The End of a Bloodline
Epilogue: The story's all over you
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer created Twilight, not me.
I, on the other hand, created TEOAB – respect that
Beta: Gasaway Alley
Down to the shoreline
The end of a bloodline
The moon is a cold light
There's a pull to the flow
My feet melt the snow
For the irony I'd rather know
Blindsided - Bon Iver
I remember the first time I set my feet on this island ten years ago.
There was a full moon.
Darkness all around me.
This is where he grew up? I had wondered.
This is where he murdered? I had reveled.
This is where he died? I had mused.
Ten years ago, we had set sails towards Europe, and after making port in Portugal, Alec and Heidi left us for Italy. Edward brought me here to Norway, where he showed me his birthplace and his death-ground.
The island is abandoned now. So has it been for centuries. The plague murdered the country, leaving only a few survivors in the most remote of places. On Åkra, there weren't any survivors. The houses had wasted away into the mountain walls, and the docks had been fled.
Edward told me the Norwegians had tried to rebuild the island once, and had brought a ferry to start up a connection line. But the lands had been haunted. The sailors and the businessmen returned to the mainland with fear in their hearts. They told stories of a ghost who roamed the shadows. A creature, an imprint of someone who died in a cruel way. In reality, that man never really died, but his memory remained, and became a tale to scare young children. Though people grew up and knew better than to believe in spirits, no one ever came here. They would try to rationalize it, blame it on the dangers of the mountain and the rough waters—but I know the truth.
So does Edward, because he was the creature; the ghost.
He told me of young women and men who came laughing, and left crying. During the years he had stayed here on his own, scaring them had been his game. He never killed any of them, he had an affinity for Norwegians. Edward is a strange man, to say the least. He feels no remorse for killing the man I loved, but shudders at the thought of draining his kinsmen.
So, he would scare them off instead. And when he left, because Alec called him back to his side, the sound of critters and stray animals had been enough to scare anyone who dared to dock on the island. It has happened once since I came here; three teenagers in odd red pants and hats, celebrating their graduation, came by a small motorboat. They drank. They danced. But when night fell, I took on the role of the "ghost".
Edward wasn't happy with me then, but I hadn't eaten in a while.
Three boys came, and three boys stayed—buried in the ground. I dragged their boat and swam out to smash it into recognizable chunks.
Back on the mainland, I had looked through a window and seen their faces on TV. The town was in distress over their deaths: lost at sea. The graduation ceremony cancelled.
I didn't weep for them. Why should I?
From the day of the battle, and from the day I truly embraced what I am, I have not felt any guilt over my actions. Though still bitter over Jasper, and still angry over Tyler, I can't change the past. I am one of the great evils of the world. What I want revenged, are actions I have committed myself.
I gaze over the pitch-black water, shimmering slightly under the moon's light, watch as the ice breaks into floating mini-bergs. My tracks are obvious, but I let myself be reckless tonight. There are no dangers around. No one ever comes here during winter.
"Isabella," I hear him call, and I turn away from the sight of abandonment. I'm soaked through my clothes, but the weight of the water doesn't slow me down as I pick up to run through the forest, and over the streams. Laughing as I hear the critters and animals shy away from my presence.
His house was once in a small valley.
There is no house anymore.
Over the centuries it must have been burned down, but there are remnants. During summer, you can still see the dead spots in the grass big enough to be the shadow from a house and a barn. Planks of wood still represent a fence, but barely there. Covered in snow, now though, it's only a dead valley.
I find him standing in a spot where three large stones are three feet apart. He has brushed away the snow from them, and uncovered them from the thick layer of winter. Despite the years I've been here, he has never taken me to this spot.
"This is them?"
"My sons…and my wife."
I have nothing to say, nor does he. I know he never loved them much, and I don't have a heart to search for sympathy. They are gone. Humans die and rot. That is the way of life.
Sometimes, we help them die sooner than nature intends.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm not Nature's way of clearing the world from over-population.
Sometimes…I kill because it's fun.
"You're wet," he states without glancing my way. But he's close. Always close. After all these years, he still doesn't trust me. He still thinks I'll run away.
"I was hungry. There's nothing to eat here." My belly is full of blood from a tall, blonde man from the mainland.
He shakes his head. "I forgot how it's like to be young and hungry," he says, as if he's an old man with white hair and wisdom throughout time. Which, I suppose he has; wisdom. "You'll learn though."
His hand covers mine. It's morbid; standing in front of his wife's grave, holding hands like we're in love.
I still don't love him fully.
Every time we fuck, I do so with vigor, and see the face of my true love. It's my vengeance, and I let him know all the time.
"I'll never be yours. I'll always be his. My scent covered him. His body was covered with my passion and love. You'll never have me," I tell him from time to time, when he's being greedy with food or goes back to demeaning me, and treating me like a child.
Once in a while, he takes off only to return hours later. Wounded? I haven't the slightest clue, but he always returns. But other times—other times he rips off my arms. Other times he crushes my chest like he's searching for my heart.
And every time—every time he comes out empty-handed.
My heart is not his. I will never be his.
And when I burn—because one day, I will burn, I shall see the face of two fair angels, right before I continue my journey into the fiery pits of hell. Of this I'm sure. This is my truth, but until then, I have no regret for my actions.
There is no salvation for the walking dead.
Edward's green eyes meet mine, and I see the moon reflected in them.
For years, there has only been he and I, on this island—his mortal home. We'll stay for a while until the winter ends, and then we'll move on
Although Edward appears to be evil and dark, I know there's something in him still. Where I still hold onto the bonds I have with my brother and my lover, Edward still cherishes his country. Although his hair and eyes connect to Ireland, his name and body roots go deep into the fjords and mountains of Norway. . We have traveled across the globe to be here; across continents and seas, all to come here.
I've seen his countrymen. I've fed off of them. When I lash out at him and taste his venom, I can taste the similarity in their blood.
Rapists and pillagers. Murderers and plotters.
Under the midnight moon, his face is clearer. His scars are visible. I see his past. I see his ghosts. I see a belt on his back and his father behind him. I see black eyes and bleeding wounds. I see him. I see everything.
And he sees me. With my scars and my wounds. With my past and my motives. But also my begrudged loyalty.
And here, on this empty island, where there is no life, we need no words to go on.
It's been over a year and a half since I began writing this story. Sometimes, a few months would go between updates. Inspiration pulls and tugs, slips and skips. But I did not give up - this was my first really multi-chaptered story, and this has been a journey I would not trade for anything. Despite the sporadic updates, I have loved all the encouragement. Every review. Every hit. Every inspirational song given to me to get me in the mood to write.
To Udo - this story would not have seen the light of day without you.
To April - you picked up the pieces and pushed me further.
To Rose - always a supporter, always a pusher, always there for me.
To Ro - a loving wifey.
And to you - you who were there from the beginning, or started later on, or began long after it was finished. Thank you. This story was made for you as much as it was made for me.
I miss you still
The last of a generation