Title: Resurrection
Summary: The drums of the Great War have finally reached American shores and 21 year old Edward Masen, dreaming of adventure and glory, eagerly answers their siren call. Sent to a foreign land, he's soon caught up in the horror and futility of the Western Front, becoming more closed off with every friend lost, every enemy killed. However, while on leave from the front line he becomes enchanted with the beautiful and kind Isabella Swan, who may just hold the key to resurrecting his broken heart and soul…
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Twilight and all related places and characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.
A/N: I'm insane. It's the only explanation I can come up with for even considering starting this story while I'm in the midst of another, but this idea seems to have put down roots in my brain and refuses to leave. This is inspired in part by Sebastian Faulks' brilliant novel Birdsong and also by my own fascination with the history of World War One. I will be alternating between postings of this and What Dreams May Come so you don't have to worry about me abandoning that story for this one. I'm a little nervous since this is different than anything I've written before, but please read, review and enjoy!
Prologue: The Drums of War
Chicago, June 5 1918
Sweat trickled down the small of my back, my usually unruly hair falling limp against my forehead as I shoved my hands deep into my trouser pockets, sleeves rolled up in a way that would make my mother gasp at the informality. The hall was hot and airless, the crush of bodies within making the stifling conditions close to unbearable and yet I was almost bouncing on the balls of my feet with anticipation.
"Next please."
The line ahead of me shuffled forward another foot, enough so I could now see the severe looking young woman sitting behind the ornate desk, her mousy brown hair pulled into a tight bun and her jowls drooping with a bored scowl. She was no Theda Bara, that's for sure. Holding no interest to me, I let my eyes wander around the room to take note that I was not the only twenty-one year old here who had a sense of eagerness in their eyes.
"Edward!"
My eyes jerked back to survey the entrance to the hall, finally alighting on Samuel as he jostled his way through the line to reach me, uncaring of the disgruntled looks shot his way by the other men in line.
"I thought I said to wait for me outside," he grinned, running a hand through his shortly-shorn blonde locks as he came to a stop behind me in the line.
Samuel Harper was one of those people whose presence seemed to fill a room, no matter how large. The son of a rather respected doctor, he possessed a keen intellect, a rather sharp sense of humor and an utter disregard for what others thought of him. Sometimes I wish I possessed his unparalleled sense of self-confidence, but for the moment, the fact that he had been able to see past my rather guarded demeanor to become my closest friend was enough.
"I did," I said quietly, not wanting to draw any more attention to the two of us than his boisterous entrance already had, "An hour ago…where have you been?"
Samuel just grinned and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Sorry Edward, I was…detained by the lovely Miss Holland, I'm sure you understand," he smirked, a familiar mischievous twinkle shining in his eye.
That was something else of Samuel's I was slightly envious of, his apparent ease in dealing with women. On my more confident days I knew that I was handsome; with my father's strong features, my mother's vivid green eyes and a mess of bronze hair that seemed to defy any attempts to tame it, I was not a hideous specimen by any stretch of the imagination. I even had the rather neat talent of being able to read the intention's of others via their eyes and body language, a skill that would no doubt serve me well on my chosen career path. However, none of this seemed to matter when faced with the enigma of a beautiful young woman. I became almost unbearably tongue-tied, resorting to my stand-by aloof demeanor which seemed to deter even the most indomitable of girls. Though, I had to admit that it did not bother me as much as it would others as I had not yet found her. The one that I knew in my heart I would know was mine the minute I lay eyes upon her form. My friends called me an unbearably hopeless romantic, but I was raised in an environment where my parents had a happy, loving marriage, where my mother's sister and her husband were the epitome of the 'love at first sight' cliché.
"Miss Holland? I thought it was Miss Taylor," I commented, never able to keep track of Samuel's seemingly never-ending parade of female companions. It was not that he treated them wrongly, he just abided by the philosophy of enjoying being young, rich and handsome while he still could, which included…'sampling' a rather large portion of Chicago's upper-middle class female population under the age of 21.
"Miss Taylor was last week Edward," he said dismissively, checking his pocket watch, "She was a keen girl, but a becoming a bit too attached for my tastes."
"Are you ever going to settle down Samuel?" I asked as the line in front of us shuffled forward again, "There is more to life than...being detained."
"You sound like my mother," he shot back with a mock scowl that soon dissolved into a grin, "How about I make you a deal. I'll think about settling down when you finally manage to ensnare some beautiful girl in your grasp."
"Deal," I agreed, holding out my hand so we could shake on it, trying not to think about the ever-growing feeling that I would never find my dream girl.
"Next please!"
The forceful shout made me swing my head abruptly, only to see that the line ahead of me had disappeared in my distraction, the scowling woman now glaring at me for my inattentiveness.
Samuel whistled, "If looks could kill…"
"Shut up," I hissed quietly under my breath, straightening my vest.
Smiling apologetically at the woman, I approached the desk with the ball of anticipation in my stomach returning with a vengeance. She'd lowered her head as I got closer, eyes glued to the desk so I didn't even have the option of turning on my charm, something I could do most effortlessly as long as the person involved wasn't young, beautiful or interesting…and if my mother could've read that thought, she would've smacked me upside the head for my rudeness.
"Full name," she demanded shortly, fountain pen quivering an inch off of the small cream card.
"Edward Anthony Masen," I replied promptly, before adding, "That's Masen with an 'e' not an 'o'."
Her hand tightened around the pen as if she was imagining it was my neck and I shuffled my feet nervously.
"Date of birth?"
"June 20, 1896," I replied automatically, though I knew the year was probably unnecessary given that everyone registering today would be that age.
"Home address?" she continued, pen scratching its dark ink across the form, still not even bothering with the polite courtesy of looking me in the eye when she spoke.
"2243 North Halstead Street, Lincoln Park, Chicago, Illinois," I rattled off, determined not to let her obvious distaste affect me. Of course, at that moment her gaze snapped up and she looked me over appraisingly, a different light entering her eyes as she got a good look at my features. I knew why she'd looked up, that area of Chicago was well-known for its wealthy inhabitants and I got the feeling that I had just been upgraded in her estimation from plain nuisance to rich, handsome, husband-material nuisance.
My suspicion was confirmed as she batted her eyes, her harsh tone lowering to a ridiculously low level.
"Employment status," she practically simpered and I fought the urge to shuffle back from the desk. If I'd known this was the alternative, I wouldn't have wished that she'd looked up at all.
"I'm attending the University of Chicago's School of Law in the fall, but am currently employed as a clerical assistant at Barnham, Hamner and Kiedel," I stated flatly, trying to ignore how the gleam in her eye brightened even further at the mention of one of the most prestigious law firms in the area.
After managing to successfully get through the rest of the required questions and only flinching once at the innuendo she inserted into her appraisal of my physical build, she passed over the card for me to sign, hand brushing unnecessarily long against mine as she handed me the fountain pen.
Scrawling my painstakingly neat signature born of years of practice across the bottom of the card, I passed it back with an unfailingly polite thank you and practically fled the hall, stopping only long enough to tell Samuel that I would meet him outside before escaping into the unseasonably warm Chicago afternoon.
Breathing in the fresh air, I felt a sense of accomplishment wash over me. It was done and if my country needed me, I'd be willing to answer the call, more than willing, if I was honest with myself. I had never ventured farther than 30 miles from the greater Chicago area my entire life and the opportunity to head abroad, to see Europe while helping my countrymen and our allies fight for the freedom of those who could not defend themselves was a siren call. If not for my mother's pleading or my father's insistence that I follow in his footsteps as a lawyer, I would have enlisted for military service a year ago when President Wilson had declared we were entering the war.
"I don't think I've ever seen you run that fast and I was there when you overcame Arthur Caldwell in the mile run at the intercollegiate track meet back in March."
Samuel's amusement-laced tone broke me out of my thoughts, slight puzzlement registering on my features as I absorbed his words.
"Yes well, at that time I did not have an overzealous woman staring at me like I was something to be devoured," I replied wryly as we set off down the street, strides falling into sync.
"True," he laughed before a look of contemplation fell over his features, his voice quieting to a tone of mock melodrama, "So we're registered then, officially at the whim of the United States Government, beholden to their need for fresh meat on the frontline of a war that has no real bearing on our continued existence as a nation."
I just rolled my eyes, nudging him in the side with my elbow as a warning. I knew his cynical statement was merely his dry sense of humor coming to the fore, but with the patriotic fervor that had been stirred with the first movement of soldiers overseas back in April, it was not entirely prudent to speak out so candidly in public, even if it was in jest.
"You shouldn't joke about things like that," I murmured.
"Lighten up Edward," he groaned in response, eyes momentarily sliding to the side as a rather attractive young woman approached our position on the sidewalk.
"I am light," I asserted, biting my lip to hold back a snicker as the woman at the focus of his attentions glared at him, huffing as she rapidly passed us by.
"Sure you are," he agreed sarcastically before abruptly changing topics, "How does your mother feel about all this?"
I groaned, thinking about the teary reception I was sure to receive at home. I had a rather close relationship to my mother, but she worried incessantly about what might happen to me if I was called to war, and ever since it had been announced that all males who had turned 21 in the time since the last official draft registration day must also register, she had become unbearably smothering.
"Let's just say that at home I feel like I'm a ten-year old child, not a twenty-one year adult."
"Ah."
Chicago, June 10 1918
"Edward! Come downstairs, Aunt Esme is here!"
My mother's voice floated up from the ground floor, laced with the hint of sternness I had come to recognize as an unspoken 'and that means now' addendum. Placing a marker in the page of the half-read novel, I rose from my desk and made my way down the wooden staircase.
Aunt Esme and Mother were sitting in the drawing room, head's bowed over a piece of paper held tightly in Esme's hands. Though there was ten years between them, it was immediately obvious to spot their resemblance to one another. Both had caramel hair falling in soft waves to frame heart-shaped faces, though while my mother's eyes were the bright green of my own, Esme's were a soft chocolate brown.
"Hello Aunt Esme, how are you this evening?" I asked politely as I took a seat across from them.
She lifted her eyes from the paper and greeted me with the slightly dimmed smile which I was still unused to seeing.
"Edward," she greeted softly, leaning across to hug me tightly for a few moments, "I'm fine dear, I just received another letter from your uncle today."
"And is he well?" I asked, knowing that she would not have even been able to raise that small smile if he was not.
"Yes, as well as can be expected," she replied sadly, eyes becoming distant.
Uncle Carlisle was one of the best doctors in Chicago, with a reputation that rivaled Samuel's father's. Compassionate to a fault, he had made the decision to volunteer as a field medic for the American Expeditionary Force and had been sent over with the first wave of troops a few months ago. Though I knew my Aunt was proud of him, and would never condemn him for his choice, she was taking their separation hard. They had barely been parted a day since they had met seven years ago, and it was partly because of them and the depth of their relationship that I maintained my belief in finding that one special girl.
"He will be fine Aunt Esme, you know nothing on this earth could keep Uncle Carlisle from returning to you," I assured her, taking one of her hands between my own.
"Thank you Edward, I knew there was a reason you are my favourite nephew."
Mother smiled, wrapping an arm around her sister.
"That's because your only other choice for that title is our brother's ghastly son," she teased gently and I knew she had done so on purpose, in order to turn Esme's attention to another topic.
"Lawrence is not that bad," Aunt Esme defended, always ready to see the best in people, "He's just a little…"
"Rude, selfish and entirely self-serving?" I suggested with a grin, thinking of my flat-faced cousin.
"I was going to say pretentious," she said disapprovingly, though the twinkle in her eye belied her stern tone.
A shuffle of movement in the hall cut into our conversation, my father appearing in the doorway with his leather briefcase secured firmly in one hand.
"Edward," Mother said surprised, rising from her seat to greet Father with a kiss on the cheek, "I thought you weren't arriving home till after seven."
"I finished earlier than expected," he grinned in response, placing the briefcase on the floor before turning to my Aunt, "Esme, you're looking beautiful, as usual."
She blushed slightly, allowing Father to kiss the back of her hand, "Thank you."
"Son," he greeted, clapping a hand onto my shoulder, "I have some briefs for you to check over from Lovell, he has court in the morning and wants another pair of eyes to make sure everything is in order."
I nodded, pushing down the small spike of unhappiness that I would have to work through the night on what was supposed to be one of my days off.
"Let's leave the discussion of work for the moment shall we, I'm sure you must be hungry," Mother interjected.
"As a matter of fact, I'm starving sweetheart," Father replied, leading Mother down the hall into the kitchen.
Two courses later, Father and I were deep in a discussion of the Cub's next game when there was a commotion at the front door, Samuel appearing a moment later in the dining room, eyes shining and panting for breath.
"Samuel, what are you…"
"They called us!" he said breathlessly, accepting the glass of water my mother quickly procured and gulping down a mouthful.
"Pardon?" I asked, my heart starting to pound rapidly. Did he mean…
"The President authorized a larger contingent of troops to be sent over, so there are vacancies at the training camps opening up. Those that registered in the last round of the draft are being called to report for a physical examination tomorrow, with those deemed fit set to leave for Camp Grant the following day. We're going Edward!"
My mouth gaped unseemly, my ears barely registering my mother's pained gasp above the blood pounding through them.
It was happening. I, Edward Anthony Masen Jr, was going to war.