The moon was waning, casting long shadows from the bountiful pine trees that dotted the landscape around Forks. It had been raining, the trees dewed, the ground slippery with the impertinent rainfall. The forest was silent save for the rain, the constant rain, the tears that fell on Forks as if it knew the travesties that were to take place in the tiny, quiet town.
Nothing much happened in Forks. It rained, constantly, and there was always a layer of fog, wisps curling around street lamps like silky hair wrapping around a hand. Some people called it quaint; it was quiet, that was for sure, and it was definitely full of life, though it was dreary sort of life, full of mosses and lichen and pine trees. The sky was constantly grey, the days full of shadows and some people mourned for the sun and the town's spirits visibly lifted on the days that it wasn't raining, few that there were in a year.
There hadn't been much life in the city, not since the boom of the fifties; it was fairly obvious that nothing much had happened in the town after the big war, at least all the houses seemed to be stuck in that era, grey streaks staining the sides of the older houses like makeup running off a crying teenagers face. Most people have lived in Forks all their lives, generations upon generations, though all of them had gone through a rebellious stage when they were in High School and had confessed that they had always wanted to get away from Forks. Sadly for most of them, Forks seemed to have a hold on them that just wouldn't give; if they weren't getting knocked up by their High School sweethearts, they were attending the local college, or working in their parents businesses. It was a quiet life, though one could say it was almost dull-- student's joked that people came to Forks to die. High School of course offered some semblance of levity, what with the cliques and the food-fights and the constant "who's in, who's out, who's banging whom"-- but High School was only for eight hours a day and what else was there to do in Forks? Everyone went "steady", if only for some fun and recreation because there wasn't much else to rely on for fun in the town. Puddles were fun and all for the little kids, but people start looking at you strangely if you are jumping in them at seventeen.
There was a sudden snap from the damp forest floor, and a muffled curse as a deer bolted out of sight, its back damp with the rain, almost black in the near darkness. Stupid, stupid mistake, especially coming from someone so young and strong and vibrant. The young man stepped out from behind the pine tree, scratching his head and looking rather weary. He had been hunting for hours, enjoying the thrill of the chase, the added difficulty of the water soaked ground. But what had once been enjoyable had turned in to bare tedium, as he made yet another stupid mistake.
"I'm too old for this, " he muttered, ripping a bunch of bark off a tree trunk as he scratched it idly, "far too bloody old to make a shoddy mistake like that."
It was hard to look at this boy and not think instantly that he was part of the forest himself-- the way he carried himself, his form and expression merely belied that he was not exactly human. No, there was something more to this boy, something greater than just a regular High School boy. There was a beauty to him, his graceful form strong and lithe like a gymnasts, his hands large and strong, and soft; there were no calluses on this boy. He breathed perfection, even the sound of his shirt brushing against a branch was a sigh. His hair was wild, and reflected the soft green of the forest around him; his jaw square and strong, a king's strong profile. There was the suggestion of a chiseled body beneath his white shirt, clinging to him in the dampness of the night. He was alien and he was gorgeous, and he knew it.
The night was an utter loss, and though he hungered, the boy began the short journey home through the trees, running at his regular blistering pace, splashing water on to his jeans and not caring one bit. There was no chance of him falling ill in the wet, and it was somewhat calming to just run without any distractions. He was young and hale and whole; he had the usual teenage mentality of being indestructible but unlike most this was almost entirely true. Not much could kill this boy, not even the historically sound methods.
For you see, this boy was a Cullen. A family of obvious importance in the small town of Forks, but it was more than that. The Cullen's were strange, rich and somewhat eccentric; the people of Forks loved them all the more for their little quirks because it at least added some colour to their dull, boring lives. The Cullen's were a regular source of gossip, from who Esme Cullen had worn to the Church Potluck, to whom Carlisle Cullen had saved with his wonderful medical expertise. The other children, young adults even, were all beautiful and perfect in their own rights, though they were obviously not Dr. and Mrs. Cullen's biological children. Theories and conspiracies raged in the town as to how the Cullen's as they were came to be, though most knew they had been adopted. The supposition that there was more to the story was just too juicy to pass up, especially while waiting to get your hair dyed in the beauty parlour. The women in town couldn't pass up a moment to discuss the beauty of the young men, and rarely, the young women if one of the ladies was so inclined; it was never obviously stated, but all of them had an understanding-- If a Cullen was to approach them, all of them were ready and willing to jump their bones, hang their thirty year marriages.
Edward was his name, a name that bespoke his obvious royal lineage, supposed or not. It was hard not to look at him and go "This is the boy that will be king" because he obviously fit every archetype of goodness and beauty and strength. His pure, dancer-like leaps and bounds through the forest would fill anyone with despair because no one moved in such a pure, wonderful way. He was more than a dream, he was a god; every movement perfect, nothing wasted on trivial human needs like a heartbeat or breathing.
He turned, once; it was lucky that he had ran this path countless times, for the forest was full of roots and branches keen on tripping up their ethereal patrons. There was a feeling that something wasn't right, that something had never been right, Edward had always felt this way. It wasn't just that his "siblings" were all shacking up whilst Edward read Proust and painstakingly built ships in bottles. It was more that there was a part of him missing, his right arm almost. He was always searching for that one person to complete him, as silly and romantic as that was. But the feeling was expounded for a moment, as Edward ran through the forest, his cold heart pulling towards something he couldn't comprehend. He almost stopped. Almost.
But, shaking his head, he continued onwards. He smelled nothing other than the forest, heard nothing from his heightened senses that should make him pause, and yet, something had made him pause, and this plagued him the rest of the night, even after stripping off his wet clothing, his large bare feet leaving wet footprints all over his hardwood floor. It haunted him, all through the night, the pull of the forest, and it wasn't hunger, though he did hunger, his eyes a murky brown and bound to get redder the next day. His body hungered for blood, for satisfaction, for the thrill of the hunt; but his heart and dare he say it, his soul hungered for something else. There was no getting away from the fact that he was the seventh wheel of the family, not with the steady thumps that pervaded the house every night. If he had still been human, his eyes might have welled up just a bit, and he would have strongly swiped at his eyes with his perfectly manicured hands. It just wasn't fair-- Edward was just as beautiful as the other Cullen's, and even privately thought that he was even more beautiful than the other boys-- just look at Jasper's hair, or Emmet's lumberjack-like physique. And both had caught girls, beautiful girls, though Edward was at the point in his long life that he was willing to settle for ANYTHING at all. He wasn't about to be picky when he had been going for over a hundred years without getting something something.
Back in the forest, covered with the dew of morning light, a feminine form stood; silent and still, she lifted hands, white and soft and creamy to hug at her chest, knowing the secret that Edward had not learned yet. She knew him, she knew of the Cullen's as well-- they were practically heroes in her world, talked and discussed at the same breadth and length as the women in Forks, ranging from bewilderment and rage, to gratification and hope. This girl, with her pale hair and dark eyes, yearned for only one thing, and had travelled half the world to find it. She believed that nothing could ever stand in her way, as she was willing to give up anything, everything, for what she desired: him.
She had no way of knowing that that very moment, the biggest obstacle in her long life was about to arrive in a beat up truck, smelling of humanity and fraility and metal instability. Who knew that this potent brew would be the downfall to one Edward Cullen?