Location: Rochester, New York
Era: Early Spring, 1933
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⌈ Alexander / Nathaniel ⌋
I coughed up blood as the memories of my past life flashed through my mind.
In the flickering quiet between death and rebirth, I remembered the smell of turpentine and October wind.
My reflection in the broken mirror lying against the brick wall of the alley I was currently lying in, bleeding to death, didn't match the memories etched into the marrow of my soul.
In contrast to my past self, I as Nathaniel Hale, was born beauty carved into bone and blood. The once white dress shirt was now drenched in my own pooled blood. My silver-blond hair that usually fell across my brow in soft waves, perpetually tousled no matter how my valet tried to tame it, was now knotted in dried blood and mud. My eyes, which captured attention even before my striking features, eyes the color of amethysts, were hollow and full of pain.
At eighteen, I had the quiet magnetism of a boy too beautiful for his own good, yet too introspective to revel in it. While Rosalie basked in attention with the grace of a queen in waiting, I moved like a ghost—always present, always polite, but detached in ways that made girls swoon and men envious. I smiled rarely, and when I did, it never reached those violet eyes.
Unlike Rosalie, I did not dream of marriage or the approval of high society. I dreamt of escaping it, of painting in silence. Of books untouched by time and gardens no one walked through. The world bored me. Its cruelty left a sour taste in my mouth, even behind the softness of my refined manners.
A pained moan next to me brought me back to the present. I turned my neck to look at who it came from.
'Ah, that's right. Today was the day, huh?'
Memories of today's happenings entered my mind. It was one week before the wedding, and Rosalie wanted to visit her good friend Vera. I had offered to escort her. I wanted to speak with Vera's husband about a project I needed a carpenter for, anyway.
My sister and I arrived at the Langdons' modest but charming home in the quieter end of the city, where budding crocuses had begun to peek through the thawing garden beds. The scent of wet earth and budding lilacs clung to the air like a promise not yet fulfilled. Spring, like Rosalie herself, was blooming and radiant but I always found it a little melancholic, as if the world was trying too hard to be hopeful.
I remembered opening the carriage door for my sister with a murmured, "Careful, Rose." She took my gloved hand with a regal nod, the soft yellow folds of her silk day dress catching the sunlight like spun honey. Her wide-brimmed hat, feathered and immaculate, tilted just enough to give her the appearance of royalty visiting commoners.
The front door opened before they could knock. Vera Langdon, her cheeks flushed with excitement, pulled Rosalie into a warm embrace that had her laughing like the young girl she still was, despite the diamond ring that sparkled like a threat on her finger.
"Come in, come in! I just pulled a tray of lemon scones from the oven," Vera announced as she stepped back, her eyes briefly flicking to me. "Mr. Hale," she greeted more formally, offering me a smile touched with shyness, her cheeks flushing faintly.
I had nodded slightly. "Mrs. Langdon." I tried not add flame to her crush on me.
Inside, the home smelled of citrus, pine cleaner, and warm bread. It was cozy in a way the Hale estate never was. It was lived-in, not curated. Vera's husband, Charles, was already in the sitting room, hunched over a coffee table littered with wooden sketches and carpenter's pencils. He stood as I approached, offering a handshake that smelled faintly of sawdust and tobacco.
"You mentioned a project?" Charles asked, motioning toward the worn leather armchairs by the fire.
I inclined my head. "A greenhouse. A small one for the west garden. I wanted something that could survive next winter's harsh weather without compromising the light."
Charles grunted thoughtfully. "You came to the right man, then."
As us men discussed beams, panes, and heated floors, the sound of Rosalie's laughter echoed from the kitchen—light and melodic, like champagne being poured. I heard the clinking of cups, the shuffle of skirts, and Vera's delighted exclamations. It was all so domestic. So normal.
I found myself staring into the fire instead of at Charles's diagrams.
"I don't mean to pry," Charles said after a pause, lowering his voice, "but you seem... off today, Mr. Hale. Are you well?"
I blinked. "Am I? I don't feel like I am different than any other day."
Charles chuckled in confusion. "You're a strange one."
"So I've been told."
Eventually, we rejoined the women in the sun-drenched kitchen, where Vera had laid out tea, clotted cream, and the promised scones. The table was covered in a patchwork floral cloth, the cups mismatched but clean, the cream in a chipped ceramic bowl shaped like a duck. Rosalie looked out of place here and yet, not at all. She was laughing, genuinely, about something—perhaps a story from their childhood, perhaps a whispered critique of Rochester's stiff upper class.
I sat beside her, resting my elbows lightly on the table, sipping tea I didn't particularly care for. My violet eyes studied the sun catching in Rosalie's pale golden curls, how the light made her look like something divine. It hit me, not for the first time, how fragile that divinity was.
How easily it could be ruined.
As they prepared to leave, Rosalie took Vera's hands in hers and leaned in close.
"I'm nervous," she confessed quietly, unaware that I was lingering just out of sight in the hallway.
Vera squeezed her hands. "Everyone is before a wedding."
Rosalie shook her head. "It's not that I'm unsure. It's that... I feel like I'm walking into a play. One where I don't get to read the script."
I didn't interrupt.
I waited by the carriage as she emerged a few minutes later, bright as ever, brushing imaginary dust from her gloves. The smile she gave me was practiced. Beautiful but hollow.
I helped her up, then sat beside her. Neither of us spoke as the horses began to trot back toward the Hale estate. The city rolled by in sepia shades, old buildings and older trees, all caught somewhere between thaw and bloom.
Just then, the carriage lurched violently to one side with a jarring thump, metal groaning as if something vital had snapped beneath them. My hand instinctively shot out to steady Rosalie as the wheels ground to a halt. A moment later, the driver dismounted and rushed to the door, tipping his cap with an apologetic glance.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, miss," he said breathlessly, "wheel's cracked clean through. Must've caught a rut in the cobblestone."
Rosalie sighed, adjusting the cuffs of her gloves. "Can it be fixed?"
The driver nodded. "Aye, but it'll take a spell. You're not far from the manor, though. Just a ten-minute walk, if that."
I exchanged a glance with my sister, then stepped down onto the damp street, offering my hand. "Shall we?"
She took it with a nod, and together we started down the narrow lane. Early evening light filtered through the thinning clouds, casting long, watery shadows across the path. The city felt quieter now, hushed, as if holding its breath.
For a while, we walked in silence.
The kind of silence only siblings forged in the same household could share—familiar, unspoken, laced with things better left unsaid. I kept glancing at the sky, watching as pale gray clouds drifted slowly over the rooftops like smoke curling from an invisible cigarette.
Rosalie finally broke the quiet.
"Vera seemed happy," she said, her voice light, but there was a thoughtful note to it.
"She did," I replied.
"And Charles was kind."
"He was."
She was quiet for a beat longer. Then asked, "Do you think... I could ever have that?" She wasn't looking at me. Her eyes were on the horizon, beyond the wrought-iron gates they were nearing.
My jaw tensed. My stride slowed, but just slightly. "That depends on who you marry."
It happened as we turned a corner near the ivy-clad remains of an old stone wall, the manor's high roof just visible beyond the trees.
A burst of laughter broke the stillness, slurred, ugly, and unmistakably male.
Rosalie froze. Her grip tightened on my arm.
From the side of the road stumbled Royce King II, heir to a banking empire and drunker than decency should allow. His bowtie hung undone, collar crooked, and his eyes, usually cold with calculation, were glassy with gin. He was flanked by two equally inebriated companions, all of them dressed in formalwear like they had come from some private gentleman's club that stank of cigar smoke and bad intentions.
"Well, well," Royce drawled, catching sight of Rosalie. His grin spread slow and uneven across his face. "If it isn't my lovely bride-to-be... out for a twilight stroll?"
Rosalie's face remained composed, but I felt the way she recoiled inwardly. She said nothing.
Royce staggered closer, his eyes flicking lazily between her and me. "And here I thought you'd be at home practicing your wedding vows. Or is that what he was helping you with?"
I stepped forward, placing myself between Royce and Rosalie without a word. My voice, when it came, was soft but steely. "You're drunk, Royce."
Royce snorted. "That's not news."
His friend laughed—a nasally, high-pitched thing—and muttered something crude under his breath. The other one elbowed him, clearly amused.
Rosalie straightened. "Go home, Royce."
But he didn't move. His gaze clung to her like filth, and then his eyes narrowed on me, squinting as though trying to remember something long forgotten.
I didn't flinch. I had never liked Royce. He was too loud, too proudful, and too used to getting his way. But tonight, there was something off about him. A twitch in his jaw. A mean edge beneath the wine-slick drawl. The kind of tension that makes even the dusk feel sharp.
"Come on," I said quietly to Rosalie, keeping my voice low. "Let's go."
We stepped past, carefully. But Royce wasn't finished.
He and his cronies moved fast for men so drunk, the shuffle of polished shoes on damp cobblestone, the rustle of coats reeking of bourbon and cologne. Within seconds, they had flanked the two of us, cutting us off like wolves in a narrowing ring.
Royce's arm shot out, bracing against the wall just inches from Rosalie's shoulder, boxing her in. His breath stank of gin and rot. "Where do you think you're going, darling?" he drawled, lips peeling into a smile too wide to be human. "Leave that pretty boy of a brother and come entertain me and my friends, yeah?"
Rosalie stiffened. "Step aside."
But Royce only leaned in closer. "Oh, don't be that way. I've missed you. And my friends here... well, let's just say they've heard so much about you." He laughed, low and oily, and one of the men beside him whistled.
My hand found Rosalie's wrist and gently, grounding her—but my body positioned between hers and Royce's in a blink. I didn't shove. I didn't raise my voice. My expression didn't even change.
But my violet eyes turned cold.
"I said," I murmured, each word deliberate and razor-sharp, "you're drunk, Royce. Go. Home."
Royce's smile faltered. For a flicker of a second, the veil slipped, revealing something crueler beneath the charm. "You think you can talk to me like that? You think your soft hands and watercolors make you a man?"
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
I simply shifted, one foot sliding back, weight settled, ready.
One of Royce's friends grabbed my shoulder, laughing. "Look at this delicate little—"
Before he could finish, I twisted free, a swift motion honed more by instinct than training, and shoved the man back with surprising force. He stumbled, landing hard on the ground with a grunt.
"Don't touch my brother!" Rosalie snapped, her voice slicing through the air like the crack of glass.
Royce's expression darkened, the gleam in his eyes turning venomous. He grabbed Rosalie's upper arm, fingers digging in.
That was his mistake.
I struck. It wasn't a punch borne of rage. It was precise. Controlled. The kind of strike that came not from passion, but principle. My fist collided with Royce's jaw, snapping the man's head to the side. Royce stumbled back, blood on his lip and disbelief on his face.
Silence followed in stunned, heaviness.
Then Royce spat. The blood looked black in the dying light.
"You little bastard," he snarled. "You think you can touch me?"
Mt breath was uneven now, my shoulders rising slightly. I didn't reply.
Royce's two friends recovered fast, one lunging at me, the other reaching for something glinting in his coat.
"Run," I whispered to Rosalie.
She didn't move.
"Rosalie, run!"
The chaos blurred.
I didn't remember falling. Only the sound of Rosalie's scream.
And then the crack of my skull against brick. The taste of copper filled my mouth. Ice entered my veins, then darkness welcomed me.
Now that my memories caught up, I couldn't help but curse my fortune. I just had to be reincarnated as the twin brother of the Rosalie Hale.
The alley reeked of rot and old smoke, of bootleg gin and spilled secrets. Rainwater dripped from the rusted fire escape above us, rhythmically ticking against a dented trash bin like a slow funeral march.
Rosalie lay a few feet away, crumpled like a discarded doll. Her golden curls were matted with blood, the soft satin of her dress torn and stained where hands had grabbed her. She wasn't moving, but I could hear her breathing shallow. She was alive, but just barely.
We hadn't meant to end up here. Not in this alley. Not like this.
Royce had laughed when he shoved me down, a cruel bark echoing off the alley walls. His friends followed suit, all champagne-tipsy on power and too much money, their words slurred but their fists precise.
I remembered trying to shield Rosalie. I remembered the first punch breaking my nose, the second splitting my lip. I remembered the crack of something in my ribs and the sting of a boot heel against my temple. Somewhere in the chaos, I heard Rosalie scream my name.
And then nothing—until now.
I tried to move, but the pain screamed louder than my will.
"Rosie…" my voice was a rasp of blood and frost.
She stirred faintly, lips parting. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. Her once-rosy cheeks were pallid now, and tears had carved runnels through the dirt and bruises.
"N'thaniel…?" she breathed.
I let out a broken sound. Relief. Grief. Fury. All of it.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm still here."
Even if I didn't have long.
Somewhere beyond the alley, a siren wailed. Police? No. Fire truck. Wrong kind of salvation.
I wished Carlisle Cullen would arrive now, like he had in the story in his past life. But this time, things were different. I was different.
The pain in my chest swelled until my vision blurred, but I held on. Just a little longer.
I couldn't let Rosalie die, not like cannon.
Not broken. Not brutalized. Not crawling for help in a wedding dress, praying to a God who looked the other way.
If Carlisle was coming, he needed to find them soon.
I turned my head skyward. The stars above Rochester were barely visible through the haze of city smoke and cloud. But they were there.
"I don't care what becomes of me," I murmured to the dark. "Just save her."
Blood trickled from my lips again, warm and final. My vision tunneled. My heartbeat staggered.
Somewhere in the distance, light footsteps.
My fading consciousness latched onto that sound like a drowning man to driftwood.
A feminine voice, distant but clear, touched the edge of my perception. Calm. Too calm for the horrors in this alley.
"How unfortunate."
And then there was only oblivion.