. Disclaimer: Don't own anything but my interpretation, characters and story belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Hokay! So…a few things: 1. This is my first fic so reviews are much appreciated. 2. I don't really know how the site works yet so a few mistakes now and then are to be expected apologizes for the single-space. 3. Yeah, I know chapter one is in third person and the preface is in first person—I just wrote what felt natural…I haven't decided yet what the format of the next chapters will be…yeah I think that's it…

Preface:

They viewed me as if I was a slave at auction—surely I was not on their level. No, more accurately, they appraised me like cattle. I was no more than food—a piece of meat, although I'm almost positive that held true for one of the blondes in a more metaphorical sense. I usually have too much pride to take being viewed as an object lightly, but I was too preoccupied with their otherworldly beauty to be incredibly offended.

There were three of them—these creatures, no…monsters that I would soon mimic in both looks and violent tendencies. Of course, war was by no means limited to such creatures, as my Confederate uniform blatantly indicated.

Their intentions did not register on a conscious level; understand I was not a mind reader. However, I could tell that danger was imminent—their eyes sending chills up my spine as I stood still, their alien looks rooting me to the spot as I stared, captivated by their appearances.

While I could not bring myself to move, I studied their gazes. The two blondes communicated purely carnal desires, the strongest of which was hunger. They looked at me like I was food. This unnerved me so I looked to the smaller, brunette who was appraising me in an entirely different way.

Her gaze, almost calculating in nature, was something I was used to. It was pure business, it was military. This woman, as unusual a concept as it was for me, was a fighter. And who understood war better than a Confederate officer? Her obvious fondness for me at first glance was flattering to be sure. That, combined with my overwhelming curiosity, offset my natural instinct to flee. Their pale countenances likened them, in my mind, more to that of ghosts (who were supposedly to a large extent benign) than vampires. It put me off my guard, not that I would have stood a chance.

Chapter 1:

"Jasper Whitlock!" The elderly woman stood with one flour-covered hand on her right hip, brandishing a wooden rolling pin in her left hand which she was now using to imitate a wagging finger as she addressed the muscular, but lean young man who had his back to her and was in the process of trying to make a subtle escape.

The honey-blonde haired youth turned around and faced the woman with a guilty smirk, "Sorry, ma'am?" he shrugged, not yet knowing what he was to be accused of but knowing that it was inevitable when he interacted with his grandmother. Beneath her tough exterior, she was a woman who harbored an extreme love for Jasper. She was the one who raised him, after all. His mother was alive, but inept; and his father was always out working before he had died for the Confederate cause, of which Jasper was determined to join and prove himself.

"I was in town today, buying ingredients and whatnot," she glared at him and Jasper sighed, backing away from the door to settle down in the old armchair, which was in clear need of refurbishing. He gave her look that seemed to say "Is there anything else you require as to proceed without distraction?"

She seemed appeased and continued her story, "Well like I said, I was in town today, and who should I meet up with but Mrs. Grant…" Jasper groaned. Mrs. Grant was the mother of William Grant, Jasper's companion as of late. William was famous for his loose lips and it had only been the day before that seventeen year old Jasper had conspired with him about possibly faking their age and enlisting. Mrs. Whitlock was a known, vocal opponent of violence, even more so since the death of her only son.

Mrs. Whitlock was scowling but upon seeing Jasper's resigned face, her expression softened. She looked close to tears. "Are you really going to go join that awful war?" When Jasper avoided her gaze, she really did start to cry. "But…you're just a baby."

"I'm seventeen, ma'am. That's old enough to start making my own decisions." Jasper was grim. He was not a proponent of slavery. In truth it seemed to him to be a terrible but unavoidable fact of life. However, Jasper was a good ol' southern boy from Texas. He put his family and community above all else. He needed to fight against the naïvely idealistic north who threatened his mother and grandmothers' way of life, stole his father from him, and who in their quest to save humanity and preserve the union were massacring villages nearby. It was true. He had heard it at church. This war was the perfect chance to prove that he was a man and that he was ready for the challenges that would lie ahead.

"You're going to get killed, just like your father…you'll never come back," she sobbed.

Jasper flashed her a reassuring smile, "I plan to stick around for a very, very long time. The world can't get rid of me so easily." Usually he had a calming effect on people when he wanted to, call it charisma, but his grandmother was taking this particularly hard. When it became obvious that his grandmother could not be consoled, he sighed and left the bakery that doubled as his childhood home to go meet up with William Grant.

William was short and pudgy with unruly dark brown hair. He was a sniveling coward and a blundering buffoon—Jasper's opposite in almost every way. Regardless, he was the only young man about his age left in the town that hadn't yet joined the army. Thus he was Jasper's, who had an inexplicable affinity and need for people, constant companion.

William was dozing under a tree near the church when Jasper walked up to him and nudged him awake with the toe of his boot. William awoke in one spastic, clumsy motion. After spluttering various profanities and incoherencies, he shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand and looked up at Jasper with a scowl, "What the hell, man?"

"You were supposed to meet me in the field an hour ago." Jasper stated with mild irritation.

"Oh right. Sorry, friend, I was just catching up on some sleep."

"Rough night?"

"Always." William winked at Jasper as if to say, you know how it is, you ladies' man, you. But Jasper, who didn't know how it was and was fairly sure William didn't either, was not amused. He extended his arm to help William up, who gladly took it and hoisted his fat off the grass. "What about you, eh? Although, I suppose your 'keeper' wouldn't want you staying out too late. How is the old crow?"

Jasper was making a mental list of all his grievances against this man so that at the proper time he could justifiably shoot him in the face. "My grandmother does not make me do anything against my will. She only wants what's best for me…unfortunately; I did not leave her in the best of spirits," understatement of the year, notwithstanding, "and I resent the old crow comment. She is lovely woman if you really get to know her."

William waved his hand, dismissively, "she's a woman. The more you get to know them, the less lovely they seem. No exceptions." Sensing the danger of pursuing this line of conversation William abruptly changed the subject, "So I take it she didn't take the news well, then?"

"Well she wouldn't have had to take the news at all, had someone kept his fat mouth shut." Jasper was past being pleasant at this point.

William, who was also a liar, albeit a terrible one, feigned being taken aback, "I thought we were above such childish accusations."

"No, "tattle-tale" would be a childish accusation. I'd say you're a fiend who disturbs the peace of mind of little old ladies." Jasper's anger seemed to be radiating into William as his face began to turn red.

"At least I don't have foolish ideas of honor and glory." William spat at Jasper's feet.

Jasper looked disgusted. "Don't mistake cowardice for intelligence or duty for a misguided attempt at making a name for myself." Jasper shook his head. He was surer now than ever. He could not leave the fate of the South in the hands of others, when all others seemed to do was let him down. It was this, more than anything else that led him to walk fifteen miles to the town hall in the next town over.

"Name?" A rather bored looking middle-aged man with crooked glasses glanced at Jasper through tired eyes.

"Jasper Whitlock."

"Age?"

"Twenty." The man was not of a very skeptical sort, and even if he had been, Jasper's height and wizened face could have fooled just about anyone. Not to mention, they always needed more soldiers. The man looked Jasper up and down once, frowned, and then stamped a piece of paper.

"Welcome to the Confederate Army, son."