Nostalgia
Disclaimer - I don't own the Twilight Saga :)
For about the sixth time in the past hour, I found myself gazing at the delicate cluster of diamonds that rested on the third finger of my left hand, not quite sure if it was indifference or interest that I was feeling. In fact, I wasn't completely sure how I felt about it being there in general.
On one hand I was very happy, blissful at that, for making Edward as exultant as he was. It was impossible to ignore the deep emotion, the insurmountable joy that surfaced in his eyes whenever he saw his mother's ring on my finger. On the other hand I was absolutely terrified. I was frightened that when I finally left the sanctuary of my house and returned to the public eye that a million accusatory fingers would point my way and that their scorns would follow me everywhere I went.
I knew it was stupid, that the stares would only last for a week at most and that Edward would be by my side every step of the way, but the thought of it was still scary, not to mention embarrassing.
Why oh why did Edward have to be born a century ago?
Why couldn't his views on young marriage be the same as mine?
Or better yet, why couldn't I have been born in the era that Edward was human? A time where I could've worn his ring without feeling as if I had committed murder. The original bearer of this ring – Elizabeth Masen, Edward's mother – must have had it so much easier than I did. She would've been able to wear it with pride, not have to hide it with disdain like I would surely have to.
I found myself wishing that I had been born in 1901.
"What are you thinking? What's wrong?" Edward asked softly, unintentionally breaking me out of my reverie – I hadn't even realized that I'd been glaring profusely at the seemingly innocent ring until Edward had spoken aloud his worry.
We were cuddling together on his black leather recliner – the both of us had made a silent agreement for us not to put ourselves in the path of temptation by using the bed – just simply basking in each others company, and until now no words had been needed to be said. As with most things, it felt right to confide in him, so I did.
"I was just thinking of how easy Elizabeth had it. Your mother, I mean," I added when I read the confusion in his perfect features.
"I wouldn't say that," he murmured, his golden eyes betraying his surprise.
"Tell me about her," I insisted. "You never have before."
He chuckled. "I guess I haven't."
"Well?"
"I don't remember her very well. My memories of her are very vague and most of what I remember is through Carlisle's mind."
Why is he holding back?
"Keep going."
He ran a pale hand through his disheveled bronze hair self-consciously. "Well, I inherited her hair, for one, and I remember it being just as tousled as mine. Our eyes also used to match, they were a bright green."
"Yeah, Carlisle told me," I murmured.
Edward looked puzzled but continued as if I hadn't interrupted him.
"That's as much of her appearance that I remember, or that Carlisle has shown me. He only saw her in her sick state, so my memory of her is quite flawed. Those were the two features that stuck out to me in any case. However, her journals gave me insight into her mind, which is far more valuable to me than any picture she might have left behind."
I tried with difficulty to hide my surprise. "Journals?"
He smiled. "Yes, besides the diamond… I mean the crystal heart I gave you, and the ring, they are the only things I have left of hers."
It was difficult to suppress the deep emotion that swelled feverishly at the root of my heart when I realized how much these things that he'd given to me meant to him. I could tell that he'd loved her dearly; it was obvious in the manner of which he spoke about her. He could feign indifference all he liked but I knew him better than anyone else, I could read his face as well as he could read mine and I wished he wouldn't pretend.
The fact that these items of hers, these beautiful pieces of jewelry which I'd selfishly taken for granted, were so special to Edward made me suddenly treasure them more than I'd ever treasured any of my own belongings before. I looked at the ring now in a new light, perceived how it portrayed a different meaning than the one I'd originally labeled it as. Not only was it a promise, a proclamation of the love that Edward had for me, but it also radiated the love Edward had for his mother.
It touched me greatly when I realized how much he trusted me, how much he loved me, to give me the few things that he had left of his mother.
I felt incredibly guilty now, a horrible feeling stirring in the pit of my stomach, when I realized how selfish I had been to reject such thoughtful tokens of his love, to treat them like garbage. Yes, the ring meant that I had to get married, that I had to endure accusatory stares for a week but it also meant that he loved me, that he trusted me inexplicably, that he wanted me to be his.
The ring wasn't just a sign of commitment; it was also a sign of love.
"Would you like to see the journals?" Edward asked, oblivious to the epiphany I had just had.
All thoughts of my ring faded away at his appealing words. The offer was very tempting as these journals were surely the key to knowing about one of the most important people in Edward's human life. But it would be an invasion of privacy and she probably wouldn't have wanted a stranger reading the uncensored words that she'd written. Respect was more important than curiosity.
"I couldn't. She wouldn't want me to."
"Bella," Edward said gently as if he could read my mind. "My human mother would have loved you. There was nothing she wrote in her journals that she wouldn't have wanted for you to see."
I bit my lip, indecisive.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive."
He kissed my forehead tenderly before running with impossible velocity to his closet and returning literally half a second later, a leather bound book held lightly in his hands. Once I'd been reclaimed in his arms, he passed the journal to me quietly, his gaze and touch almost reverent. He murmured to me that there were others, but this was where they all began.
I held the journal carefully in my hands, examining the dark, leather cover in awe. Despite its yellowing pages due to the century that had passed, it was still in excellent condition, the leather still intact and none of the pages torn with misuse. My fingertips rested upon the corner of the journal, betraying my hesitance.
"It's okay," Edward assured me, flashing me his trademark crooked smile. My heart stuttered a little at the sight of it and I finally gained the confidence to turn the page. I stifled a gasp at the beautiful cursive writing. It was not quite as perfect as Edward's but similar in fluency and style.
"I'll read with you," he said quietly. "It's been far too long since I've read them."
June 15th, 1883
Is it natural for the first line of a journal to contain a confession stating that the author has utterly no idea what to write? I believe I am the first. As this is my first entry, it is vital that it is not filled with nonsense otherwise future entries will follow suit, which is something I want to avoid. Who wants to be in possession of a boring journal? Certainly not me! My Aunt Mary told me such things when she gave me this journal at noon. Oh dear reader, if only you could have had the privilege of seeing the solemnly in her eyes as she gave me this precious book, how grave her blue eyes were as she told me that a journal is means of glimpsing into ones soul.
Mother warns me not to listen to her crazy ramblings, but how can I not. They tempt my imagination, and they give me insight. Oh, how foolish I have been! I forgot to mention who I am. Dear reader, you probably have absolutely no clue whose world you have delved into. Please forgive me, and allow me to turn back time. How about I start this journal off then, as an introduction? I think that is a mighty good idea, is it not? Well, my name is Elizabeth May Morgan and I live in Chicago. I am the mature age of sixteen and the year is eighteen eighty three, the epitome of all of years.
My life is, would you believe it, quite dull. There are no suitable means to entertain me where I live. Books and piano do become tiring after constantly utilizing them, but they are all I have. Mother won't allow me to ride the wild horses like the poor girls do. She says that it is undignified and that I'll be the talk of the town if I do. But it is difficult to ignore the look of absolute exhilaration on their faces as they ride. The connection they have with their steeds is almost tangible. Now I must only dream about such things because mother has forced me to stay clear of them.
I do wonder what it is like to be poor! Most are bitter and unapproachable but others are just as pleasant as the rich. Sometimes when mother isn't looking I place a pence in their gritty palms, wanting to compensate for being bestowed a better life than them. It is not their fault that they have been dealt a difficult hand. Perhaps their place will be higher in heaven if we ever reach it.
Damn it, my ink is becoming splotchy and difficult to write with and I fear that it will soon be illegible. The wicker of my candle is also fading so I must adjure my writing. Good night, dear friend, may pleasant dreams find you wherever you reside.
EM
"That's incredible!" I exclaimed. "It almost felt as if I was reading a historical novel."
Edward smiled. "Well she did live in the late eighteen hundreds."
"How many more entries did she write?"
"Too many to count."
"Can I continue?" I asked eagerly.
"Of course." Edward kissed my hair sweetly while I snuggled into his side, book in one hand and the other curled around his waist.
For the next two hours I read about Elizabeth Masen's joys, her sorrows, her failures, her endeavors and her dreams, each entry more interesting than the last. Edward read with me patiently, seeming as engrossed as I was despite the fact that he'd already read the journal numerous times before.
A couple of entries stood out significantly to me and I felt compelled to read-read them as soon as I'd finished them. All of them were important milestones in Elizabeth's life, such as when Elizabeth met Edward's father for the first time.
May 5th, 1885
Dear reader, I cannot banish his face from my mind, I cannot force those dashing blue eyes of his to leave me alone. I am in love, or at least I believe myself to be so, for what other word can appropriately describe the uncertainty I feel, the tingling feeling in my chest, the fact that I cannot think of anything but him.
Love at first sight is very uncommon but I feel as if I am the exception. For no eyes can rival his, no voice can be as delightful to hear as his, and no walk can be as fluid as the one that he undertakes. One look and I am lost, but I'm not the only one. Although it's not polite and doesn't conform to today's society, we all still look, entranced by his good looks and charm.
We only had very brief contact. I dropped one of my schoolbooks, and he bent down and retrieved it for me like a perfect gentleman. All I could manage was a soft thank you before I scuttled off like a frightened lark. Oh, if only my response had been more intelligent then he might actually consider me worthy of his time for courtship. But I mustn't think of that when I've only just met him, yet, I can't help it. Already I can imagine being his wife, tending to him after a long day at work, and his soft lips pressing against my mine. Such things are impossible, I'm not an imbecile, but I can dream, and that is what I dream of. I cannot deny the desires that the devil himself has encouraged me to keep.
His name is Mr. Masen and I have shamefully already imagined how my name would look with his name tacked to the end of it. Elizabeth Masen. It feels right.
EM
As with any love-stricken teenager – even one living in the late eighteen hundreds – most of the entries were about the man she loved. I wondered if Edward ever grew uncomfortable at reading the love life of his parents, but if he did, he didn't mention it.
The entry I was reading at the present was centered around Elizabeth and Edward senior's wedding and reminded me of the one that was to come for Edward and I.
September 12th, 1886
I cannot believe that I am married now. A wife! It sounds so strange, but I am joyous to be called it. Our wedding was perfect! I felt as if I were in an impossible dream. A dream which I never wished to wake up from and one that I couldn't possibly have deserved. Perfect is not adequate enough to describe the ceremony.
The look in Mr. Masen's eyes was insurmountable, the tenderness he bestowed upon me indescribable. My white, lacey dress was perfectly sewed and the cake was utterly divine. This day has been the absolute best in my eighteen years and it fills me with absolute joy to realize that so many more perfect days are to come with my husband always by my side.
You cannot possibly find anyone happier than I am at the present.
EMasen
One of my favourite entries to read – besides the other romantic ones about courting and engagements – was the one about Edward's birth, a day so important that it should have its own holiday. I vowed to myself silently that I wouldn't let Edward's next birthday pass without celebrating it.
June 20th, 1901
Words cannot express what I have experienced today. There is nothing that I can possibly compare to the deep joy I feel. Today, in the heat of the afternoon, I gave birth to my first son, Edward. Even though he looks more like me than Edward Senior, my little Edward junior's expression is so like his that it makes me want to cry with absolute happiness. The feeling when his sweet little fingers curled around mine, how his emerald green eyes stared up at me in wonder and how his diminutive little mouth formed a tiny 'o' shape so perfect that it caused tears to fall. I know no greater joy than my son, and his happiness is my happiness. I would endure all of those months of hazardous pregnancy gladly every month of the year if it meant that I could keep my little Edward.
Edward Senior, as I have to refer to him now, isn't quite as infatuated with our son as I am but he thinks him to be a handsome boy who will one day be a strong, intelligent young man. Oh, I can hear my young baby's needy cries now! I must abandon my ink and paper and go tend to him. Oh he will grow up to be a fine boy.
EMasen
Another entry left me feeling quite sorrowful and I could read the pain in Edward's eyes as he re-read the entry. It was obvious in all the entries about him that Elizabeth Masen loved her son very much.
May 16th 1918
Oh journal, an imminent event is looming over me, one which I can't elude no matter what lengths I undertake to delay it. Edward's birthday is approaching. He is to be eighteen and wishes to join the war once he's of age. Every night after dinner I beg him to stay, using every tactic I can think of to stop him, but he won't be swayed.
His idea of war is different to mine as he has fallen prey to the illusion that the conscriptiors have created. I know the real horrors of war, its consequences, the terrible things that happen there, and the death that awaits anyone who goes. However Edward brushes me off as if my requests are foolish.
He is young, far too young and I fear for him. I fear that I will lose my only son. I pray that the war will end before he has a chance to go and have his life stolen from him. I know he will die if he goes and I can't bear it! For now I will keep praying to the Lord every night and incessantly hope for a miracle.
EMasen
The last and most emotional entry of them all was her dying letter. The ink was splotchy with her tears and her pain was almost tangible.
October 23rd, 1918
I fear that this is my last entry. My strength is slowly fading minute by minute but I must write this before I die. This last entry is for Edward, my son. My husband has already passed and now I must go join him.
One day Edward, my son, will read this and understand all that I cannot tell him. He was very distraught when I gave him my engagement ring for him to keep. He knows that I'm ready to give up, and that I want him to keep fighting. I am confident that he'll survive. I've told the blond doctor, the one with the strange healing powers and godly looks who is never fatigued, who is never in need of food or drink, to save him and I know he will.
I know he has the power to save him. However this does not mean that I know how, just that he will. I can sense this goodness in him, I can tell that he will look after my son in more ways than one and I trust him inexplicably.
These next few sentences are for you, my son, and I need you to hold onto them when I'm gone. Edward, you probably don't understand why I gave you my engagement ring, but I want you to have a part of me, a little token of my love that you can pass onto that special girl when you meet her.
I know that you will find her, never stop searching for her, she's out there somewhere, just waiting to meet you at the right time. And when you find her, never let her go, love is truly the one solitary thing that conquers all.
My hand is growing weaker by the second but know this Edward, I love you and I will never truly be gone. Live your life to its fullest and never ever give up.
EM
I closed the last journal quietly once I'd finished and waited for Edward to speak, all well-thought out words having eluded my mind.
"I wish I could remember her more clearly," he finally murmured. "I feel quite guilty that I don't."
I smiled. "She seemed like an extraordinary woman."
"She was," he said softly.
"This ring has obviously been through a lot. I can't believe how much!" I commented, stroking the shimmering gems appreciatively.
"And I can't think of a better person I could've given it to. My mother was right. I did find my special girl and passing the ring onto you feels like the most right thing I've ever done."
He placed both of his hands on either side of my face tenderly and then began to kiss me in a fashion so sweet that no words of adoration could rival it.
"I love you," I whispered.
He smiled crookedly, caressing my cheek lightly with his hand. "As I love you."
Please review! I worked very hard on this one-shot :)