Preface
Elves were a simple sort–beautiful and not much else. They enjoyed the finer, more organic parts of life, and lived in absolute simplicity. In fact, one could compare them to another race of immortality, the vampires. However, they were not to be mistaken as vampires, merely similar in aesthetics. They were lovely was all, not killers but sleepers. To be honest, they detested the thought of vampires, so similar to them yet so completely different. If anything, it was out of vanity–the vampires gave them a bad lot often, when elves were sometimes mistaken for the immortal-blood folk. The elves were peaceful mostly, content under the rule of one all-powerful monarch, the Elf King (the prettiest of them all, vísi álfa). They were álfar, not vampire, not killers. They were not killers, especially not king killers. And if you were to ask any elf today, the few still scattered among the world in modern-day, he would tell you he surely hates the vampire. For the vampire are killers, and they killed the very last elf king, Gandalf.
The Dark Ink Song
“Isabella,” Ashe called, pushing aside his dark hood, pale skin and dark red eyes fixed. At my name, I glanced beyond my own dark hood and then down again. I had known who he was without looking by way of his voice and the touch of his foot on the earth–those were things vampires just knew, like when I was human and could recognize Charlie’s fatherly musk and Jake’s woodsy smell and Edward’s–well, honestly, those things were just too painful to remember so I pushed them back down. I supposed I just felt the need to show him I did not care for his presence, showing him how disdained by him I was. And then the pain edged a little; it wasn’t an unbearable pain anymore, because they were all okay, but it was a bitter taste in my mouth and on my tongue. I instead drew my eyes to his face again, over the sharp planes of his handsome face and frowning when I finally rested on his deep red eyes. Blood. “Come with us tonight,” he pleaded.
“I don’t think so,” I replied immediately, too-fast for anyone to mistake my answer as thoughtful or even as rude. It just was. Well, it was hostile and we both knew it. Why disguise it, I decided? When human, a time when my thoughts and visions were filmy, I thought it best to conceal my irritation with friends and strangers alike. I had found myself far less obliging with the Capulets. Folding back my worn copy of Sense and Sensibility, I frowned and added, “You know my diet, Ashe.”
Equally irritable, Ashe said though clenched teeth, “You mean your diet,” he said, emphasizing the word curtly, “Sense and Sensibility, what a riot,” he concluded with acid, pushing a hand through his sandy hair.
Unruffled, I went on with my book, ignoring his presence altogether. He did not like this.
“Isabella–God, Bella–if you would just give everyone a chance–give me a chance, you could actually be happy!” Ashe argued, moving closer than I really needed him to be. He stood with crossed arms, awaiting my response. So typical of him, everything.
We had this argument every night, or rather he argued with me while I thumbed through my latest novel. Yesterday is was Fountainhead. It was always about the same matter – my indifference and my diet. Those in the Capulet – this sort of league, almost PETA, I suppose – could not understand either about me. I had never truly been apathetic in my human life and in the very beginning years of my immortal existence, but I had found that it crept upon me since my first days with the Capulets. They were as ferocious and typical as the next clan of vampires–the amazons, the Volturi, the average human-eating kind–but with a twisted outlook on justice. So, because I would neither advocate their cause nor murder humans for blood with them, I had become “unhappy” in the eyes of all in the Capulet.
Ashe here, a fellow member, declared it his personal mission to change that. But he knew nothing of my unhappiness. Few did; only those pulling the strings did. The only way I could explain the entire mess was that I was Pinocchio, a helpless, stringed puppet with nothing but wishes in my heart. And, to top it off, I belonged to the puppeteer Stromboli who was so enamored with his new toy that my strings would never be free. In this case, the Capulets act as Stromboli, pretending to care about my lost humanity but really only using me for some convoluted law.
So like every other night–I looked through my eyelashes, trying to temper the vampire–and I showed him yellow eyes then declined further invitation, “I’m not hungry.”
It was lie. Sure, but what wasn’t anymore?
