Everything I've seen, everything I've lived through, it made a lot of people lose their faith. The holocaust, the war, losing friends and family. It made a lot of people wonder if there was any god. If there was, what was he doing? Others decided to retreat straight into faith, clinging to God as the only thing that had a chance of saving us, holding onto our identity, the thing that made us who we were.
I believed in God, more profoundly than ever after all those horrors. But I wouldn't say I had faith.
You can't imagine how he seemed when I first saw him. Everyone else, our strongest, those most capable of fighting, we were nothing but sticks. Our emaciated bodies kept up only by will and sheer desperation. But not him. He swore he wasn't a god, or an angel, but he looked like that to me. Black hair blowing in the wind as he tore through them all alone, pale skin that seemed to sparkle in the flames and the moonlight. Wiser than he could be at his age, and stronger and faster than anything. If God sent him, I couldn't tell you, but for something so perfect to have been made, I had to believe that there was a God. There was no other way.
He claimed that we might as well think him a demon. He said there were others like him. They had a policy of noninterference he said, of never letting humans realize they exist. But he said it was wrong for anyone to just stand by. So he fought beside us, and when we couldn't fight anymore, he fought for us, until the end. Never tiring. Never slowing. Our futile champion.
I never saw how it ended. A child like me, they made sure that I was one of the first out. And if he made it out, would we have even known? Or would he just be gone, as abruptly as he appeared to us that night in Warsaw?
This is just a short prologue for a story I might do. I don't even know if it should happen, so be sure and tell me what you think. The chapters would certainly be longer.
But I was thinking one day, of all that Edward and Carlisle and the ancient, centuries old vampires had been through. All they had seen. We think they must view us as cattle, just short lived food, those that eat us, but can you blame them? What must they have had to stand by and watch us do to each other? All the torture and death, tearing down all our own greatest works, who could think that we were human? That we were equal?
Or did some of them act? Did they take up arms and try to stop it all? And what happened to their stories?