DISCLAIMER: Women of the Otherworld, its publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended.

CHAPTER TITLE: Edward Danvers

AUTHOR: Relala

BETA: lady of scarlet

FANDOM STATUS: Fanon/Canon

SPOILERS: For Men Of The Otherworld or the online short story Infusion released in 2005

GRANDSON

"I'm so very sorry, sweetheart," Edward whispered, voice cracked in the middle like an ancient stone.

Scalding tears welled up within his chocolate-coloured eyes as he clenched his weakened hands in frustrated grief, anger forcing a low growl out of his throat. The old man felt broken inside; shaken up like a bottle of champagne and left to explode all alone in the middle of the living room as he stood over the lady's still-warm body. But he wouldn't—couldn't—afford to lose his hard-won control. Tearing his gaze away from the red ruin that had once been a beautiful girl before his son's handiwork, Edward gathered up his newborn grandson. He wrapped him up in a thick blanket and exited the front door, leaving the murder scene further behind him with every limping footfall.

THUMP

Edward tries not to hear their whispering voices and booming laughter. He tries to avoid the accusations in their eyes and the twitches of their mocking lips as they grin at him, teeth bared like the worst of monsters from any fairytale. He holds his head up high as he walks by them, betraying no weakness as his walking cane goes thump, thump, thump. It's a long walk down the hallway and their eyes follow him as if he is a wounded doe, but he doesn't acknowledge the weight of their gazes.

Edward is no coward.

No boy afraid of the big bad wolf.

PATTERN

Father is dying and little ten-year-old Edward cannot bring himself to give a damn, but Grandfather pushes him gently into the room, telling him that these are the last moments he will ever have with his Father and that he should spend them wisely. If anything, however, this makes Edward feel somewhat relieved. He'd loved his Father once when he was a very young child—back when he was able to ride upon his Father's broad shoulders and touch the Heavens with his chubby hands—but towards the end, the man had developed a mean right hook and his rumbling voice, which sounded of crunched gravel, had taken to screaming bloody murder more than telling adventure stories.

At ten, Edward is not capable of comprehending the pattern of hatred which is passed from Father to Son throughout the generations. He merely stands at his Father's bedside, unable to forgive and unwilling to forget.

ANNABEL LEE

It doesn't matter if he only knew Annabel for a summer, because he can still remember her tanned face under the sunbursts by the pond, her flashing eyes which could covey every emotion within a heartbeat, and her curly brown locks which he wound his fingers into like needles and thread. In the early evening they had sailed their stolen boat out into the tranquil waters with a bottle of white wine in their hands and nervous smiles on their lips.

Edward hadn't been a werewolf yet, merely a seventeen-year-old schoolboy enjoying the last weeks of summertime. In the sweet breeze and under the pale moonlight, Edward Danvers is foolish enough to believe that she will be his forever.

STONEHAVEN FIELDS

When Edward killed his first Mutt there was some remorse.

Remorse enough for him to haul the body down to the lake as if it were a Pack son within his arms. Remorse enough to riffle through his pockets for ID so that he could at least know his victim's name, even if it was a fake one. Remorse enough to bury the poor sod under the glinting sunlight which shone through Stonehaven's forest. Remorse enough to mutter some two-bit lines which he half-recalled from having to repeat them every November eleventh all through his school years.

"We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow …"

LIES WE TELL OURSELVES

Edward Danvers isn't able to sleep most nights. He's plagued by nightmares which chase him down like hounds on a scent and when he awakens in sudden fright, he denies it all.

It's not that he feels he should avenge their murders, he tells himself, it's just that he feels guilty that he couldn't prevent their violent deaths. He feels guilty for not showing up on time. He doesn't feel he should kill Malcolm for them. He doesn't feel that a life should be taken for a life. That wouldn't be right. That wouldn't be proper. He would never want to kill his own son - his one and only son! -for some unknown murdered women.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

HUSH

Stonehaven is utterly silent when Malcolm is gone.

The presence of peace breathes in every room and hallway and forest nook, sweeping into the hearts of the two remaining residents. They both heave loud sighs of relief but it barely disturbs the calm air around them. With Malcolm gone they are comfortable and free, settling into their own places in the house to enjoy this rare escape.

When their eyes meet there is no tension, when their lips twitch it isn't in hate but rather to form soft smiles. They don't need words, these two beings, to understand one another.

They are content in the tranquil hush.

GUARDING TREASURE

Edward is always an object in the background of Malcolm's life; waiting for his son to screw up.

He is the faded ghost in the corner of the Sorrentino home – eyes ever watchful, whiskey eternally in hand. He has become a moribund guard-hound, limbs aching and brittle and ears half deaf but eyes never wavering from their treasure. Edward watches. He waits. So that when Malcolm does screw up he will be there… to save him.

BLISSFUL

Jeremy and Antonio are cute little bundles of mischief at five and six years old. In the summertime at Stonehaven their faces are bright and playful, their skin kissed by golden sunshine and their smiles as wide as watermelon slices.

When Grandfather Edward comes out to join them in their frolicking, they dance around his beanstalk legs and walking cane, laughing with the true joy which only children can muster. They tug gently on his wrinkled hands and pull him into the long green grass. Running and chasing, hunting and hiding.

For a few moments under the scorching sunbursts there is bliss at Stonehaven.

CRIPPLE

While all the others are out hunting down a buck for dinner during a Meet, Edward is left behind, the dust from their paws kicked into his face. He yearns for what they all take for granted - the chase, the hunt, the adrenaline. There had been a time once when he had been the fastest of them all, a time when he had run with the wind in his fur and been the runner up for Alphahood, but those days have been over for decades.

Edward Danvers is nothing more than a washed up old wolf to them now, clearly seen as nothing more than a cripple. As the others prove themselves to be real wolves, Edward places his muzzle on his paws and lays his old body down in the grass.