Fan Fic Rec Number 2!

Sleepers, Awake (Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme) by Feisty.y.Beden

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5118949/1/Sleepers_Awake_Wachet_auf_ruft_uns_die_Stimme

This fic is a total heart-wrencher. If you're looking for HEA then do not look here.

Feisty's summary:

Bella, compulsive sketcher of wolves, has not dreamed in years. Unexpectedly, she begins to dream again the night tragedy takes away her first and greatest love. ExB, sort of.

My summary:

Bella starts having weird dreams. Dreams that feel very life like when she wakes up. She finds it hard to come to terms with Edward being dead. However do not let this put you off, as i guarantee you will not be bothered that Edward is not coming back.

This is a very deep and sometimes mind boggling fic. However, the way it's written is very powerful and Feisty compels you to continue reading from the continuous cliffhangers she leaves you at the end of each thrilling chapter.

Other characters that appear in her real world,is Rosalie as Bella's best friend, who i must say, made me laugh on several occasions. Charlie, who also does the same as Rose and made me giggle, as well as feeling comforted by him there. Alice is a little girl, who we don't see a lot of and Jasper is one of Edwards music buddies who we also don't see a lot of. Renee also makes an appearance as the bad trashy mum.

In the dream world, we have the wolves Jacob, Leah and Seth, who try to make Bella remember. Also there is James who offers Bella a very vague offer.

So all in all, i highly rec this fic, as it made me laugh and cry throughout - something a fic rarely does.

Preview

I can’t see. I can’t move. I’m less alarmed by this than you’d think. My arms are pinned to my sides. I realize I’m wrapped tightly in some sort of shroud. I try to raise my arms. The fabric is old, decaying. After an initial resistance, it tears easily, like ripping through cobwebs. The scraps of fabric fall away with only a whisper of protest, and despite the fading day, I’m squinting, my eyes unaccustomed to the light. How long have I been asleep?

It’s a strangely familiar place. The place is overgrown with briars but still familiar. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been here. It’s all Spanish moss and vines and crumbling stonework. When have I been here? Who was I? It was something important. I can almost remember, the memories murky shadows in my subconscious.

You can tell this place used to be majestic. Maybe hundreds of years ago it might have been a center of an advanced civilization. Now, though, it’s wild and overgrown. Savage. Still, it’s impressive in its own way, beauty in its rawest form.

I stretch my arms above my head and walk in a slow circle, taking in my surroundings as I step over the cloth scraps that once held me prisoner. I’m standing on what must have been a courtyard, tiles of thick granite with grass and weeds now growing through the cracks. Nature always reclaims what we’ve built with our hands.

I step off the edge of the granite slabs onto the hilltop. The grass beneath my bare feet is damp and soft, and the air smells sweet. The wind kicks up, whipping my long hair across my face, and I reach up to tuck the errant strands behind my ears.

I have the oddest feeling that I’ve returned home.

***

… shortly after takeoff from Chicago O’Hare. There were no survivors. Investigators continue to search Lake Michigan for the aircraft’s black box recorders. Wintry weather conditions are likely to have been a factor in the crash—

I’m jolted from unconsciousness by NPR. The news report washes over me like an incoming tide, covering me with a general feeling of dread. Even under ideal circumstances, that is, when I coldly comfort myself with the statistically proven safety of air travel with my feet solidly and safely on the earth, I have an almost disabling fear of flying. I’ve tried everything: books, meditation, hypnotherapy, regular therapy, biofeedback, expensive courses taught by ex-pilots, and the only thing that gets me on a plane is the trusty anti-anxiety medication prescribed by my doctor. It relaxes me enough that I can make it through the jetway on wobbly legs and take my seat, but even so, every second inside the titanium coffin is a kind of agony. I’ll sit in my narrow seat, fists clenched, seatbelt secured so tightly that if the plane stopped suddenly, I’d accidentally bisect myself. I’ll sit in my tense ball, wondering if this will be my last moment on the earth. Or maybe this. Or the next. And on and on until the wheels touch ground at my final destination. Final destination. Even the term for the endpoint of the journey has a terrifying ring to it.

When I fly, I wonder if Shakespeare was thinking of me when he wrote, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.”

I have died many, many deaths.


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