Heartbeat [Alec Volturi]

Origin

In all the time I had spent in the twins' living room, the fireplace never held a single ember. I never questioned it.

"Lydia. Our mother's name was Lydia."

"She worked with herbs, a healer by today's terms. She was skilled at what she did, and she served in a capacity alongside the village's medicinal, err...doctor. When he was unsuccessful, she would step in. While many were grateful for her services, there were always those that whispered in the shadows."

Jane noted the brief look of confusion on my face. She raised an eyebrow, already knowing her answer to my unasked question, "because even the history being made today has never fully accepted an exceptionally talented woman. A talent that is the reason my brother is alive today."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that were already building. I could keep it together as she kept on, "I told you Alec was unusually susceptible to illness when we were alive." I nodded, indicating that I remembered. "I did not emphasize the extent of his affliction."

"Ever since we were children, there were times when he would have these sorts of attacks. He would seize up, collapse, and convulse in such a way that posed more danger to himself. My mother told me to keep him safe if it ever happened without her to hold him down if I could. But she feared it would happen while he worked with our father, a blacksmith. My father convinced her he would be fine; to our luck, he was.

"His fits were always particularly frightening, especially to those who rarely witnessed or had only heard of the occurrences. And one day, a group of men brought him to our home and said he had collapsed in the market. They were certain he was on the brink of death – and so was I."

I bit my lip, the words sending my heart into a tailspin. Jane eyed me before returning to the story.

We prepared for the worst, grieving him with the many condolences from the townspeople as if he were already gone. My mother stayed at his bedside the entire time, never eating or sleeping." Jane grimaced. "On the third night, I heard her whispering to him, but it was not any language I knew. It was almost as if she were chanting, murmuring.

"Around that time, I was visited by a girl I mislabeled as a friend. She was only infatuated with my brother, of course. I knew she saw being my friend as an opportunity to become closer to him." Jane smirked at whatever expression she saw on my face, aching for something light-hearted to escape the moment briefly. "No need to be jealous, Saffiya. She got what she deserved a long time ago."

"I'm not–" But I realized it was her way of breaking from the stress of the story, so I let her smirk.

"In my grief, I made the foolish error of sharing what I had overheard, my concern over my mother's behaviour." Jane tightened her grip on the couch cushion, the soft fabric barely reacting. If it were wood, it would have splintered. "I made her promise..."

"I would never tell anyone, I swear it." Olive squeezed her friend's hand in comfort. "Perhaps she was singing to him?"

Jane shook her head. "Never once has my mother sung us a lullaby."

Olive lowered her voice, glancing around as the town walked among them, oblivious to the taboo subject being discussed by the young girls. "Are you suggesting witchcraft?"

"No! Keep your voice down." Jane sent daggers to her friend, and Olive flinched at the unexpectedly sharp attack. Jane hissed, "how could you suggest such a thing?"

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Jane shook her head, brushing off her skirt as she stood. "Nevermind. You are much too simple to comprehend the intricacies of a whisper." The bitter words stung, and Olive jumped up as well.