Title-The most unoriginal, repetitive yet hopefully somewhat unique Twilight fan fiction ever AKA 1918
Disclaimer-Nope, I don't own Twilight and I wouldn't appreciate a lawsuit Smeyer and co. I promise to give them back in one piece, hopefully.
Thank you to-
My Amazing, Awesome, Brilliant, Beautiful, Cool, Encouraging and Kind Beta "Captain Twilight" for staying up late to Beta this for me and stopping me going crazy with your wacky sense of humour and amazing drawing on the back of the first draft of this ( I shall cherish it forever). You Rock!
You, (the frankly) great person reading this for clicking this story and giving me some of your precious time of day.
Warnings-
- Strange happenings in Edward's POV.
- Angst, illness, 1918
-Read this as slash if you like especially towards the end but you don't have to, just put it down to delirium, I did that how I managed to spew all the religious stuff.
Please no flames regarding the above comment, all due respect to religion it's just not my cuppa and I apologise for any offence taken, it is not intentionally caused I'm just not very good at expressing my opinions on this subject without being just a teensy bit rude.
Still Reading?
Well Done!
Edward POV (1918)
Severely deteriorated, that is what I think he is saying, the words… they make no sense, and mean nothing in my delirium. It takes my brain a good maybe; ten or fifteen minutes to catch up as my teeth chatter from the cold and I pull the one blanket I have been allowed closer around my obviously dying frame.
I almost sigh, I am getting worse, the pain in my chest along with the frequent coughing fits that wrack my whole body tell me that, I don't need some physician, I know, in my own mind that I can feel my life slipping from me every second, I know that my breaths, however laboured, are numbered, and I know I do not need nor want sympathy or empty platitudes.
I need the chance to speak to my mother and a confessor. Quickly.
I look up at the doctor in an increasingly rare moment of mental clarity and freedom from the temperature fluctuations I am being plagued with until I manage to squint and see the expression on his face, I don't need to ask as it hits me. Hard.
My whole body reacts violently as another coughing fit takes the majority of my attentions, my heart suddenly pounds in my chest and my head spins adding to my already escalating nausea.
I don't quite understand why it is suddenly so important to me because I know it will not make a blind bit of difference but all I want to do is sit up. The doctor seems to realise and as he puts his hand on my back, another coughing fit takes me and weakens further and heat flares through me. But his touch is compassionate, as are his eyes, I think; maybe this is what delirium feels like? Perhaps I am not sure anymore what it feels like, is it really Like This? Like being held by an angel with a kind touch and no judgement in his face? I think. Maybe? I don't actually care.
"My mother." I sound choked even to my own ears before I fall back again, I am so incapable of supporting my own weight that I flop back into the pillow, this tells me I am totally exhausted. Mentally I know I'm capable, because I'm still fighting the restraints of my skin as I struggle to haul myself back up, my attempts are either too feeble or the angel has given up on me, I can't bring myself to question which.
I can feel myself losing my grip on reality as my temperature; I don't know whether it rises or falls, but it causes major discomfort.
He is speaking again but this time I do not know if I want to hear him, he sounds distant and I can't make sense of what he is saying again, I hear the sounds but no comprehension, it's infuriating yet oddly comforting too. I grapple with reality clinging desperately to hold onto reality and not sink into oblivion, so I do the only thing that makes sense; I latch onto the angel's voice and use it as an anchor that holds me in the present and clears my mind.
"…To tell you this, but your mother died," he pauses as I absorb the words, as they burn into my mind and he glances at his watch, "around the turn of the hour…"
I finally lose the little control I was clinging to, suddenly I envy the boys over in France, I know, I do, I'm certain that no bullet wound infected or otherwise nor any symptom of any trench illness no matter how severe can compare to this, this… overwhelming agony, not even my own failing lungs can compare. All of it; the pain it simply pales as my mind fills with her image. As it collapses in on itself and even though I knew the second I saw him, still my mind fights off the pain; doing all it can; even (as a small bubble of hope fills my chest) trying to deny the terrible truth. I'm an orphan now. The bubble bursts.
The doctor's voice pulls me out of the train wreck of memories and pain into the present; at least, I think it does. A face like that? I don't believe it's humanly possible- devastatingly beautiful, unendingly kind and compassionate yet tinged with conflict and guilt and fear I can scarcely comprehend.
"Master Masen," the voice reflects the soul, the voice of an angel once again beckons me from my pondering as a hand rests on my forehead, it feels like ice against the fevered flesh, "Master Masen, can you hear me?" I try to answer but my body won't behave itself and I've lost the will to keep fighting, to keep living, I'm ready to die.
I let my eyes flutter shut as the doctors voice becomes more urgent, "Master Masen, your mother, she requested I try to help you, she said to help you, in a way only I can, Master Masen, with her last coherent words she directed me to you."
The words don't make sense again, but it's different now, I can hear them clearly, but I know, no one can save me now, I think the only thing I can do is turn myself over to God and pray for a if not quick then a peaceful death, even hell, I must admit, seems quite a happy option compared to this.
"Master Masen, your mother, she saw me for what I am, I think you do too, please, I won't do this without your permission."
I still don't understand; why would I want to live? My lungs are shot so even if by some miracle I survive, I'll be useless, less than a man, and my country needs strong men as do the women in it, not broken men, not men who age prematurely and who will surely die soon anyway. Although I think, I don't know why I would want to be like him either.
"Master Masen, Do I have your consent?"
I find myself nodding, simply to shut him up, and marvelling at my ability to do so, but it hurts as his hand sweeps across my face then pushes my head to the side.
His whisper in my ear makes my breathing falter.
"Be reborn, my son."
I manage a few seconds of panic as I realise what I've just agreed to before pain, a pain seconds ago I couldn't have comprehended, it starts in my neck; a hot burning sensation, burning more than any coughing fit ever could; than all the coughing fits I've ever had ever multiplied by ten, or even twenty ever could; but that pain too pales as my chest explodes and the burn continues to spread around me; setting my muscles alight. I find myself screaming soundlessly having lost all sense of time or space. All I can feel is this.
This must be hell. I think; for all my misdeeds this is a merciful punishment, and one I find myself able to accept heartily and with thanks to God whom I can now only consider with awe and wonder at his mercy and benevolence, even though I can hardly bare this newfound pain. He's even sent an angel to watch over me; one whose touch cools my charred flesh, but whose voice that burns with pure agony; more than I could ever endure, more than this fire burning for a thousand years at double its temperature.
1248 MS word count.
so yeah, Reviews appreciated…
…No really, I really need some feedback about this…
…Or I'll go super crazy and…
…It'll be all your fault!
*rocks uncontrollably*
…too late…
No, really!
I'm nuts.
So…please?
(Pretty please with silver buttons?)
Save my sanity and hit the review button.
I'm not above grovelling!
"Please, Please, Please."