Eleanor Mae Swan finds it safe to say she's a survivor. She's been through a lot, especially in the short life she's lived, and now she patiently awaits her sisters awakening.
Only, life isn't about to be as simple as she expected, and with the Vo...
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Packing is taking longer than it should. Of course, that's because I'm going at the slowest pace possible — but that's hardly relevant. I fold, then re-fold, my clothes rhythmically, focussing on the fabric between my fingers as I place them in the duffel bag.
I've fought other vampires before; it's nothing new for me; but a war, a full fledged war, that's a fresh one. You wouldn't think of wars as something that would relate to vampires, would you? Not in the twenty-first century. Wars were for the 1800's, not for battlegrounds on the outskirts of Forks over a little girl who's different.
My niece, who's different. It's strange, thinking of having a niece when I'm barely nineteen years old.
It's even stranger to think the birth of my niece has caused such an uproar. All because a little girl came into the world, the Volturi have declared war.
In a war, people die. On a battleground blood is shed and lives are lost. Futures are ripped away so that all that's left is pain and emptiness. I could die, Bella could die, Damon...
Damon could die. Fuck, it hurts just to think of it. Just to think of his empty eyes and his lifeless body laying on the ground, no sarcasm dripping from his lips, no smirk being sent my way.
I can't imagine carrying on in this enteral life without him — I don't want to.
"I know you can pack faster than that," his voice calls from the doorway, gaining my attention as I look up to meet Damon's eyes, "So why're you being such a slouch about it?"
For once, his snide remarks are refreshing to me, and I find myself trying my hardest to document this to memory. To remember his smirk, and the way his eyes light up, and the tug of his lips when he finds something humorous. To memorise the sound of his voice, and the feel of his skin, and the general sight of him. I don't want to forget one inch of him, if he... if I lose him. I want to be able to have this, even in the smallest part of my mind.
I force a smile onto my lips, holding his gaze, "Perhaps my intention was to go so slowly that you'd come up here and do it for me."
He purses his lips with amusement in his eyes, spreading out his arms in a 'what can I say', sort of way. He steps into the room, his footsteps light against the flooring.
"Well you'll be sorely disappointed." He says.
I roll my eyes, "I usually am."
For some reason, despite the jokes flying through the air, the room is tense. The atmosphere is wary, almost cautious. Neither of us wants to bring it up, the possibility of our deaths (or maybe that's just me).
He comes closer, closer still. His hand finds my waist, his other on my arm, and his fingers start to make soft movements against my skin, invisible patterns being sketched across it lovingly. He rests his chin on top of my head, letting out a sigh as he tugs me closer to him so that I'm flat against his chest.
