This one-shot is based on a French traditional nursery rhyme ,"A la claire fontaine", which is as popular as "Frère Jacques" or "Au clair de la lune" in France, as well as in Quebec. You might have heard it in the film "The Painted Veil" with Edward Norton and Naomi Watts. Go listen to it, it's beautiful! You can find it, with the lyrics and their translation, on youtube (dot) com (slash) watch ?v=0a2L6BGAEoA
A la Claire Fontaine / At the Clear Fountain
À la claire fontaine, / At the clear fountain,
M'en allant promener / While I was strolling by,
J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle / I found the water so nice
Que je m'y suis baignée / That I went in to bathe.
Refrain / Chorus:
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime / I've been loving you for so long,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai / I won't ever forget you.
Sous les feuilles d'un chêne, / Under an oak tree,
Je me suis fait sécher / I dried myself.
Sur la plus haute branche, / On the highest branch,
Un rossignol chantait / A nightingale was singing.
Refrain / Chorus
Chante rossignol, chante, / Sing, nightingale, sing,
Toi qui as le cœur gai / Your heart is so happy
Tu as le cœur à rire, / Your heart feels like laughing,
Moi je l'ai à pleurer / Mine feels like weeping.
Refrain / Chorus
J'ai perdu mon ami, / I lost my beloved,
Sans l'avoir mérité / Without deserving it,
Pour un bouquet de roses, / For a bunch of roses,
Que je lui refusai / That I declined.
Refrain / Chorus
Je voudrais que la rose, / I would like the rose
Fût encore au rosier / To be still on the bush,
Et que mon doux ami / And my sweet beloved
Fût encore à m'aimer / To be still loving me.
(autre version: / alternate version:
Et que le rosier même / And even the rosebush
À la mer fût jeté. / To be thrown in the sea.)
Refrain / Chorus :
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime / I've been loving you for so long,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai / I won't ever forget you.
Il ne faut jamais dire, "Fontaine, je ne boirai pas ton eau"
One should never say, "Fountain, I will not drink your water."
French saying meaning you shouldn't think you won't ever change your mind as you can't know what the future holds.
September 13th has always been a very special day in my life. You could think it is because it is my birthday, but that's not even a tenth of the reason.
It's the day everything turned wrong a few years ago. Five years ago to be precise.
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.
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Incidentally, September 13th five years ago was also the day I turned a decade older. But in all my nineteen previous years, none of the 7,299 days I had lived came close to even comparing to the disaster that was the 7,300th. Not even the day in 7th grade I went to school in my pyjama bottoms, which previously held the record, because on that day, Edward was with me.
For as long as I can remember, Edward has always been at my side. We had been neighbours and friends, then best friends, then more. It took us a few months to admit what this "more" was; for what were once after-school playdates to turn into dates; for best friends to turn into boyfriend/girlfriend; but once we did, we never went back. Or so I thought.
Five years ago, on my birthday, he decided to propose. I freaked out, I said no, he left. My life was ruined. That sounds so cliché to say it like that. I'm a young talented woman, my whole life is ahead of me, plenty of fish in the sea, blah blah blah, I heard it all. And they were all wrong. My talent would never shine if I couldn't pour my heart into it, and my heart had left. How difficult was that to comprehend? I hadn't even been to our studio, since he had left. The idea of seeing that room with my easel and his piano side by side was unbearable.
When he proposed, I laughed. In my defence, I didn't even know he was serious. I mean, who gets married at 20 for fuck's sake? And he knew I kinda hated rules and such. Why did he even consider it? Why on earth did he even think it was a remotely good idea? I thought it was a joke. Edward has a dry wit I've always loved. Some call it sarcastic, or ironic, but it has never failed to make me laugh. It is my brand of humour as well. Marriage seemed preposterous. It had to be his way to make fun of the whole institution! My best paintings, the ones which received the most praise, the ones that earned me an upcoming gallery show, were created as I consciously tried to break all the rules, all the traditions I had ever learnt in my art classes. For a girl like that, the whole "white picket fence, golden retriever and 2.1 rugrats" combo was definitely not in the cards. Please. To me, marriage was a contract, a legal binding. As if our love didn't deserve better. We deserved to love free of any laws, to choose each day to remain together, not because we had to because some stupid piece of paper said so, but because we wanted to. So I laughed. Heartily.
But there he was, on one knee, a dazzling smile. In his right hand, there was a gorgeous bouquet of white roses with red-edged petals. I knew the flowers were from the rose bush he had gifted me a few years ago. They were my favourites and he wanted me to have "an infinite supply". The memory had made me smile until I saw a little blue box in his left hand. I could not have even conceived of the idea that a ring was indeed nestled in that box. Any other piece of jewellery, sure, but a ring? So I laughed. You know, irony? I laughed even harder when I saw that it was, in fact, a ring. I doubled over in laughter, even though it clearly was nerves and panic taking over at that point. Hence the, "No, no, no, no," litany that came out of my mouth.
He did not say even one word through all that. He got up, closed the box, turned around, put the bouquet on the table and left the room. I heard the front door bang. I heard his car start and leave. I thought he was just going for a drive to clear his mind, that we could talk when he returned. He did not come back. He texted his sister to let her know he needed some time alone to compose and to tell their mum not to worry and not to call. Perfectly normal, even expected, from him. I'm not even sure anyone knew he was planning to propose.
It had been a week. I had looked everywhere. I had tried all our friends, even his extended family. So of course, by now everyone had figured something was wrong between us, since I usually was with him and not looking for him during his "artistic retreats" as he liked to call them.
He was unreachable. I was going crazy. I hadn't had a chance to explain. I hadn't had a chance to tell him I'd marry him if it was so important to him. To tell him I'd take any way he'd love me. To beg him never to leave me again. I would have given every ounce of my dignity ten times in return for a lifetime with him. I knew I had overreacted. But at the same time, I wasn't sure I understood why he had taken it so hard. I mean, we had been together for so long, forever even. Surely he knew he was everything to me? How was it even possible he doubted he was my home, my muse, the other half of my soul? Most of all I felt bereft. Like the world had lost its colours. Like I was drowning. Like I was on a raft drifting in the middle of the ocean, my ship had sunk and my shore had been lost. Worst of all, apparently I had accidentally sunk the boat myself after I kicked my shore in the guts.
I was tired of my friends hovering. They were worried. I couldn't explain anything. Words got stuck in my throat each time I tried, and sobs came instead. I decided to escape altogether and go to our meadow. The day was unseasonably hot and I just wanted to immerse myself in the clear water of our pond, to shut all the thoughts down. I wanted to concentrate only on the sound of the little waterfall, on the bubbles it created and on how nice it was when the sunrays pierced the surface to play with them. Not on the loop of "Why? why? why?" and "If, if, if," that kept playing inside my head. But the water was cold and I couldn't stay very long in it. So here I was, under the oak tree, talking to a nightingale on the highest branch about roses, my views on marriage, and the desperate state of my love life. Mark my words, nightingale, in "love life", there's "life" and you might sing a joyous song today, but never let your mate escape or your song might turn to a lament. At least maybe I could be a famous artist. I mean, all famous artists are tortured souls, aren't they? I wondered if it worked with half a soul as well and remembered I couldn't paint anymore anyway. The blank page on my notebook was proof enough. I shook my head. A painter who couldn't even lift a pencil and draw something and who'd rather talk to birds than to real people, how pathetic. I got up from the grass to go back in town. I was about to kneel to fold the blanket and gather my belongings when I realized I wasn't alone.
There was a shadow on my blanket.
I froze. My heart and my mind started racing. Nobody ever came here; if I was attacked, I was as good as dead. I was barefoot – I couldn't even run properly in the forest like that. At least, I had put my clothes back while having a chat with the bird. Wait! I have mace… in my car, a ten-minute hike from here. Maybe my pencil was sharp enough… Yes, I had sharpened it and obviously, I hadn't used it. I could aim for the face if I was quick enough. Cripple him enough to get the opportunity to knee him in the nuts and run. I will not die now! No way! I had to find Edward first!
My arm was grabbed from behind. "Isabella."
I screamed and forgot all about running and pencils. He pulled my back against his torso and I was silenced with a hand over my mouth.
"Ssshhh, sshhh, Bella, it's me! Calm down! Breathe."
His voice hit me like a ton of bricks. Edward. I couldn't comprehend what he was doing here. He wasn't there two seconds ago, had he appeared out of thin air? My delayed reaction meant I hadn't moved but at least I had stopped screaming. His hand cradled my neck, his arms enveloped me. A lover's embrace, not an attacker's grip. I immediately felt myself relax against him.
"I heard you. Talking to the bird. You have quite the dramatic metaphors. Sinking a ship, really?" he chuckled. It was his turn to laugh. I didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. If he left again after he had come back, I wasn't sure I could take it. I didn't dare turn around and take in his expression.
"I'm so sorry. I only wish you knew how sorry I am," I whispered.
His finger wiped some tears from my face. His lips gently kissed my cheek. That was a good thing, right? He was not leaving, was he?
"I don't ever want you to feel trapped but I can't live without you. I tried for a week. That was not living. That was existing."
"I thought you were joking. I'm so sorry I laughed. I'd never mock your feelings, you know that, right?" I had to see his eyes. And I wanted him to see mine, he had to know I was serious. He always said I was an open book. But we had just wasted a week because he had misread a paragraph. One paragraph out of hundreds of pages! "I don't ever want to be without you again. I'll marry you tomorrow if you want to. Elvis and Vegas if that's what you wish. Or we can wait and have a grand wedding with a jazz band and me in a meringue dress and we'll cut the cake and shove a piece in each other's mouth while people take pictures. Or we can go to the bea–"
He kissed me. Apparently the beach was not such a good idea. Or it was a very good idea if you factored in how hard he was kissing me.
.
That first proposal almost broke us. But he had come back. He had heard my explanation, although I was talking to a bird at the time. He had kissed me, I had kissed him, we had kissed each other. We had even managed to talk amidst all the kissing at some point and the world had righted its axis. We would not get married. At the time, I wasn't sure whether we would not get married "right now" or "ever", but neither of us wanted a wedding tainted by such a disastrous proposal.
For my 21st birthday, Edward had stood before me with a rose bouquet from our rose bush and a little blue box. I was ready to say yes this time, I never wanted to lose him again over something so inconsequential, but he had laughed at my expression before revealing the contents of the jewellery box: beautiful earrings. I wasn't sure whether I was very relieved or a tiny bit disappointed. Maybe both?
.
.
.
And hence, began a tradition. Each year, on my birthday, Edward presents me with a rose bouquet from our rose bush and a little blue box which never contains a ring.
He might never have hinted at the subject again after that first time and his antics at my birthday, but I know marriage is still important to him. I have had five years to think about it through and through. I now appreciate that it's not because you are married that you can't leave someone. You still choose to be with each other every day, married or not. I don't mind getting married any more.
So here I am, waiting for him in our meadow, on one knee, a smile on my face. In my right hand, I hold a gorgeous bouquet of white roses with red-edged petals from our bush. In my left hand, a little blue box, with a ring that promises to make September 13th an even more special day in my life, the day where everything turned right.
"Edward Cullen, I've been loving you for a long time, I won't ever stop…"
A/N: This is the first piece of fiction I've written for fifteen years, since junior school. I'm no writer but this has been a great experience and I'm really grateful to BornOnHalloween who's asked me to do this. I wouldn't have without her. It's quite a nerve-wracking experience and not only has she been a wonderful and loving beta, she has also held my hand and prevented me from chickening out. Thank you so much, B!