Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The song that inspired this story is an old French hymn.
Loreena McKennitt produced her own rendition of it and put it on her "Midwinter Night's Dream" cd that my hubby purchased for me for Christmas last year.
I am a huge fan of hers. Therefore, you will need to either purchase her cd, or find a way to listen to it yourself, as I will not be party to pirated music.
Here is the link for you to copy and paste into your browser if you want to purchase the cd. Trust me, it's worth it.
quinlanroad (dot) com/explore the music/1(dot)asp
Ok, maybe a little Pink Floyd as well...(giggle)
This is my first fic. If it is terrible, please tell me why NICELY and help me figure it out. I REALLY AM looking for constructive criticism, NOT, "oh I love it, when's the next chappie coming?!" While that is nice and strokes the ego, I want to LEARN. I will also be participating as much as I can in the Fictionista's WitFit as much as I possibly can outside of work and school.
Normally I dislike prologues because so many writers in FF reveal their hands when they write them. This is a pet peeve of mine. (You will find that I have a shitton of pet peeves and moods as well) However, I wanted to introduce my readers beforehand to Edward, who appears to be the narrator for this part of the story, and set the time period as 1855-ish. So much happened in that time period! I am jealous enough to wish it were my diary you were reading. I have done a ton of research and tried to get as close to the actual events I site as possible. Realizing that the French people had a completely different view of what went down; I hope I reflect that in Edward's thoughts as we go.
We may hear from Bella, we may not. It all depends on whether or not Edward can shut his mouth. Ahem.
There are a ton of great writers on the 'net lately and I do not try to be one of them, I only want to become better at what I love in my own way!
You will see a shout-out to my favorite Fire Fly character in this. Let's see who spots it.
Enough talk, let us be on our way...
"What if I'm not a superhero? What if I'm the bad guy?"
Edward Cullen, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer Chapter 5, p.92
The forest was sleeping. Pregnant clouds rolled past, casting shadows even though there was no sunlight. They blocked the dim daylight and seemed to stop the flow of life itself. White powder lay gracefully as a blanket covering the hips of Mother Earth as she lay in deep slumber. The trees had not seen sunlight for days. The hollow sounds of the winter wind blew through the reeds and dead grasses. Even the animals were sleeping.
I wish I were sleeping as well.
As it were, I sat amongst the logs of the forest, in my heart, as dead as they were. The heat from my backside sucked up the dampness from the bark beneath me and melted into my breeches. I ignored the cold, oblivious to any form of physical misery or pleasure. I became numb, so comfortably numb.
I was tired; tired of life, tired of existing in this form; this corporeal form. I wished that I could go to sleep once more. I wished for true darkness, a dreamless rest to come upon my soul. Dreamless indeed, I thought to myself. If I could only get the dreams to stop plaguing my every unconscious moment...I thought. Hell on earth was what awaited the back of my eyelids each time I closed them. I suffered for a lack of silent slumber.
Seven years ago my life came to an end; sleep was a luxury I no longer enjoyed. I left my family to keep them safe. Safety was all I could give them now. I was dead to them as far as they were concerned. I could never again breathe the same air as my beloved family. I was a wanted man now; a man running from every human being alive; a pariah; a burnt bridge to happiness. Being on the run, separated from people deadened me inside. I had become a shell of the man I should have been. My mother would have been horrified to know me. She never would have recognized me.
When I was seventeen my father sent me to Europe to finish my education and travel so that I would be ready to come home and take over the fur trading business he began in the northwest territories of the New World. I was the best marksman in the world. Missing only two shots since picking up the very first gun I ever touched. Talent such as this was incredibly rare. It was almost as if I could read the minds of the animals I shot ahead of time. I had been cocky, thinking overly much of my talent. I had the world by the tail. I was handsome, well-built, with ginger hair and light green eyes inherited from my grandmother Cullen. She was reputed to have been the most comely woman in all of Ireland. I certainly did not lack for female companionship, or male at that.
I was twenty when the man known as Bonaparte had requested my services. I had been ignorant enough to refuse Bonaparte his wishes and take my leave of his company. How foolish I was to trust him! He put a price on my head that was so high, even a vicar was not to be trusted.
The man was as ruthless as they came. He loved no one. He allied with no human that I had heard of unless the alliance sought and obtained his own desires. He was a military machine, interested in only the domination of the known world. He was a master at controlling the French population! He used their loves against them and turned a revolting hoard into the calm beatific country the world knew today. I had no idea that such a creature existed ten years ago. I was educated on the great rulers of the world, Constantine and Alexander, but this man terrified me. He held life and death within his hands; played with them as they were twin soldiers. Move an inch and you lose your arm...or head.
Do not think me naïve, only trusting when I tell you that I went to him fascinated with politics, military device, desirous of learning warmongering, militaristic machination and clarity of regime. I loved Bonaparte. I adored the loyalty he instilled in his men. I was seventeen and he had the world at his fingertips. Rebellion was in my blood. Power the fuel to my young flame. My father's warnings and cares rolled off me like water off a swan's tail feathers.
I now believed that every man has a line that he will not cross; something that he will die for. I believe that Bonaparte knew this as well and successfully used that human trait against his men to obtain his beloved power including me. I had escaped his snare so far. One man against many, I seemed to have that one edge over the Ruler of France; I had only myself to care for and thus, disappeared, living in the wild; I had become invisible. I wondered silently how long it would last. I was beginning to go mad with loneliness.
After I received summons from the French King to come to his aid, I said goodbye to my family and began my journey to a land that I had never seen, but heard stories of. It was a land of beautiful women, luscious foods, foppery for the human form and basically every hedonistic desire known to a young man of seventeen years of age.
And this is where we begin our story.
A/N~ So will Edward get away from Bonaparte? I wonder what the line was that he wouldn't cross? Any thoughts? Want me to go on? Don't give a crap? Holla' back soon! Thanks!