Reykjavik, Iceland

~Edward~

The Reykjavik Museum of Photography was small, occupying just the top floor of the library building. Having been to numerous photography museums all over the world, I was itching to share this one with Bella as a first-time visitor.

Her gloved hand slipped into mine as we walked along one wall, the exhibit unfurling before us of a famous local police investigation. These shots were a new concept to her, grittier than what she'd been doing, and they reminded me of the beginning jobs I took to get to the end result of my career.

"All the black and white of these reminds me of a newspaper spread. Does that make sense? It's not picturesque, like a landscape capturing everyday life. There's a desperation to it."

"Exactly. You feel it in your bones—the anticipation, the drive these men had to find the truth. It's what you strive for on an assignment like this, that the viewer will be able to feel the intensity of the situation without having been there. It's good photojournalism."

"Did you ever do anything like this?" She pulled her fingers out of my hand to remove her glove, finally warmed from the frigid December air of Iceland.

"I did a feature of inmates in Folsom prison that ran in the Los Angeles Times. Pretty much started me in the direction I took." I said nothing else, the hard topic of my past something I'd shared more of with her over the last few months. She replied she wanted to see it someday and slipped her hand back into mine.

We strolled through the exhibit, Bella pointing out things she liked or didn't like, and I talked about how a shot was taken, or why the composition made it something more than just an ordinary photo. I loved that she continued to hang on every word, even though she was very much on her way to not needing my guidance anymore.

Being in a gallery still thrilled me. The stark walls, the shiny floors—all there just to showcase photographic art. When my pictures took over every inch of space, I never tired of it during my career. It was something I took great pride in. I'd stand off to the side, acting like I didn't care, but listening to the praise and accolades that always accompanied a show of mine. The image of Bella's photos lining a pristine, white wall came to me suddenly, and I wondered if it was something she'd ever want for herself.

She hadn't said it out loud, but I'd noticed she'd begun to think in terms of what she could do with her photographs. A stray question here or there about how and where I sold pictures, or how I managed to have coffee table books made, and so forth.

She'd amassed quite the collection of film canisters, now filling one whole backpack.

She took pictures of the nature of Australia— Uluru and the rough terrain of the bush—like she was thinking in future terms when she snapped them. She pushed herself harder, capturing nearly impossible shots at equally impossible angles. As she increased her physical challenges, I'd begun carrying a spare camera for her around my neck to change out her film as she went, so she wouldn't have to stop, carry camera bags, or lose her footing fumbling with the mechanisms.

When she changed cameras to get the picture of aboriginal children getting their faces painted for a ceremony, I noticed she had a few exposures left. I stared at the number in the window for a few minutes, an itch forming inside me. Instead of wasting them, I snapped her hesitantly, her hair wrapped up in a colorful scarf and her knees digging into the sandy earth.

In the Thai Nguyen province of Vietnam, while she was walking alongside a group of women working in the tea fields, I took a few of her quickly.

At the Road of Bones in Siberia, as she straddled the broken wood of an old bridge to take pictures of the roadside graves where thousands of Russian slaves had perished, I took my time and focused, adjusted my aperture and speed, and took a very intentional photograph for the first time in almost a year.

She told me later she didn't like that place—was distraught by the subject matter—and I thought about the ones I took. I knew I'd captured that feeling in her because that's what Edward Cullen did. That's what you would see. The hunched shoulders and grim expression of someone in pain.

If I ever got them developed.

I'd began marking any roll that had a shot of mine on it, so I'd have some warning once we developed them upon returning to the states. I would be able to cut them from the roll or do them myself, keeping my secret. I don't know why I stayed quiet about it. She'd be more than excited to know I'd taken some pictures, but I suppose I was still trying to reconcile how it made me feel and I didn't want to distract her from growing into what she was quickly becoming.

A few days after the museum visit, Bella walked into the hot springs in Reykjavik holding an elderly woman's hand. She had come here for relief from her troubled skin and gömul bien, or "old bones" in Icelandic. They were both shaking from the cold, but as soon as they hit the water, they smiled and closed their eyes in relief. After a moment, Bella resurfaced to move to another spot, her white bikini almost see-through.

I took a picture of that, just for me.

I watched Bella float for a while in the steam the natural heat of the water made against the surface, making it foggy and dreamlike. Remembering our own fairy pond, I lost myself in daydreams as I marveled at how far we'd come. We were two strangers from completely different worlds, and now we were the one thing the other couldn't imagine life without.

And I couldn't stand to keep my hands off her one more second.

Taking off everything but my trunks, I briskly walked to the water and slipped into the surreal pale turquoise pool. Coming up next to her, I let my hands reach under her to lend support to her body as it lay on the surface. She opened her eyes and smiled.

"This is amazing." She stood upright and snaked her arms around my waist. "Our pond never felt like this."

I smiled at the fact we were always on the same page as my own arms wrapped her up and settled themselves against her ass. "We totally should've had sex in it before we left."

"Someday…" she drifted off and arched her body back so her hair was skimming the surface. My arms braced her, and her hands travelled across my skin, raising goosebumps. Her eyes fell to my mangled tattoo, partly scarred and hard to decipher. "I never asked. War?" Her finger traced a bump.

I nodded. "Same gunfire that nicked me in the eye when Emmett died." That sentence hung there between us. It was the first time I didn't feel wracking physical pain saying it. "I always meant to get it fixed."

Bella stroked the marred skin. "What was it? Looks like—"

"Film. A roll of film coming off the spool. Silly stuff done in lower Manhattan during a drunken weekend shooting wannabe rock stars."

"Let's get it fixed. Here in Iceland. And I'll get mine."

"You want a tattoo?" The thought of permanent ink on her pale skin something I wouldn't protest. Vines, flowers, mandalas—I could only imagine what she'd get.

"I want the same thing. In the same place." She kissed me, her hand snaking beneath the surface and cupping my cock. "We're a match."

Mad love to LayAtHomeMom, Hadley Hemingway, and CarrieZM for making us pretty.

Enjoy, and leave us your thoughts!

HB&PB