A/N SM owns the saga, i just like to play. enjoy

Chapter 9

"If you could fetch some soda and a snack perhaps I can relate the rest of my story."
"Oh, absolutely. Would you like to get ready for bed, before I get some snacks?"
"No no. Just the snacks. Please don't fret, I feel as if I have been given a second lease on life tonight and I do not wish it to end. Perhaps I will not wake in the morning, I feel the urgent need to share my personal story with someone. Before the doctors come and test me to no end."

My words had the desired effect. Amanda relaxed and smiled brightly her grey eyes crinkling. She patted me on my shoulder and hurried out of the room, slightly closing the door behind her. I sighed, and slumped into my chair. I rubbed my hand against my face. The stimulation increased circulation and I rubbed my neck and shoulders and arms. I adjusted myself. The lights dimming as I leaned forward to rub my thighs and legs. My, they were scraggly. Heavy and sluggish they responded to my attempts at lifting each one of my feet up off the foot rest. I massaged the bony knobs of my knees and ankles.

I felt alive. The last time I felt this alive was years. Releasing the brake of the wheel chair, I pushed myself to the night stand.

Rummaging around mess of personal care, trash and medical equipment, my heart pounded, infusing my body with adrenaline. I had found the small copper puzzle box engraved with pictographs. Shaking hands and trembling fingers worked to push and pull the puzzle into shape and unlock the small compartment.

The tin was a relic of the people I knew as gypsies, those who cared for me and became my second family. A gift from Gulag, a thank you and congratulations rolled into one, a keepsake and a reminder of one of the failures of my long life.

Youth. How I wished I could recapture it, see with my eyes the crisp newness of life. To touch the silken skin of my lovers cheek flushed with pleasure and to kiss the swollen swell of her creamy breast again, to recapture in the pit of my stomach the curling rapture of my first love. Sigh, I was a man, my daughter would slap me upside my head when she caught me staring at nimble young women. It wasn't often that I stared, only at the green eyed, red haired ones, but she managed to catch me nonetheless and I would receive an earful that would not deter my ogling if another should wander by. It wasn't a lust full thing you see. Not at all. My daughter did not understand. How could she.

How do you explain that they remind you of one so pure in your heart that the only picture you have is that in your mind. The face of a dream come to life, haunting torture wonder all my life if then…. And if it was real. The comparisons keep it real and tied to the feeling of so long ago you wonder if it really happened or have you mind tricked you into making more of something when it truly was that wonderful.

The curve of her neck and the crinkle of her eyes. The dimple on her right cheek and the softness of her raven hair, released from the tight braids worn behind her. These were the differences I saw, These were the only pictures I have of a girl, no woman who taught me love and joy and the inconceivable notions of what it meant to love and live.

She taught me…

I stopped working the puzzle and purposely missed a panel. I could not open it now. The pain arrived, ripping my heart. No, there was no way a mind could imagine this heart wrenching agony. It could only be real. Of course I knew that. I lived it. I repressed it. I was such a shit at times.

I had cried so many tears, for so many years I believed them used up. My throat hitched. I squinted against the sting of tears that welled in my thin puffy lids. My dentures slipped scraping a gash in my gums as I unclenched my jaw. Fitting tears and blood, as so much of my youth contained as much horror as it did joy.

The answer is to live, regardless of the question. I was a survivor, some called it traitor or coward. But it was only always to live.

I turned the box in my hand, letting the blood pool in my lips, tasting. Blood, runs through us, and ties us to our family. It runs deep red when it spills violently regardless of race, religion or age. Yet, it knows its enemies and rejects with ferocity that which it knows is not the same. We are all the same and yet very different when it is shed. It stains us.

Turning the box in my hands, I swallowed the blood in my mouth, exactly like the first time. Gulag, the great grandfather of the sleeping bundle in my arms, sat wrapped in blankets smoking his pie, sipping tea waiting to see the face of his treasured granddaughter's child. Pride welled in me as I presented my first born son to this bear of a man. The dark thatch of curls peeked from my elbow. I licked the blood from my lips now as I did then. I remembered his birth.

His first cries carried over the icy wind and the crackling barrel fires. In that moment I listened to the sound eagerly awaiting to hear another. Instead, laugher and hooting from my adoptive brothers all who have become fathers already and knew.

I ran, careless of the ice and rock under my loosened boots and fell face first onto the wagon steps. The hooting increased, when the door opened and I fell inside to the clucking of the midwife. She tended my slit lip with slow hands. My knee bounced with each whisper, giggle and gasp behind the curtain in front of me. My family, that I created, with my beautiful girl was there.

"Please," I whispered, "Please. I must see her, I must see him."

The mid wife chuckled, patting my lip with the wet cloth. Using a clean rag she washed my hands and my face. She brushed the long strands of hair from my face and helped me out of my jacket. She messed with my hair. Finally after what seemed like hours of preening and tending she pulled the curtain aside and I dove in.

There upon our marriage bed she lay propped up on pillows of the gaudiest red green and purple pillows. Her green eyes tired yet sparking with tears of joy. A smile crept upon her lips, spreading to light up her face and she beamed a toothy grin that spread to mine. We were so young, so in love, I was giddy. Our gaze full of love and promise. Words were not needed and I did not heed the words of the mother and aunt who played midwife as well. I sat upon our bed, gingerly wrapping my arms around my love and placed a kiss upon her forehead. Her hair smelled of lavender and fresh clean linen and something more distinct and unique. She smelled of woman and child and it pulled at my heart and hormones.

"I love you. You are so beautiful and amazing." I whispered.

She beamed at me and placed a feathery kiss on my cheek.

"He is perfect, like you Ernst. Come, see you son. See what we made."

She took my hand and together we pulled the blanket discreetly covering her breasts. For an instant I felt a surge of jealousy at the interlopers red lips sucking on what once was mine alone. Then, if he could read my thoughts, her nipple slipped from his mouth and a contented triple sigh escaped my sons lips. He buried his head as only a newborn could against the billowy softness. She dropped her elbow and his head lolled forward enough to see his face.

"Perfect", I cooed.

The love I felt bubbled out and surrounded this boy that was my son that I made. His shock of brown hair was mine, but the streaks of red his mothers. I saw my brother in his nose and my mother in his forehead. His eyes, she said may change, but they were more green than blue.

Touching his translucent hand, I marveled at his fingertips, and we giggle when he gripped my finger tight. We unwrapped our precious gift one section at a time, covering him back up as we explored our son together. I could not get enough of his feet. Tiny replicas of mine, the toes were so flexible. We giggled and cooed. As night fell, against the wishes of her mother and Aunt, I stayed in bed.

Baba Ruthi poked her head in and called the midwife and Aunt to the other room, requesting their assistance in transforming my red dress into a size acceptable for a newborn.

Dark brown eyes locked to mine. I dropped mine in shame at the memory. It was something I could forget and remember in its clarity for all of time.

She pointed her finger at me, "It is our tradition. He will be blessed. It is our way. It has been foretold. All will be well."

She pulled my close, her mouth on my ear as she whispered his name, Edward Anthony. We were free to call him what we wished, but this name was bound to his soul. She warned me again, reminding me to give it only to the Benefecti, to keep for all time, no even my wife would know his real name.

I held tight to my family, wrapping them in my arms, as my wife fell asleep after nursing my greedy son, I whispered words of comfort and sang songs of praise and love, and of all we would do. I wanted the world for my son, but knew soon all too soon this peace would end as time trekked forward toward the inevitable foretelling. I vowed to do all in my power to evade it. I watched as their ribs rose and fell in time. I listened to her heartbeat against my ear and felt his faster beat match hers. It was spring of 1901, I was a sixteen year old man without any regrets, and my secrets, were washed away with the birth waters of my son.

A/n so we meet a cullen, notexactly how i planned it but Ernst insisted it was time, LOL. What do you think, next update in a week reviews would make my weekend and earn you .a teaser till later be safe