Disclaimer: I do not own the Twilight series or any of the characters used in the making of this story, they belong to the book sagas author Miss Stephanie Meyer. Any and all mistakes are my own.

So I'll break it

Knowing what you said

The pain is what you make it

Sadly you are so mistaken

I will take you with a grain

And step into the changes

Throw away the empty heart

Right now

Never want to leave this place

And right now

See it in a different way

So right now

Even if you take me on

I'll stand the lonely

Stand the lonely

"Anthem Of The Lonely" – Nine Lashes

He came from the forest, as most strange things do. The man who looked like my brother. He even wore my brother's boots and his fine navy cloak; however, he was something…other.

Here I stand at the back of the crowd, separated from by a sea of overjoyed neighbours and friends. They're smiling, holding onto each other, a cacophony of sound full of questions and good wishes. The girls from the quaint little neighbourhood are giggling amongst themselves, catching glimpses of my brother's face and whispering words of jealousy towards his wife.

The watchmen claimed to have been the first to see him as he wondered through the pastures towards the city walls.

He had been shouting out his name: "Paul! Paul! Is here!"

I live in a three room cottage just outside the city wall. I think. No, I know I was the first to hear him. I simply kept quiet, curling into a ball in the middle of my bed to hide myself from the outside world. But I had to see. To know. So hunched over, I scuttled towards the window and peered out.

He moved with determination, his eyes focused on an unseen phenomenon somewhere ahead of him in the direction of the town square. He never looked over at the house, never once looked at me.

Then in the distance I heard a scream. Not one of terror, as the one I'd been keeping captive in my lungs, but one of joy. The eyes of the man who looked like my brother flicked over to the source of the noise' my niece, Claire, running out of the city gates.

"Papa!" she'd screamed, stumbling as she veered from the cobbled road and rushing through the knee high (shoulder height for her) grass and into his waiting embrace.

"Papa you're back! Mama said you were gone forever. I never once believed her Papa, for I knew that she was wrong. Papa I knew you would come back to us."

She snuggled further into his shoulder, her obsidian locks tumbling over the ornately patterned shoulder pad of his jacket.

Claire's yelling did not go unnoticed by the citizens of the town, and within the blink of an eye half of the neighbourhood had abandoned their designated tasks and ran down into the pastures to greet my brother.

"We thought you were lost to us my friend" Billy, the fisherman says, his voice breaking with relief.

"Thank the Lord you're safe!" comes the voice of Jared, my brothers best friend.

A cacophony of sound filled with yells and cries as the crowd slowly made their way back towards the town, where my brother was brought forth to the centre of the market place and assisted onto the small, make-shift stage.

"Paul is alive!" a middle-aged woman cries. "Spread this fortuitous news" Where in heavens names is his wife?"

As if planned to happen at exactly that moment Isabella's was made known through her overjoyed cry. The town's people parted, allowing Isabella to pass by unhindered to where her husband stood upon the stage.

If I could, I would stay right here hiding inside my little cottage until the day I ceased to walk upon this earth. However the lack of my presence would not go unnoticed on the day of my dear brother miraculous return.

When I finally step out to join the commotion, my face is ashen and sallow. I am not prepared to face the hordes of people that turn to stare at me, clearing a path for me to meet the man I had little desire to see.

"Oi you lot! Sam is here! Let him pass!" The crowd turn towards me and part like they had done for Isabella. I curse silently in my head, wishing that this day was a horrific dream that I would soon wake up from, leaving me alone and safe within the confines of my cottage. However this day was not a garish nightmare. This was my reality, as I made my way up the cobbled street towards the steps leading me to the platform. Up until this point I had managed to avoid eye-contact, but that brief moment of tranquillity was about to come crashing down around me. I stand before him as his hand lands to rest upon my shoulder. I have no choice but to look upon my brother's face. On the surface it seems a pleasant face, but behind those viridescent irises there is something more. Something else.

He steps forward and wraps his thickly corded arms around me, pulling me closer. The side of my head sliding past his to rest upon his shoulder, and had I not believed otherwise I would swear that I could hear his thoughts, an echo of my own.

You are not my brother

I am not your brother.

He releases me from his embrace, and I do not look at him again, afraid of what I might see in the dark disparaging depths of his eyes.

There are more questions, joke and exclamations, until finally, the crowd begins to calm and disperse, heading back towards their long forgotten tasks in their haste to see my brother. Only a few of us remain. My brother's closest friends, his wife, child and I. Someone, whose name I cannot recall suggests that we head to the local tavern and drink a toast to his arrival and before I can make up a plausible excuse to remove myself from this never ending horror, I feel myself being pulled along.

It does not take long for my brother and his friends to pass the point of tipsy to flat out drunkards, as my drink remains sitting on the table untouched. They laugh, jest, and tell stories and on occasion they break out into song, but I am yet to participate in the festivities. I sit at the far end of the table, content to observe him, trying to tell whether he has lost any of his mannerisms that made this my brother, or if he has gained any new one on his travels before ultimately returning home.

This man looks like my brother. He speaks with his casual charisma and walks with his knowing certainty and posture. He wears my brother's strong features and sees through my brothers eyes. His dark stubble emphasises his jaw, like my brothers did, and his tousled hair that falls around his collar in the same way. But this man is not my brother. He cannot be.

My brother is dead.

I, of all people, should know.

AN: What do you think? Should I continue? Leave me a review and let me know. Remember this is just the prologue.

Tah Tah for now

Fenrir Vanagandr ~