth with a campsite to crowd around a fire and drain as many beers as their ageing guts could handle then, had become a tradition in Zachary's childhood. They hardly did much hunting, they would hike and track, but then they'd stare in awe at whatever doe or wildcat they'd discover at a safe distance. Every once in a while, Harry Clearwater would bring home a rabbit by its long ears with a grim, apologetic nature.
Still, Zachary only really attended to muddy his boots and cling to his father and Andrew Todd's childhood friends in a needy, childish manner. He enjoyed the fuss, the tangents where the men would explain to him the breeds of bird that rustle the overhead trees or the lures for the fishing hooks whenever they'd pause to crowd at the banked slope of a lake. Zachary had once supposed that he'd been the predator. As he grew, he'd adjust his hold on the barrel and while it still ached the thinly corded muscle of his forearms by sunset, it would lessen and they'd load his firearm as they did their own—as a precaution. He'd never fired, rather watched as sniffling noses nudged the leaves in search of wiggling worms and scuttling beetles. Zachary could always appreciate the life within nature.
Now, Zachary almost gags on the dread that churns his gut with the realization that even his father's heirloom hunting rifle couldn't stop the creature; the beast that had reversed the roles and for the first time in Zachary's life, he's the prey. It's a blur, the rush of bodies that move around him in a still graceful scramble to ensure the safety of their human companions. Beside him, Bella is wide eyed as she chases every motion, noting each tick with her hands burrowed in her pockets as she leans against the hood of a priceless vehicle but Zachary, Zachary is stagnant. Empty eyes have glued to the smooth concrete floor of the garage, and his hands are all that move in constant shakes amongst the rattling exhales that slip shallowly from his parted lips.
The color is drained from Zachary's face, his heart lodged in the back of his throat through every immortal ear can hear the way his hammers against his ribcage in stark comparison to Bella's eerie calm. His cousin's hand is tentative in a touch to his shoulder but Bella is replaced as Rosalie doesn't refrain from curling her upper lip in a defensive sneer, unable to tame her distaste in time as she would for Zachary. The tensions were too high to be polite. Marble hands embrace either side of his fragile jaw and Zachary's glacial blues jerk upward finally, the tidal waves of his gaze crashing against the golden shores of her own. Her rosy lips part but Zachary can't hear her words above the muffled octave of the garage until he registers, Zachary's clearing his throat in time with Edward's explanation—the telepath murmuring that he hadn't heard his mate.
