waiting and better days, a twilight fanfic

There were no words for this pain.

It danced through my bones, leaving trails of ash in its wake. My vision was blank, so consumed by the fire of this blinding hurt, but I could still clearly envision my flesh charring, face blackening. I knew, in some small corner of my mind, that when this ended (oh, please let it end), I would no longer be Huilen. I would be only a shell of myself, a shell of pain and fire marring the jungle's floor.

The pain, it raged on.

Miraculously, incredibly, thankfully—

I awakened.

I was Huilen. I was beautiful.

Those were two direct contradictions. One had to be false— and I could clearly see the perfect symmetry of my features as I dragged myself to the edge of the river, a great thirst burning down the line of my throat. My reflection shimmered in the water and yet was plainly visible. Pallor I had not had before the pain threw me into the depths of hell; hair that glowed even without the presence of sunlight; a mouth that managed to look beguiling even when fallen open in shock.

Eyes that shone the color of death.

I was beautiful, that much was obvious.

And so I must not be Huilen.

I thirsted.

The river water did no good— tasted vaguely repulsive, even. And I grew desperate, seized with a horrible, aching need for something that I could not put a name to. The intensity of it was almost frightening. I stood, the pain still residual in my limbs, and found that everything around me was sharply and stingingly clear. Things I had never taken notice of before, the number of spots on a lizard clinging to a log, the exact pattern of the whorl on my fingertip— all as solid and visible as if it were the first time I had ever lain eyes on them.

It was such a strange new world that I froze completely for a moment, quite unsure of how to move around in it without shattering everything to pieces.

I drank.

What unfortunate animal I came across, I could not say. Only that its blood was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted before, that it soothed the flames in my throat and was addictive to the extreme.

I wanted more.

The memory came upon me as I was splashing my new pale face with water from the river, half-horrified at the blacked blood staining my mouth: I was holding a jaguar's limp body out to Pire, her own pearly teeth ripping through it's fur to find the blood that ran beneath, the demon child she held in her womb taking pleasure from this disgusting meal—

And I thought, Oh, but it tastes so good. And I could perhaps understand the demon child's needs, just a small bit. For how could it not desire something as wonderful and enticing as blood?

My own startled breath made ripples form on the water's shining surface.

The child.

I had forgotten the child.

How long had the pain grasped me?

Pire and her dark angel's demon child lay curled on its side, the proportions of its body those of a babe already weeks old. It sighed in its sleep, twisting into a ball that way a snail twists into its shell.

Nahuel, Pire had gasped lovingly, rubbing at her stomach as the child inside kicked at and snapped her delicate bones. Call him Nahuel for me, Huilen.

Because she would not be there to call him that herself.

Barely had the memory finished playing in my head when the child blinked open its eyes. I started, fearful for the burning red I had seen in my own— but the eyes that stared up at me could be only Pire's warm brown, the color of soil when it has been freshly turned after a rainfall.

"Nahuel," I mouthed, and, fighting my disgust, reached down to take him into my arms.

I no longer slept.

Nahuel grew tired when darkness fell upon us, but never I. He lay in the grass, curled up in that strange way he had, until his breaths evened into slumber. I did nothing during the hours my demon-nephew rested, nothing except close my own eyes and try to feel as exhausted as days without sleep and dreams should have made me.

It was all for naught. I was left with nothing to occupy myself with during the long nighttime hours except to stare at Nahuel, whose body was larger still— he looked to have already lived several months instead of only days. When daylight broke, he never needed me to awaken him; he yawned and stretched himself out on the jungle's floor just as light began to filter down through the trees, before staring up at me plaintively.

And I sighed, lifting him to my hip, where he would remain for the entirety of the day. A helpless demon.

Pire burned.

I set fire to her broken body, steadfastly gazing out into the mountains, to the snow that was her namesake. Nahuel, where I had placed him at my feet, seemed not to realize that this was his mother becoming ashes. He watched the fire with a child's curiosity instead of a son's grief.

I blew the ashes of my sister into the river where I had first seen my new, beautiful, not-Huilen self. They sank after a long while, apparently not ready to leave this world behind. I can't say that I was ready for them to go, either.

There was a tugging on the edge of my skirt— I looked down to see Nahuel pulling himself to his feet, clutching at the fabric to stay upright. He smiled, only stumbling a small bit as he let his hold on my skirt go, taking a few steps towards the river. He shrieked with laughter, with glee, at this newfound ability.

"From now on," I said dispassionately, uncaring as to whether or not he was even able to understand me, "you will walk."

Nahuel spoke.

It was several days later, right after we came upon the first Spaniard. A man with a foot of height over me and broader still— and yet it was despairingly easy to subdue him, to sink my teeth into his pale neck. Blood so much sweeter than any animal's could ever be, like honey running down my throat; how could I have ever given a thought to drinking from the veins of animals when this was available?

I held the body out to Nahuel after my thirst was sated, saying, "Drink."

His walking skills had improved, and I refused to lift him to me at all. He grew still, faster than anything normal. I had no idea if he would ever speak to me, but I talked to him regardless— Pire wouldn't want her child to grow without knowing the names of things. I watched him for awhile, careful to make sure that the man was truly dead. I would burn his body later, to make sure that my nephew had not created another accursed one.

Nahuel lifted his face from the Spaniard man's neck. His eyes were bright from the slant of sun through the trees. "Aunt Huilen," he said, where until now he had called my attention to him only with cries and whimpers. "Aunt Huilen."

How strange the word aunt was as a prefix to my name. "That's right," I answered, with only a beat of silence between us. "I am Aunt Huilen."

And so began mine and Nahuel's conversations.

He pointed things out to me often, demanding names. He also wished for me to speak to him more than he wished to speak to me, and so I was relegated to telling him stories. I usually conjured up Pire for him, and usually at twilight, when he was tiring. Perhaps he dreamt of his mother, this way.

So I hoped.

(My memories were growing strangely fuzzy.)

Nahuel was standing calf-deep in the river, staring up at two nuzzling birds in a tree branch as I bathed myself.

"Aunt Huilen?" he asked.

"Yes?" I said, twisting the water out of my hair.

"Do I have a father?"

The question brought me up short. I pulled the old, frayed linen I'd had Nahuel take from one of the villages to me, standing and drying off my body. "Why do you ask such things?" I said carefully.

"All the animals go in pairs. You told me about Mother. How can I have a mother and no father?"

And so I realized that his mind grew just as quickly as his body. Living for just one cycle of seasons, and Nahuel already seemed to have been through five. There was no denying he was a beautiful little boy— and with double the intelligence of his one his size.

"You have a father," I told him warily, indicating that he should hand me the dress I had made just a few short weeks ago. He did so, and I pulled it over my head. Nahuel was silent, waiting patiently for more information. Sighing, I began to braid my hair and explained, "He is not a good man. I hope you shall never meet him."

My nephew's face grew confused. "But he loved Mother. How could he be bad?"

So intelligent, and still such a child. How to put in plain words that his father, Pire's dark angel, had hurt her, given her blue-black bruises after their nights together? "Some men do not create children from love," I hedged, adding, "Hurry and bathe yourself. We must hunt."

Nahuel didn't press the subject. He ducked into the water with a thoughtful look on his face— a strange appearance for one so young. When he had finished cleaning himself, I handed him the linen wordlessly.

"Aunt Huilen?" he repeated, in the midst of drying off his arms. "If my father didn't love Mother, then why was he with her?"

I had no answer.

Nahuel grew ill.

For once he did not awaken as the sun rose and stretched its rays through the sky. I reached out shake his shoulder, and found that the skin there was hotter than it should have been. Puzzled, I slipped a hand up to his cheek— and the heat there was raging. He twisted, still in slumber, curling into the same knot he used to sleep in as a babe. There was a flush on his cheeks that had never been present before, and quickness to his heartbeat that I was certain was not normal.

I thought immediately of the Spanish missionaries who gathered several villages away, and cursed out loud. When Nahuel and I had been there last, searching for our meal, we had drunk from the ones who lay in beds with furious fires burning their faces and chills wracking the rest of their bodies.

"Imbecile," I hissed softly. I knew from experience that I was invincible, unable to be harmed— but why on Earth had I let Nahuel drink from the sick?

He whimpered in his sleep, shivering. I reached out to find the linen we used for drying ourselves and wrapped it around his body, leaving his face bare. At least he had become ill during a time when the herbs needed for healing were plentiful.

I stood to go into the jungle and collect the herbs, and then hesitated. Quickly, I ran to the river, cupping my hands together to fill them with cool water. Returning just as quickly to Nahuel, the strange grace I now possessed not allowing a drop to be spilt, I nudged at him with my shoulder until he blinked his eyes open.

"Auntie?" he asked blearily, and gave a violent cough. I sat cross-legged in front of him and raised the water to his mouth, beseeching him to drink; he could stand the taste of it, I knew. Obliging, Nahuel sipped from my hand and swallowed, wincing at the motion.

"You are ill," I said rhetorically. Nahuel didn't answer— only lifted his arms, imploring me to hold him.

He was much too old for that. I began to shake my head, to explain that I was going to collect herbs to make him well, but Nahuel pushed himself up and managed to stumble over into my lap. I stiffened immediately. The weight of him was strange and unfamiliar, even as he curled up again, head against my stomach.

"No," I began to intone, and then paused, feeling the heat of his fever soaking through the fabric of my dress.

His mother would have held him.

Hesitantly, with Pire's lovely face in mind, I ran a hand though the curls of her son's damp hair.

And held him to me, just a little while longer.

a/n: I sort of love Huilen. The title is part of a line from an Iron & Wine song, the full line being, "love is waiting and better days." And I totally tried to write more, but... it failed. It got to the point where I was typing and had to pause and say to myself, "Seriously dude, stop writing, this is starting to suck." And so I figured that meant this was the natural stopping point.

Yeah. :) Review?