Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer, as do the characters, plot, and all familiar details.
This one's for Claire, who requested a Jane-centric.
She remembers little of who she was before. Very, very little. She thinks maybe her mother was blonde, and her father a brunette. She thinks maybe their house was white, with a porch. And they had a horse, she thinks. A white mare, with a pretty name. Something that started with an S, maybe? But her head throbs when she tries too hard to remember, and maybe there's a reason why she doesn't know who she was. She thinks that it makes her sure of who she is, and that's what's important.
She remembers one thing clearly, though: the piano.
She remembers that she used to be good, and she used to love it. She remembers the feel of the cold, hard, almost impersonal keys under her nimble fingers. She remembers closing her eyes around the music and floating away. She remembers that she used to feel the music. She remembers it being a part of her.
Sometimes, when the world is silent and her breathing stills, she can hear the piano again. She can feel the breeze lift her skirts and dance around her ankles, keeping time perfectly with the music. She can remember being eight-years-old and poor as dirt and cold and angry ... and playing the piano.
She can remember when things started falling apart, at thirteen, when her mother died. She remembers that it used to be seemingly endless periods of time before she and her brother would see their father again. (And she'd started to dread it. The hurt when he beat her, and he stank of beer. She wished she could make him hurt.)
Her father was the first one she killed. She was wearing the same white dress she'd loved, the same dress he beat her half to death in before Demetri found her. She doesn't regret spilling his blood all over it. (She threw the dress away. The black robes were more flattering anyways.)
She mourns her innocence with the same intensity with which she mourns the loss of her dress, actually. (She mourns nothing of her old life except the music.)
She finds her middle name in a letter between her mother and her father, dated half a decade before she was even born: Lilla. It translates roughly into 'to sing' in Norwegian, and she thinks it's far more beautiful than plain old Jane. She sorta wishes she'd been called Lilla instead. She brings that piece of her old life into her new one and becomes Jane Lilla Volturi, to Aro's approval.
One day, by accident, following the sweet smell of human, she wanders into a church. She stops on the steps and wonders what she's doing there, that she doesn't belong and then shakes herself mentally. Vampires aren't spiritual, despite the blasphemy Carlisle Cullen breathes, and this is simply a building full of people. She still can't bring herself to attack anyone in here, she realises and turns to leave. And then she spots the piano.
Her legs pull her towards it, and if she'd realised what she'd been doing, she probably wouldn't have stopped herself. Her fingers find the keys before she's even seated, and she moans slightly at the crispness of the memories. Everything comes flooding back with such clarity that if she'd been mortal, she might have crumpled in on herself. She doesn't stop playing until every memory burns on her retina and she can smell blood and smoke and beer, and she hears the rough gasps and quiet sobs and she feels the sting of leather and the burn of bruises. She remembers her mother, and her tiny hands, calloused slightly from years of music. And her brother, with his delicate naivety and his round cheeks and the dull glitter of his eyes.
She remembers the cold keys, and the trickle of tears. She remembers her humanity and what it was like to feel love, and pain and grief and guilt.
She finally mourns her innocence, and then gets to her knees and mourns for every soul she personally delivered to it's demise.
"Are you okay?" a man asks gently what may have been minutes, or hours, or days, later. "It's getting dark out and you've been here for a while. Do you have somewhere else to go?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Jane chokes out, opening her eyes and licking her lips. He's momentarily taken aback by the colour of her eyes, and then he sits in silence and ponders what he's seeing—a red-eyed demon on her knees in a church, hands folded, head bowed and eyes closed.
"What is your name, child?" he asks.
"Lilla," she replies, ignoring the stab of hunger at her throat. She hears his pulse behind the delicate veil of his flesh and swallows. His eyes follow the movement as they sit in silence.
"I can imagine you must be hungry, Lilla," he says finally, and Jane stares at him. So this human knows? "I ask you kindly not to ... feed here."
She doesn't reply, just gets up from her knees and sits at the piano again. She plays one last song to fill the empty silence and thinks once more about her lost humanity.
The next day, the church burns. Starting with the piano.
Claire, hope you liked.
Concrit encouraged, favourites without reviews discouraged. Much appreciated.