V. : What the Thunder Said
"You don't think it's too much?" Ren drapes the necklace around her throat. It is nothing special, a scrap of ribbon and a crest, but it belonged to someone of import, once. Around her, ashes tumble like that fake snow crazy Auntie Alice sprinkled around the Christmas tree with rabid enthusiasm. She won't be doing that anymore.
"It's fine," Alec says, beneath his hood.
"You know me, I overaccesorize." She's formed a habit of taking from every victim, a bauble, a gem, a small precious thing, and wearing it like a military dog-tag on her neck.
"You can ask Heidi about battlefield chic on the flight back."
"Guess I'm stuck here now," Ren announces to nobody in particular, scuffing her garishly bright shoes as the rain drips and drizzles onto old stone. Her cloak smells like detergent now, and her clothes are Italian, cheerful and chosen by someone else.
"That would be the consequence of setting your former home on fire, yes," Alec agrees placidly. "What are you thinking of doing next?"
"We should get married. Settle down, get a puppy and name it Seth. Oh, and there have to be one point two goddamn kids. That's pretty important," she says, straight-faced. It takes some effort to keep the cynicism from seeping visibly through the cracks and wounds.
"Yeah. Something like that."
She kisses him then, hard and fast, like explosions and flying, flaying steel. The future, magnesium-bright, burning blue, unfurls itself in his mind, and Alec is laughing until he remembers pain.
"Let's fucking rock this."
Author's Note: As always, credit for the chapter title goes to T.S Eliot. You're getting sick of hearing this, I'm sure.
This drabble completes my sojourn into the world of Alec/Renesmee. It's been wild. My thanks to everyone who read, favourited and reviewed.