Nocturne

A/N: I actually promised myself I wouldn't even read Twilight, let alone write any fanfic based on it. But I ended up doing both. This is primarily (in fact, completely, for now) an Edward-centric fic, mostly because I find Bella far too irritating to even read let alone write without doing something horrible to her involving cold water torture and clothes pegs. But I think Edward is really interesting, and I wanted to explore his character further – why he's so possessive, jealous and controlling. So I did. This is all pre-Twilight and pre-all-the-vampire-stuff (though not much, I wasn't sure how much he'd remember so I set it in 1917/18, plus vampire-version is recalling the story), it's about Edward's 'real' life, basically. It's sort of a memoir, really. And I fancied setting it in Paris. With the main character as an O/C. Sorry about that. But at the moment it isn't directly relevant to the story of Twilight Edward so it's not an issue that it's probably entirely not canon, right? Though if it changes I'll try my best to keep to canon. I know next to nothing about his un-Cullen family so I've sort of built my own picture of them, too. Apologies for laziness with research, if there's anything glaring that I've missed let me know! I wasn't going to switch between past and present originally but my wonderful friend Kim gave me a fantastic idea whilst we waited far too long for our lunch to arrive in a restaurant the other day, so my plan has changed somewhat so we will see what happens. Don't slate my past/present tense switches either, it's the nature of how I'm writing it – written down as Edward remembers it. Imagine him speaking it. Oh, and for once I do have a plan for this (as in, I know where it'll go, just not how it'll get there, as yet) so bear with me, I have a masters degree to get this year as well...

SUMMARY: Paris, early 1917. Edward wants nothing more than to be fighting in the Great War, but he's too young and he's already tried fooling the system once. So he's stuck at home, with a father destroyed by the very war Edward wants to be a part of, succumbing fast to the 'demon drink', and a mother making herself ill with worry, plus two younger sisters who think of little else but marriage and society. Bang on cue, the unpredictable, mysterious, and utterly charming Sérafine, the wayward youngest daughter of an eminent Paris lawyer, appears on the scene. Edward's life, which he once hated, is turned upside down by her crazy schemes and 'hang the consequences' approach to life, and he finds himself wishing for normality again. One thing leads to another, thing get out of hand, and then things get even more out of hand, and Sérafine's unpredictable nature appears at its worst. Sérafine does what Sérafine does best, and we find out why Edward is the way he is. And why Sérafine is the way she is. Enjoy...

DISCLAIMER: Obviously Edward is not mine (a girl can dream, can't she?), though the way I've interpreted him I think is (in that I've made him very European – he's always struck me as such). However, Sérafine, and the plotline, are, as far as I know, entirely mine and any stealing of other writers' plots or character ideas is entirely unintentional.

CHAPTER ONE

So maybe my mother keeping me under some form of house arrest rather than letting me do what I really wanted to do – that is, lie about my age and go off with the army to actually make some use of the War – was probably conducive to my staying alive. For a while, at least. But it was certainly not conducive to me doing anything exciting with my life. I simply could not sit around doing next to nothing and feel like I was doing any good at all. In fact, what I found most irritating was that my mother was exactly the same as I was then, but the sort of ruling that kept me locked in my own house seemed not to apply to her. She was a great one for caring too much about other people and not worrying about herself enough. An angel. I wouldn't have changed my mother for all the world. But to my sixteen-year-old mind, of course, her worrying was incredibly annoying. And I was spending my entire life with her. Of course, I could have got a job, but, if truth be told, I was happier (if rather bored) sitting at home with a book or at my piano. Maybe I was being petulant, I was the oldest, I was supposed to be helping my father bring home the bacon. Not that we needed the extra, really. But my father wanted me to follow him into the law courts. Or at least, he did, before he started to drink too much, and ended up on the wrong side of those same law courts. It wasn't his fault, really. He had been in the Army at the very start of the Great War. He saw some terrible things. So I didn't blame him. I still don't. Not really.

Despite my general lethargy though, I started to feel terrible about my non-existent contribution to supporting my family. So I stopped keeping my music to myself and took it out into some of the dingy, backstreet piano bars in Paris. It didn't pay much, but at least it paid. And I'd already vowed to myself that I would never follow in the footsteps of my father, first the law courts, then the drinking, then the drugs. I never thought about the army part. I had promised myself though that if I didn't find a way into the Army, I would just become a musician. Back then, the whole jazz and vaudeville scene was in its early incarnations in America, and I just always assumed that I would take off when that did. Though it was by following what my mother affectionately called "those huge, mad ideas of yours", that meant I had the chance to meet Sérafine, and that meant my life was going to end up completely turned on its head before the year was out.

Sérafine was incredible. She was inspiring, unpredictable, frightening, carefree and reassuring all at the same time. She did everything she wasn't supposed to do, but she did it quietly, which made her all the more exciting. She smoked cigarettes, she played in dingy little piano bars, she had her own opinions, and she spoke to me. And from the moment I met her I was completely under her spell. Not just because of her looks, which were unusual in a very good way, and not because of her long, glossy red hair that she nearly always wore loose down her back, and not because she broke all the rules, but because she did everything she wasn't supposed to with charm and impeccable manners. She wasn't some bawdy, cheap tavern girl, after all. She was the daughter of a very eminent Paris lawyer and his wonderfully eccentric ex-opera singer wife. Her siblings got her dose of unpleasantness; her three sisters were the most vapid, self-centred, disrespectful people I have ever met, and her older brother, whilst good to Sérafine, was rather too well-known in rather too many of the city's brothels to be too highly respected.

I remember the night I first met Sérafine perfectly. Every detail is there, like it happened yesterday, and I hope it will be etched in my memory for the rest of my time on this earth. It is one of the strongest memories of before. Which I know sounds cliché. But you don't know Sérafine, after all. The night I met her was a cold one, even though it was well into April by then. I wasn't even 17 quite yet, but I was just about able to get away with going to certain backstreet bars in Paris. Mostly, I frequented the piano bars, usually just sitting unobtrusively in a corner with a glass of something and a couple of cigarettes, same as everyone else. I didn't expect anyone to notice me, anyway. Occasionally though I played too, usually pretending to myself that there was some owner of some famous concert hall, or a composer looking for new muses, there that night. That night though, I didn't play. I just wanted to lose myself in that night, and I certainly managed.

When I first saw Sérafine, she was leaning casually by the bar, looking out over the crowd with what I thought was a slightly arrogant glint in her eye. A young man was talking to her, though he seemed rather too interested in what she had to say. Any other girl would have felt horribly uncomfortable. But I remember watching their exchange for a while, and rather than trying to get away as quickly as possible, Sérafine was engaging in banter and compliment exchange with the man. Only her compliments were incredibly backhanded, and I remember laughing to myself at how charming her delivery of such cutting comments was. I sat for a while watching her, idly wondering what I could have come back with had it been me standing by the bar with her. Of course, if I had actually been in that young man's place, I expect I would have just stood there dumbly, rather than coming back with all the comments my brain was inventing at a distance. But anyway. After a while, the musicians began to play, their notes floating above the ongoing chatter in the small, smoky bar. I loved the atmosphere in those bars.

Sérafine wasn't even officially on the bill that night, probably because she was the only woman performing. I had never seen, and never saw, any others. She approached the little stage to mutterings about unseemly behaviour – she was wearing the latest fashion, her hair was down, and she was smoking a cigarette at the time – and about how "women shouldn't be allowed to partake in such frivolous activity", and didn't she have a husband, a father, or even a brother to be looking after. Her face was hard, but she ignored them, taking a final, deliberate draw on her cigarette, looking over the people in the crowded little bar with that same slightly arrogant glint in her eye. Ironic that all I wished for at that point was to understand what she was thinking. Grinding out the cigarette in the ashtray on the top of the piano, she took up her position on the stool, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she did so. I remember the way her hair flashed red and gold in the flickering light, hoping she would do it again. Her hair was beautiful. Is. When she started playing, the muttering at first increased in volume, but when people caught the strain of the piece, they slowly began to fall silent. I didn't recognise the melody she was playing, but it was astonishing. I found out later that it was her own composition. Or rather, her own improvisation, for she never had any music with her. Dreamy but dramatic and strong at the same time. I hadn't held out much hope either, really, considering she wasn't billed to play at all, and was playing at the very end of the night, when people had already begun wending their way homewards. But this had definitely been worth staying for. I had been intrigued to see her at the bar anyway; I'd wondered who she was, and I wanted to avoid my father coming back from one of his drinking binges – I always thought that if I just wasn't home at the time, it wasn't really happening; he was still my father after all. It wasn't just listening to Sérafine play though that was so captivating, it was watching her, too. She was mesmerising that night. Her long, elegant fingers danced so delicately over the keys that I found it hard to believe that it was that gentle touch that kept producing such a dramatic sound. Her eyes were closed, too, as she played, and she looked almost as if she was the music, she put so much of herself into it. When she finished playing, the room fell completely silent for a few seconds, before tentative applause started up even as mutterings from some of the more stubborn in the crowd began again. She didn't make much out of it, as I remember, but I do remember her thanking her audience very politely, in a voice as captivating as her music, and I also remember her throwing her hecklers a look that I came to know as uniquely Sérafine, and that I could never quite explain or understand.

I probably could have been more forthcoming. Should have, really, not could. Even as she seemed to look in my direction, I was up and gone. I like to imagine that she probably threw her look at my retreating back as I hurried away. What I certainly was not prepared for was for her to come after me. But she did. I remember greeting her very politely and asking her what business had her out alone so late at night, pretending I hadn't just been in that bar, watching her, completely taken in by her, even though I seemed to know that she knew exactly who I was and where I'd just been.

"Looking for you, obviously," she replied, in a voice that was all silk and music and cigarettes.

"Why on earth would you do that?" I remember asking her incredulously, and immediately wanting to kick myself for being so rude. I often tended to lose propriety around her; she was far too good at taking me completely by surprise.

"Such a charming way to greet a lady who has just run nearly two miles in the dark to catch up with you," she said in that captivating voice of hers, and I remember the little smile that formed on her lips then, how she managed to look both sarcastic and very polite at the same time.

"I apologise. Mademoiselle...?" I asked, in a vain attempt to regain my manners.

"Cordier. Mademoiselle Sérafine Cordier. Though Mademoiselle never fails to make me feel somewhat like a primped up little poodle, or a mad old spinster ," she replied, somehow managing to maintain a perfectly straight face.

"Sorry. Sérafine," I stuttered. I was trying to act, sound and feel like I still had some semblance of the charm I usually emanated. My mother always told me that I didn't have to try with things like that, and usually I didn't, but somehow everything was different with Sérafine. I think she knew that she could out-charm me in an instant, if she so desired.

Sérafine shrugged, and turned to go back the way she had come.

"Wait! You can't walk back alone, not now," I called to her, miraculously rediscovering my chivalry. She turned around, her hair dark red in the warm light cast by the street lamps either side of us.

"I walked here alone, " she politely pointed out, flashing me a rather disarming smile.

"That's not the point..." I started, flustered and fumbling for my words.

"I'll be fine." she said, reassuringly. I wasn't convinced, but I let it go then, hoping nothing would happen to her. I would feel terrible then.

"Honestly, I'll be fine," she reiterated with a soft smile, as if she had somehow felt my doubts. She turned to go, and then stopped again, turning just as fluidly back to face me.

"I hope I will see you soon?" she asked, turning away again before I had a chance to answer. "You should play some of your compositions, you know. They're beautiful," she called musically over her shoulder, before melting into the shadows cast by the flickering gas lamps.

"Thank you?" was my puzzled and rather-too-late response. By then she had completely disappeared into the darkness.

I walked home very slowly that night, whilst Sérafine found her way into most of my thoughts. It took me a while to realise that she had mentioned my compositions, and that they were beautiful. I was almost sure they hadn't gone anywhere near that bar; it was notorious for hecklers and traditionalists who wanted to feel like they were breaking the rules, and not for precocious little upstarts like Sérafine and myself. Maybe I had played them there before, or maybe she had been somewhere else, where I had played them. I couldn't remember. Maybe I would play them there one day. My thoughts drifted again. If Sérafine thought they were beautiful, she, who played so beautifully herself, then they couldn't be that bad. Maybe it would be all right for me to play them there. She seemed at that moment to be the most important person in that tiny, smoky room, the only person worth impressing. I didn't care what other people thought about my music then. I only cared about her. Frustrated that she was taking up so much of my thinking space, I tried to think of other things, only to end up thinking about her all the more. Have you ever noticed that? The harder you try to forget about something, the more you end up thinking about it. And the more irritating it gets.

For the next few weeks, I did everything I could to avoid going to any of those clubs; I even accompanied my father to work and chaperoned my younger sisters to about five separate society balls. It scared me at that point, how involved my mind was with just one person. I didn't want that. I was a huge romantic then. I still am, really. But I didn't want to become a huge obsessive. I never want to, but I do. I can't help it. It's just something that happens. I get so scared of getting involved with something I don't want to that I spend all my time thinking of absolutely nothing else. Ironic. And irritating. But I couldn't stay away from that club forever, and I really couldn't face chaperoning my sisters anywhere else of an evening, even to avoid my father, much as I loved them. Maybe I should have found another club. But I didn't want to. Same as always. I want something, and don't want it at the same time. So one unseasonable, rainy and downright unpleasant night in July, I finally steeled myself to go back there. And I would keep my unconscious promise to Sérafine that I would play. It took me a while to get up the courage to pick up my music from the piano and force myself out of the door. I told myself that it didn't matter if she was there or not, that she would just be pleased that I'd played my own compositions, that the audience would like my music either way. I liked my compositions, and I was proud of them. It would have killed me to have them torn down and ripped up by the listeners. Part of me hoped upon hope that Sérafine wouldn't be there, but finally I had to admit defeat, mostly, and admit to myself that I was intrigued by her and I wanted to see her, know she was there, even if it was just a glimpse of her red hair, or even a snippet of her voice, carrying across the club, or something, ridiculous as it was.

The club was fairly busy that night, and for most of the night I didn't see her at all. I didn't want to admit how crushed I felt. I started devising a strategy to leave without letting down the proprietor, when I saw her, talking, ironically, to the proprietor. I remember almost laughing at that point, and just about catching myself, turning it into a cough. Just that glimpse of her gave me the confidence to walk boldly up to the grand piano. I remember winding all my courage almost to breaking point as I took my seat, telling myself I just didn't care anymore. At all. And then I played. As soon as I heard myself play the first few notes, I felt as if all the tension had left me; it felt as if I was hearing myself playing from somewhere way up above me. I deliberately immersed myself in the music, going somewhere completely different in my mind. It was almost a shock when I brought myself back to reality, and people were actually applauding me. I managed to retain my composure whilst I thanked the audience, then made a run for the bar. At least some people had liked it. I hoped and hoped that Sérafine was one of them, and not one of the people muttering angrily about "these young bohemian types". I tried not to let the negativity bother me, but I knew it would. It still does. I will always be a ridiculous perfectionist. At any rate, I remember at that point that Sérafine just appeared beside me whilst I rolled a cigarette. I didn't know where she had come from, or even how long she had been there. I remember looking at her infuriatingly dumbly, though she didn't seem to notice.

"That was incredible, you know," she murmured, softly.

"T-thank you," I remember stuttering, feeling a bit of an idiot.

"What were you thinking about, whilst you played?" she asked, surprising me. "I thought you would overthink it, you're too conscious of everyone judging you." It wasn't even a question, just a statement. I hope I remained looking fairly impassive. It was a frighteningly accurate evaluation, and I remember being completely incapable of knowing how on earth to answer such a statement, because, even now, I have no idea what I was thinking about then. I was usually very perceptive, able to at least accurately guess what other people were thinking, and able usually to understand my own thoughts. But again, Sérafine was different. Instead of answering, I just gave a shrug.

"I don't know. I was just – thinking." I finally admitted, promptly changing the subject – it was something mundane about the weather, I think – so that she didn't dwell on it.

"Why don't you stay for a drink?" Sérafine asked suddenly, her manners as charming as ever, despite her complete disregard for etiquette. I think she probably knew that I would keep making a mess of it if we tried to be proper with one another. Her manner was so charming in fact that I almost forgot that she had basically just examined my brain. Though not completely. I remember suddenly feeling nervous about spending time with her, as if secretly I already knew what would be in store for me.

"I should be getting back," I said, lamely.

"What, in this weather?" Sérafine asked, incredulous, inclining her head towards the high window. It was blowing a gale, and pouring with rain. I sighed.

"I'm supposed to be accompanying my father to work tomorrow," I said, heavily, though I actually had absolutely no intention of going and was still trying to think of a credible excuse.

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's another day. We still have all night," she shrugged, lighting a cigarette and offering me one, despite the fairly obvious presence of my own cigarette on the table next to my left hand. I took one anyway though, just to give me something to do that didn't involve trying not to stare stupidly at Sérafine.

"What are you drinking?" I asked her, at length, motioning towards the bar. She shrugged again, that trademark, nonchalant move of hers.

"Surprise me, Monsieur!" she answered, with an exaggerated flourish of her hand that still held her lit cigarette, and a laugh. I couldn't help then but laugh with her; she was addictive, and impossible to ignore.

When I returned from the bar, Sérafine was leaning back, casual but elegant, in her chair, her right hand, still holding the cigarette, draped nonchalantly over the back. Her expression was mysterious, and thoughtful.

"Edward," she began, looking speculatively up at me. I was astounded that she knew my name; I was sure I wasn't actually named on the bill that night. Maybe I hadn't been paying attention. Though I know I thought it was strange, how much she knew about me without knowing me at all. "Do you ever just want to go somewhere, far away, and just not come back?"

I stood quietly for a moment, still holding two glasses of brandy.

"Well, yes. I suppose I do," I said, my voice faltering. She took a glass from me, seemingly oblivious to my uncertain astonishment. "Why?"

"We should go somewhere," she replied, at length, as she took a deep draw on her cigarette, exhaling slowly and thoughtfully, so that the blueish, sweet cigarette smoke spiralled upwards, dancing in the faint glow from the chandelier above us. I looked at her, contemplating. She was idly turning the glass, still full, on the spot on the table where she had placed it.

"What, now?" I asked, taken aback. I never could understand Sérafine. That was the problem, I tried too hard.

"Well, why not?" she challenged, taking a swig from her glass, still staring up at the disappearing cigarette smoke above us.

"Where would we go?" was my next question. I think she rolled her eyes then.

"I have no idea, Edward. Just, somewhere," she responded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She looked intently at me for a while, and I remember getting rather too distracted for rather too long.

"Come on!" she urged me, breaking into my dreamworld by grabbing my hand and trying to pull me up from my seat.

"What? Where are we going?" I asked, as she succeeded in dragging me out of the door into the still-pouring rain.

"You'll get soaked!" I protested.

"So will you!" she retorted, laughing at what was, most probably, my astonished expression.

I remember her taking a deep breath as we emerged into the pouring rain, and I remember that when she turned around to face me I thought I would never see anything so beautiful again. Her hair was blowing behind her, save for the loose tendrils that were already soaking wet and lingering about her face, and her eyes, which I noticed then were an impossibly intense, dark blue, were positively shining. Her pale skin was almost luminous in the moonlight and flushed slightly, whether with the surprising cold after the stuffy bar or anticipation I didn't know, but it was beautiful.

It was exhilarating, running through the rain, through the mazes of dark Paris streets, freezing cold, even in July, and soaked to the skin, but hand in hand, not going anywhere in particular. That moment, then, was where my life really started. Though then I didn't know how little of my life I really had left, that was also the time when I really lived.