Last Words
December 1901
Elizabeth Masen watched her son Edward play on the parlour floor, pulling himself across the carpet with his chubby little hands as his knees pushed him forwards. He had just learned to crawl, and the look on his little face as he discovered the world around him from a new angle enchanted Elizabeth and made her chuckle. She took a moment to study her son.
His face, though rounded with youth, was already beginning to show hints of his father's angular features. His green eyes, perfect reflections of her own, sparkled with excitement, and a thin layer of bronze hair, also like hers, stuck out at odd angles all over his head. He was perfect; five months old and thriving.
"Edward," Elizabeth called softly, and he halted his explorations under the piano to stare at her curiously.
"Come to Momma, precious boy," she cooed, and Edward's smile lit up his face as she reached for him. He crossed the room in record time, grabbing onto her skirts as soon as he was close enough. She laughed and swept him up into her arms. She knew she would always love him no matter what, but somehow she loved him all the more for knowing that he was all she would ever have. Complications with Edward's birth, as well as his size, had left Elizabeth unable to have any more children, – a fact which greatly displeased her husband and caused him to resent his son for the part he played in the problem – and she had resolved to treasure her only son until the day she died. Longer, if possible.
August 1907
Music floated through the little Chicago town house as Elizabeth's fingers danced across the piano keys. The simple actions that came to her so easily calmed her mind, made her forget the world around her; in particular, the sweltering heat of the summer.
"Iced tea Mother?" a little voice asked from somewhere near her elbow as she finished the piece. She turned and smiled down at Edward, taking the glass he offered her. His own glass was already half empty.
"Why thank you darling. That's very kind of you."
Edward smiled at his mother's praise, revelling in the positive recognition he so rarely received from his father. He didn't bother to mention that it had Clara the house maid who suggested iced tea, and fixed both drinks.
The two of them sipped their drinks for a minute or two, content, as they so often were, to remain silent. There was rarely a need for Elizabeth and Edward to speak to each other; Elizabeth had an intuition much stronger than most other women, which was especially sensitive when it came to her son, and Edward had always had and uncanny ability to judge what people were thinking. Elizabeth thought he did it by watching their faces, but when she asked him about it, he hadn't understood her question. She wasn't surprised really; he had just turned six after all.
Elizabeth was certain that his talent was a sure sign that Edward was special and destined for greatness. His father just scoffed and said it was ridiculous.
"A fancy of youth," he pompously proclaimed whenever the subject came up, "He'll grow out of it soon enough. The sooner the better, if you ask me."
No one ever asked him, but he told them anyway.
"Mother?" Edward said after a moment, breaking her from her revere.
"Yes my little copper top?" she asked, reaching out to try and tame the mess of his hair, which seemed to grow more unruly every year, despite her efforts with a comb and palm oil.
"Will you teach me to play like you do?" He gestured to the piano; a big black baby grand that was a wedding present from Edward Sr.'s parents and only just fit into the parlour.
Elizabeth smiled. "Of course, precious boy! Come here."
She mover over on the bench to make room for him, and he clambered up beside her, and eager smile on his face.
They stayed there for the next hour as Elizabeth showed him some basic chords and scales, and helped him pick his way through the melody for 'The Star Spangled Banner'. Edward was a receptive pupil and a natural talent, taking everything in and picking it up very quickly. Elizabeth smiled at the look of concentration on his face as his little fingers pressed the keys down; his frown was so deep, it would have been frightening had he not been so young.
"Stop that infernal racket! I can hear you down the street!" a loud voice boomed from the entry hall, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
"Father is home." Edward stated, his voice quiet and sad as he folded his hands into his lap and sat up straighter. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around him, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead, glad that he relaxed into her embrace. She vowed then and there that she would never be the one to put that look on his face.
July 1918
"No."
"Mother..."
"I said no, Edward. I don't care if you father approves, I do not." Elizabeth's tone was final, and in the past it would have killed the conversation dead. But Edward was a grown man now – or so he kept telling her – and he was as stubborn as a mule when he wanted something, persistent to the point of irritating, and fixated on his dreams of fighting glory.
"Mother, I'm seventeen now, and tall for my age. I could easily pass for old enough, and the recruiters don't check too closely. They need every man they can get, we're losing thousands every day." Edward insisted.
"Precisely my point." Elizabeth replied as calmly as she could. "There have been enough deaths already, whole lives reduced to names in the newspaper. I won't have you be one of them."
Edward huffed and stomped into the parlour. Stormy music began to flow through the door, a sure sign that Edward was abusing the piano in an attempt to vent his frustrations without shouting... again. Elizabeth sighed and followed him.
"Is it so wrong for me to want to keep you safe?" she asked, speaking only loud enough to be heard above the tired instrument and not quiet keeping the pleading edge from her voice.
He didn't stop playing; he too spoke over the noise. "I'm a man now Mother. I can take care of myself."
"I know that," Elizabeth said, coming to stand behind him. "But I'm your mother. It's my job to worry about you. It's what I do."
Edward sighed and stopped playing, turning to face her. He was now the one begging"Why won't you let me fight for our country? Why won't you let me protect our freedom, protect you?"
Elizabeth was shaking he head before he finished speaking. "It's not our war Edward, it never has been. Europe began it, and Europe will have to face the aftermath. It is England and France who are at threat of invasion, not us. All we are doing is sending more men and boys to die for nothing. I can't bear thinking of you as one of them, lost on some war torn battle field in Belgium, injured or worse, while I sit here with no idea what is happening to you. Don't go, darling," She was pleading again. "For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else, and certainly not now. You're too young."
She took a deep breath, trying not to cry, and Edward took her hands in his, looking up at him with the same anguish in his eyes as she had in hers as he rubbed his thumbs across her knuckles.
"They lowered the draft age to eighteen the other day. Father saw it in the paper." he murmured.
Elizabeth hung her head, knowing it would now be even easier for her son to convince the army recruiters that he was old enough to join up. The he said the last thing she had been expecting to hear, but which made her smile and hug him and whisper, "Thank you precious boy!" over and over again, until she was in tears, and he was laughing and calling her "Silly Mother" just like he used to.
"I can wait another year."
September 1918
Elizabeth was struggling to breathe. Her lungs felt as if they were filled with water, and her body burned with fever. But she ignored it all, pushing it away as best she could, as she struggled to reach the other bed in the little hospital room. When she finally made it, Edward was whimpering loudly, almost crying out in pain, and shaking like a leaf in a gale.
"Shh precious boy," she croaked, her words slurred with exhaustion. "Shh."
She stroked his sallow cheek, felt the sweat on his skin coat her palm and mix with her own, and once again wondered why God had sent this hideous influenza on top of four years of harsh and bloody war.
"Mrs Masen," said a smooth, rich, musical voice. She ignored it.
"Elizabeth," the voice sighed, and a hand gently touched her shoulder. She looked up reluctantly, blinking to try and clear her vision. Dr Cullen stood over her, his calm, pale face set in a frown of disapproval. Elizabeth knew the look well; this wasn't the first time he had caught her out of bed.
"He needs me." she breathed, stubborn even now. Edward had to have gotten it from somewhere.
"You're not doing him any good by hurting yourself." the doctor replied softly, reaching down to pick her up, despite her protests, as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow.
As he settled her back in her own cot, Elizabeth was overcome by a sudden rush of weakness. Her intuition sparked, even in her delirium, and she knew that this was it; her last chance to make her request. Gathering all her waning strength, she glared up at the inhumanly beautiful man with his shining blond hair, strange, lonely golden eyes and hands noticeably colder that those of the other doctors and nurses, even to Elizabeth's feverish skin.
"Save him." she ordered.
"I'll do everything in my power." came the reply.
"You must." she insisted, as the edges of her vision began to darken. "You must do everything in your power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward."
She didn't know what he was, but something in her intuition told her that Dr Cullen was more than human, more than those around him, and that he had the ability to help Edward, to keep him alive and take care of him, to be the father he never had.
As the blackness swallowed her, blocking her view of Dr Cullen's almost frightened face, Elizabeth was comforted by the surety that she had kept that long ago promise to herself.
~LW~
Floating.
That was the best way to describe the feeling. Floating in a dense blackness, looking down at her hands, suddenly white as snow and almost see through. There was no time, no sound, no movement aside from the gentle floating, and nothing to look at. Elizabeth waited for... something. She didn't know what, but her intuition seemed to still be intact, and she knew she was waiting for something. A decision perhaps? Surely there wasn't that much to weigh out. She had done her best to be a good woman, a good Christian, a good wife and mother. What was taking so long?
Eventually, the blackness faded to dark grey, then light grey, then white so bright she had to cover her eyes and squeeze the shut. When she opened them again, she found herself, not in Heaven or Hell, but hovering near a cracked plaster ceiling, staring down at a room she didn't know; a tiny room, with a desk, a chair, a bed, a closet, a trunk full of ancient looking books alongside newer leather bound volumes, and nothing else. The was no decoration, no warmth, not even a fire in the minuscule grate, and no sign of anything that could be used for cooking or washing. There were, however, two people, illuminated in the light of a single candle on the desk.
Elizabeth instantly recognised Dr Cullen, kneeling beside the tiny bed with his head in his hands and his shoulders tight. It was the person laid flat on the bed that made her do a double take.
A young man, dressed in hospital issue cotton pyjamas, with skin as stony hard and pale white as the mysterious doctor. A crescent shaped scar, almost too faded to see, was visible over his collarbone, exposed by his partially open shirt. His hair was the colour of a new penny, shining bronze and copper in the low flickering light of the candle.
It was Edward. Her Edward. Her precious little boy. But his face...
It wasn't right. The already angular features inherited from his father were even sharper and more defined, his handsome appearance even more radiant. He had bulked out too; the weight he had lost over the past weeks had been restored, and he was minutely more muscular. His cheeks were no longer sunken and sallow, but his face still held an expression of pain, one entirely different from the soft whimpers brought on by the influenza. He screamed now, at regular intervals, every sound making the doctor apologise profusely and bury his face more deeply in his palms. Edward writhed and arched his back, his features twisted in absolute agony. It made Elizabeth's heart ache to see it, but she did not dare turn away. She did not run, as she so longed to do. She knew that if she ran, she would lose him. She would go back into the blackness, and she would lose the chance to make sure he was happy and safe.
The screaming stopped abruptly. There was utter silence. No one breathed.
Dr Cullen raised his head and leaned forward. Elizabeth drifted closer, watching anxiously as she hovered directly over her son.
Edward's eyes, which had been screwed shut, blinked open. No longer the bright emerald green of before, they blazed bright red as he stared at the ceiling above him.
"Mother?" he whispered, his voice weak and frightened, and as beautifully musical as a choir of church bells on Sunday morning. Before Elizabeth could try to speak to him, Dr Cullen stepped in.
"I'm sorry Edward. Your mother is gone. She died three days ago, and she left you to me. I am Carlisle. You are safe with me."
~LW~
Elizabeth stayed with Edward and Carlisle, even after Carlisle's explanation of his nature and lifestyle. She watched, hovering in the corner of the room, as her son baulked at the thought of being a vampire, and she followed them when they left the house to watch his first hunt, which frightened and amazed her in equal measure. She watched as he adapted to his new life and began to slowly accept Carlisle as his new family. She thrilled in his mind reading ability, silently smug that she had been right and he was special, and was happy when Esme joined them and gave Edward someone else to call Mother. She never resented the beautiful woman or felt as if she were being replaced, hearing that she had lost her own child, and seeing that she too was disheartened by not being able to have children. She was truly a gentle and loving person, with a heart she was just dying to give away.
When first Rosalie, then Emmet, and finally Alice and Jasper joined the family, Elizabeth rejoiced, for Carlisle had given Edward what she never could – siblings. Brothers to play games and fight with, sisters to protect and irritate whenever necessary; a big happy family to love him for eternity.
Time passed. After a while, Elizabeth began to feel pulled to... something. She didn't like it, because she didn't know what it was. Her unfailing intuition had failed her, and that frightened her more than anything.
She did know that once she gave in to the pull, let it take her wherever it wanted to take her, she would never be able to come back. And that was unthinkable.
September 1987
It was a normal day when it happened, just like many others. Carlisle was still at work, Esme was pouring over the blue prints for the next house they would be moving to, and Alice was sketching a design her latest fabric masterpiece, while Jasper read one of his many books and Edward played the piano. Emmet and Rosalie had gone hunting together an hour before, and they had yet to reappear. No one was really worried; it happened all the time.
Elizabeth was watching, as usual, and listening to the music, when she felt the pull again, stronger than ever before. It would not be deified this time. Still, she tried desperately to cling to something, anything, just so that she could stay. She couldn't go yet, she wasn't ready, she hadn't made sure Edward was happy – for, though her baby boy was surrounded by a loving family, he was still alone and unhappy, without any kind of female companionship.
But the pull wouldn't listen to her silent pleas. It dragged her away, not into the blackness, as she expected, but across the country, over trees and towns and cities, over things Elizabeth had never known or dreamed of or seen; roads that hadn't been built, leading to places she had never been, populated by vehicles that had barely been invented, which were driven by people who hadn't even been born when she was alive.
After a while, she reached a tiny town surrounded by greenery, far in the north and near to the sea. The pull took her over the emerald forest that dripped with dew and rain water, over the rain drenched streets of the town to a little community hospital, through a third floor window and into a room. Then she stopped, and it went away completely.
Elizabeth looked around. It was a small room, with a tiny window in one wall. The only furniture aside from a little cabinet was a hospital bed and a dark blue velvet recliner. Both were occupied; the bed by a young woman, and the recliner by a slightly older man in a policeman's uniform. Both were fast asleep despite it being only five o'clock in the afternoon, and they both looked very tired, but they were smiling in their sleep, which made her wonder what they were here for.
A small noise drew her attention to something she hadn't seen before; a clear plastic bassinet, lined with white blankets, sitting beside the bed. She drifted over and peered cautiously inside.
A tiny, cream-coloured face stared back, with wide eyes just turning from the pale blue shared by all newborns to a deep chocolate brown. Wisps of dark brown hair curled out from under a pink cap, and tiny arms and legs kicked and flexed in a pale pink onesie. Elizabeth glanced at the card attached to the end of the crib.
Isabella Marie Swan
Girl
September 13th 1987, 5:26am
7lbs 9oz, 18in long
Daughter of Charles and Renee Swan
Elizabeth turned back to the little baby, surprised; Isabella wasn't even 12 hours old, yet she was wide awake, not crying, while her parents slept. Even more remarkably, she seemed to see Elizabeth, swinging her tiny limbs and gurgling excitedly. Elizabeth felt an irresistible urge to touch the little girl. So she did.
Her translucent fingers lightly brushed the baby's cheek, and a life flashed before her eyes in a series of pictures and events and voices.
A little house.
A tiny bedroom with the window facing into the forest.
A taxi cab driving away from the house, carrying Renee and Isabella, leaving a devastated Charles standing on the porch and watching helplessly.
A little girl, growing up in the sunshine.
"Come to Momma Bella!"
Pre-school.
Kindergarten.
Elementary school.
Middle school.
High school.
A new man. Phil.
Renee in a long white dress.
Bella – a fitting name, for she truly was a beauty – moving back to this tiny town – Forks – to live with her father.
Edward.
Irritation, anger, secrets and frustration.
Friendship.
Love.
He rescues her.
She gets hurt.
He leaves.
She dies inside.
He tries to kill himself.
She rescues him.
They grow stronger.
"Change me."
"Marry me first."
She says no.
Another boy.
Jealousy and confusion.
Graduation.
Compromise.
Elizabeth's ring.
She says yes.
A big white wedding; Bella is a vision as her father walks her down the isle.
Edward's eyes are shining.
Another tiny baby, another little girl, with brown eyes and bronze hair and a perfect face.
Renesmee Carlie Cullen.
Bella, eyes crimson, skin sparkling, smile wide.
Edward, happier than he has ever been.
Forever.
Elizabeth smiled as the final pictures faded away. Bella gurgled again as the dead woman leaned down and kissed her forehead, finally letting go of all her worries and cares.
Charlie and Renee slept on, unaware of their daughter's future, or the visitor who had come and gone. Even if they had been awake, they might not have heard the whisper of wind, the tiny breathe of air, the gentle breeze that was the only sign of Elizabeth Masen's true last words.
"Take care of him Bella. He's yours now."
In the hospital room in Forks, Bella Swan closed her eyes and fell asleep. Far away on the other side of the country, Edward Cullen stopped playing his piano and clutched his chest, feeling at once filled with grief and free of cares as the two most important women in his very long life switched places, and one drifted away forever.