A/N: Thank you to my lovely and amazing beta, Bethaboo, whose support for me and my writing means the world to me. I couldn't do this without you. You should seriously be reading her story, Sins of the Father, if you aren't already. It's really quite extraordinary.

Also, I'd like to thank my readers, including those who just found this story. I'm blown away by the number of people who have connected with these characters and what happens to them. I love reading about your theories and how you can relate to the events with your own experiences. I'm so touched, and so honored. I really appreciate everyone who reads this, and am so grateful for everyone who reviews and recommends this fic.

Disclaimer: I own neither Twilight, nor Legends of the Fall. That will never change.


The room he found himself in was bright. The walls were pale, and the lighting harsh. It felt sterile, cold. It was all gray. He liked color. Even the brown of battlefields would be better than the gray he was immersed in.

The truth was, he was not used to feeling so confined. His movements were restricted, and there weren't many people that he could interact with. It was uncomfortable to him. He was being treated much like an animal caged in a zoo. He didn't like zoos. He felt bad for the poor lions who were denied the ability to act on their instincts. They were predators, and killing was what they were born to do.

So was he.

They called him unstable. They considered him a danger to others. He didn't know how to make them understand that they were wrong—he wasn't a danger to anyone but his enemy. He was only a danger to those who had killed his brother.

Images assaulted his memory, and plagued his mind while he slept. Every night, the dreams were the same. He would see his brother laughing and smiling, kissing his beautiful wife. He would come to talk, and his face would seem to melt, his flesh dripping like candle wax. He could smell the sulfur on his skin, burning the hair of his nose.

There was not a night that Jasper Cullen did not wake up screaming.

The image of holding his brother, dead in his arms would never fully leave his mind's eye. At times, he believed he could smell the charred flesh, and feel the weight of Carlisle's body in his arms. Every night, he was transported to the battlefield in St. Julien. Every night, he witnessed the death of his younger brother. Every night, he failed to save him.

When he first was brought to the hospital, he was numb. He knew that he had killed the enemy. He knew that he had taken their scalps as tokens of his prowess. He was a skilled warrior, and had proven his worth in battle. As usual, people feared him for this. People were always afraid of what they did not know or understand, and Jasper's actions were not something that people were accustomed to.

To him, they did not matter. The only people that he cared about were those he was being kept from. They told him that he needed treatments before he could return to his family. They said that he needed to heal, and to grieve for his brother. How could they expect him to mourn Carlisle's death when he wasn't allowed home? He needed to be with those who cared for Carlisle as much as he did.

It would be over a year before Jasper Cullen would return to his family.

Though he felt that he would deal with things if he went home, the officials of the Canadian Expeditionary Force believed him to be a danger to society at large. He had been unaware of his own actions after his brother's death. After they spoke to Edward, who had explained why Jasper had cut out Carlisle's heart, they accepted his action as a product of his beliefs. They could not, however, accept his break with reality.

Killing Germans was acceptable within the context of the war, but it was clear from Jasper's lack of emotion as he returned from camp that the killing was exacted without emotion. As Edward found his brother, he asked Jasper what had happened. Jasper had informed him of Carlisle's death, that he had released his spirit, and that the death was avenged. When Edward asked for further details, Jasper could not answer. He strode back into his tent, fell to his knees, and began to rock back and forth.

When Edward had finally caught up to him, he found Jasper muttering phrases under his breath. It took Edward minutes to finally discern that his brother was chanting, "Broke my promises. Lied to Bella. Failed her. Failed Carlisle. Should have stayed. Broke my promises."

For nearly three weeks, these were the only words that Jasper spoke to anyone.

It was for these reasons that the Canadian army felt he was not fit to return home with his brother. Instead, they brought him to a psychiatric facility near Toronto, Ontario in Canada.

It was a month before he began to speak to anyone and emerge from the prison of his mind, only to find himself in a different sort of prison. While he was neither being punished, nor was he incarcerated, Jasper was not allowed to leave the facility.

For one used to being as wild and free as Jasper Cullen was, the confinement of the hospital was the worst form of torture.

x-x-x

He woke up in a dark room with many people. It was a nondescript chamber, and he did not recognize it. Then again, it was difficult to focus on things like his surroundings with the sharp pain in his head. He reached behind his head, and found a large bump on the back of his head, indicating that it was the source of his pain.

He was lying in some sort of hospital bed, though it was unfamiliar. Though he could hear voices around him, he couldn't see anyone. More pressing was the dull ache that permeated his body. It felt as if a dozen horses had trampled him; every part of him ached. Besides the horrible pain in his head, it was his leg that hurt the most.

He sat up carefully, his legs stretched before him, and looked at his leg. He noticed that it was well bandaged, and he quickly decided against the urge to remove the dressings to get a better look. He didn't want to risk getting an infection. He also knew better than to think he could successfully treat his own wounds at the moment. Between the headache and the intense nausea and confusion, he was fairly certain he had a concussion.

Before he could worry more about his injuries, the door to his small room opened, and a tall man in a green military uniform strode into the room. He did not recognize the man, but was instinctually afraid of him. His breaths were becoming shorter, and he could feel his heart racing hard in his chest. He was terrified of the man, and he had not even spoken two words.

"I see you've woken up. Do you feel ok? Should I fetch the doctor?" For some reasons, the words sounded strange to him, though he couldn't understand why. Perhaps it was a result of the head wound.

He nodded his head, and replied, "Yes, that would be good. I believe I have a concussion, and am in a great deal of pain."

The soldier gave a short nod, and left the room almost as quickly as he had entered it. "Well that was odd," he said aloud to himself.

With those four words, his eyes widened, and his confusion increased. The reason the soldier's speech sounded strange was because it was not the language he thought in. He clearly thought in English, but the soldier was addressing him in German. He wasn't certain why, but that knowledge shot a shiver of fear down his spine, even though the man had inquired about his health.

Before he began to ponder the oddities of this reaction, another man walked through the door. He was wearing a uniform as well, but also had a stethoscope around his neck, indicating that he was a doctor.

"Hello. I'm glad you are awake. We've been worried; you were unconscious for over a week," the doctor informed him.

He responded in his best German, "Thank you. I believe I have a concussion, and my leg is in a great deal of pain. Do you know what happened to it? To me?"

"You don't remember the incident?" After he shook his head no, the doctor frowned, but continued, "It is fairly common for this to happen. The mind protects itself from painful memories. We don't know the specifics of what happened, or what a medic was doing in the field, but your injuries are consistent with a fall. There is shrapnel in your leg that has damaged the nerves in your thigh."

His eyes slid closed at the last piece of information. Though he had assumed that there was something seriously wrong with his leg, the prognosis for nerve damage was not good. Barring infection, he would keep the leg, but he would always have a limp. Despite this knowledge, he had a feeling that he was fortunate that this was the extent of his injuries, and thanked the doctor for the information.

"This may seem like a foolish question, but do you know anything else? Why am I here?"

The doctor looked mildly confused for a moment before a flash of understanding crossed his face. "You were brought here because some of our men found you in the field, and noticed your medic uniform. We have a great shortage of medics in our camp, and when they saw that you were unconscious and injured, they decided to take you here, so that when you are well, you can treat our wounded."

He understood what the doctor was not saying. "I am a prisoner," he said.

The doctor simply nodded. He was silent for a few minutes while he processed the information. There was clearly a war being fought, and being a prisoner of the war was a terrible situation to find oneself in. That being said, they were tending to his injuries, and needed his help. While helping the enemy was not a preference, he was fairly certain that he would be considered expendable if he refused to work for them. He could not allow that to happen.

He wasn't certain about the moral implications involved. On one hand, he surely would not be expected to kill anyone from his own country, but he would be saving the lives of those who would. Did that mean that he was responsible for the deaths of those they killed? Then again, as a doctor, he was bound by oath to heal anyone in need, no matter who they were. Ultimately, his decision was easy to make.

He looked up at the doctor, and slowly nodded his head in acceptance. There really wasn't anything else he could do. The two choices presented were to either heal the enemy's wounded, or be killed.

The doctor examined him, and instructed him to get some rest. Despite learning that he had been unconscious for a week, he was exhausted. He knew that his body had a long road to recovery, and listening to its demands would be critical at this point.

He slipped into a deep sleep before the doctor had even left his room.

He woke up sometime later, not knowing how long he'd been asleep. He didn't know what the date was, though he remembered that he was in some sort of German military hospital. He was uncertain why he felt so at ease about his predicament, but a large part of him had acknowledged that even if he objected, there was nothing he could do to ameliorate his situation.

He had the most incredible dream, and tried in vain to remember the specifics of it. All he could recall was a general feeling of contentment, and short flashes of different elements. There was a beautiful woman who was smiling at him, and a large pond with swans. The woman was stunning, with lovely brown hair and a breathtaking smile. Though the dream was innocent, he had felt himself inexplicably drawn to the woman. He wished he knew who she was.

As he sat, trying to clear the fog in his mind, the doctor returned to his room. After a short examination, he began to ask questions.

"Can you tell me a bit more about your medical experience?"

He was silent for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. The clouds in his mind had not abated, and he was beginning to realize that there was something seriously wrong. He could no longer attribute it to the concussion, or from just waking up. The haze in his mind was something much darker, and he knew he had to make this fact known.

It was all he could do to keep his voice steady, though the reality of his situation was beginning to sink in, and he could feel himself starting to panic. His breath was growing shorter, and he could feel his pulse quicken.

"I have taken classes and studied medicine, and I have practical knowledge as well, but I don't know the specifics. I know what it means to have nerve damage in my leg, and I know I've treated it before, but cannot recall any actual situations."

He wasn't certain why he kept his answer slightly ambiguous. It was almost as if he did not want to fully admit what he was beginning to realize as truth.

The doctor looked at him, somewhat startled. He had clearly expected a more precise answer from the man lying in the hospital bed. "Can you tell me anything else? Where you studied?"

He shook his head slowly, and drew a slow breath from his nose. "I can't tell you where I am from or where I studied. I cannot even tell you my name. I remember how to be a doctor, but I don't remember anything about who I am."

As soon as the words left his mouth, his composure cracked. There was no denying that he had amnesia, and the shocking truth crippled him. His breath was coming in short pants, and he tried to tell himself to relax, and that hyperventilating would not help him. This was easier said than done, though he managed to calm his breathing after a few minutes of silence.

The doctor's eyes had widened and mouth dropped open slightly. Though he knew that head wounds could cause memory loss, he had never witnessed it himself. It was minutes before he could gather his own thoughts enough to respond to the young medic.

"I'm so sorry. I… can't imagine what that must be like."

The truth was, there was nothing anyone could really say or do. He knew practical medical knowledge, knew how to speak German—and French, he decided—fluently, but could not even remember his own name. He knew nothing about himself.

"Please… is there anything else you know? You said I was wearing a medic uniform, but was there anything else I had? A name on my uniform?"

The doctor shook his head. "Your clothes were burnt in some places, likely from a blast of some sort. They thought it may have been a grenade. You had a couple of personal items, and I know that they were kept."

"Can I… have them? I know you've been quite generous as it is, but it might help me," he pled.

The doctor simply nodded and left the room. They may have been enemies in this war, but he would not wish this fate on anyone, and it would only help his recovery to have his possessions.

The doctor returned after a few minutes, and handed him a small leather journal, and a silver chain with a small medal on it. He recognized it at once as a medal of St. Raphael the Archangel, the patron saint of physicians and doctors. He slipped it around his neck, and was comforted by the weight of it.

He did not notice the doctor leaving the room as he picked up the journal. He felt so fortunate to have his own words to tell him who he was. Even if it did not restore his memory, he would have his identity.

With that thought, he flipped open the first page and read.

Today was vastly different than what I had expected it to be. I'm beginning a new diary because I have an odd feeling that the events that occurred today will forever have changed the course my life will take.

I must confess that part of me feels like a terrible friend. Emily wanted me to meet her new beau, Sam, so I could give her my opinion. She arranged a tea so that we could become acquainted, but I barely spoke five words to the man. I found my attention firmly engaged somewhere else.

If it is acceptable to judge someone on who they choose as their friends, then Samuel certainly has my good opinion. I was barely aware of my surroundings; I was so captivated by his charming friend, Carlisle.

Carlisle is unlike anyone I have ever met. When I explained the paper I was researching, he not only listened to my ideas, but he also engaged in a debate on the topic with me. His intelligence is staggering, and I was quite impressed that he seemed not only to tolerate, but also appreciate my own mind. Normally, I have found that men are intimidated by a woman who is capable of thoughts and ideas, but Carlisle seemed quite fond of these characteristics.

He was kind and sweet, and seemed to radiate goodness. I'm not certain that he is capable of ill thought and action, especially after hearing of him talk about his family. It is clear that they mean the world to him. Even after meeting him once, I found myself longing for the first time in a long while that I was part of a family like that.

No, it wasn't that, exactly. I think I simply wanted to know the people responsible for the incredible man I had met.

Listen to me, going on like a foolish girl. I've mocked people for carrying on like I am about Carlisle, but I cannot seem to help it. Even though I just met him, I feel like I have known him for years. He is exactly the sort of man I always dreamed of meeting.

He has expressed an interest in pursuing some sort of relationship with me, and I must admit that I agreed quite readily to the suggestion. He may find me eager, but life is brief, and I have never felt anything quite so right as I do right now. Carlisle is important, and I refuse to let myself pass up an opportunity to know him better.

I know I should not admit this, but there is something so incredibly attractive about him. He's certainly a handsome man, and his kindness and warmth seem to radiate around him. Still, though I can see his goodness, I have the strangest impulses to search out a different side of him.

To be honest, I wanted to taste every inch of his skin, and see if his inner sweetness could be tasted on his skin.

I have never felt such a strong physical draw to a man before, and that I seem similarly drawn to his personality and intelligence seems incredible. I cannot wait to know him better. I feel like this was the first day of a great journey, as foolish as that may sound.

Whether it is folly or not, I cannot wait to know Carlisle better.

He finished the entry. It was clearly written by a woman, and he was curious as to why he was in possession of a woman's diary, and why he would carry it on his person in the middle of a war. He could only surmise that the author must have meant a great deal to him in order for him to do so, and that he must mean a great deal to the woman for her to give it to him.

She was clearly a fascinating woman. She mentioned writing a paper and doing research, so she was clearly educated, though he had also formed that assumption based on the intelligence displayed within her words. She seemed…extraordinary, and he found himself hoping that he was the Carlisle she seemed so taken with, and he continued to read her words in hopes of proving he was.


A/N: Surprise? I have to give some MAJOR props to bebe86 from Twilighted, who read chapter 9 close enough to figure out exactly what had happened. Sorry I couldn't confirm your theory in a review reply, but I was seriously impressed.

I couldn't kill Carlisle. He just... wouldn't let me. But as you can probably tell, it's going to be a very long journey for him to get back home, and a lot will happen as he's trying to find his way back to his family.

Next chapter will be up on Monday, and we'll be back in Montana on the ranch.

I know this is a really long author's note... sorry. I've finished my piece for FicsForNashville, and am seriously proud of it. Bella makes a wish and finds herself in England circa 1815, when Jane Austen was writing. There she sees a familiar face, Carlisle Cullen, whose control is not what it is in 2005, and who is not quite the same man she had grown to care about. I'm donating the prologue and first chapter to FicsForNashville, though it can stand alone as a one-shot if you don't want to read on.

A $5 donation to a suggested charity gets you a compilation of outtakes and one-shots from all over fandom, and goes to support the relief efforts from flood devastated Nashville and its surrounding area. It's a really great cause, and some amazing authors are a part of this. Please consider helping if you can. http:// bit . ly/aeYde7 (remove the spaces).