Opera Wine | Rosalie Hale [1]

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It was a hollow feeling in her chest, an emptiness that spread out icy fingers in a chiling touch that climbed from her throat in this silent scream that tore her from the inside as it clawed its way out. It was a burning pain that rivaled that of the frozen emptiness, snaking its way through her veins in a path of torment and destruction, breaking her apart.

Death was a curious thing, a strange word to those that held the essence of immortality within them and breathed death in order to exist. It was a burden that restes in their lungs, a pain that ripped you apart with this horrible grip that held you impossibly tight. She could feel it, as spots danced in her vision and her body froze in spot, ahe could feel it as it ate at her mind, reaching for her sanity to tear it apart.

Never did she expect it to begin and end like this in an intertwined manner that stole the words from her mouth and the wholesome feelings from her chest. It wasn't something she allowed herself to hesitate on in her thoughts, always glazing over the fact that mortality was a frail and feeble thing that held an indeterminate amount of time. For in Marion's mind, her love for Rosalie was eternal, something that transcends the bounds of human emotions.

It was a messy thing, living forever, Marion knew that well enough. She knew quite clearly what it was like to lose the life you had for something knew, and she wasn't exactly sure how to apply that to Rosalie.

Was living forever something her blonde mate would want, or would it only be an agony that she would be forced to face?

When Estelle had come in, smelling of something she knew far too well with dark stains on her pretty dress, Marion wasn't certain of what to think at first. She could see thw pain in her daughter's eyes and the way her permanent anger had melted for something softer, a sorrow that struck her deep as she faced the siblings in the sitting room.

"There has been an accident," she had said, refusing to meet her mother's imploring, begging gaze. "I found her in the streets covered in her own blood."

Marion could not remember asking who, how, or why, only that the answers had someone reached her in this unattached phase that had turned her catatonic in her spot as she struggled with the unrelenting truth and knowledge of what had occurred.

Because Rosalie was dying, no matter if she was coming back, she would have, if ony for a moment, died - and Marion would not have been the one to save her.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, the brunette had helped her daughter change, comforting the girl out of the shaken state shep had arrived with and lead her family to the Cullen residence, being greeted by a solemn Esme in a disturbingly silent house.

The smell was everywhere, overwhelming, and it took all of her self control to keep from reaching for it as her own. It did not keep her from itching to reach for her, to hold her mate close and protect her from anything and everything that threatened her in the way she didn't before.

She wanted to run her fingers through her hair, to place tender kisses over appled cheeks and rosy lips. She wanted to see her protected in her indestructible embrace and flee with her from the burden that had become Rochester, New York.

They had lead her upstairs, Hugo and Estelle lingering at her sides, fleeting fingers pressing to her shoulders and wrists in silent support as they refused to leave her alone - not even when they stepped into the room they had set aside upstairs, the curtains firmly closed and Edward perched close to her side with his eyes dark and nose upturned. His discomfort was clear but he dis not leave once they came in.

Marion had gasped then, her knees giving without her command, as she tumbled to Rosalie's side with a dry sob, fingers gripping helplessly at a torn blue dress.