Traveling Soldier: Prologue

“If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.” – The Crow

Disclaimer: SM owns all the characters, but I do own the plot. So, please, no stealing, it's not polite.

An: Loosely based on the song, “The Traveling Soldier” by Dixie Chicks. This will be a collab between my good friend, GinnMeadows, and me. It’s going to be an emotional ride, so hang on tight and enjoy!

Beta’d by the ever-lovely Buff82. She’s so good to me. Also pre-read by my fellow twitter jailor, Beegurl13.

Prologue:

It’s too cold to be outside, especially down by the ocean front, but I can’t seem to help myself. Every year, on this day, I am drawn here, as if a magnetic pull draws me from the warmth of my home and beckons me away. I park my truck, I listen to the crashing waves, and I let them settle my mood – calm and soothing, as they lap against the sand.

Breathing in the fresh scent of the ocean, I try not to wince as the cold chill of the air burns my nose. It is December in Forks, WA, and the ground is covered with snow. It’s the first snow of the season, having fallen in a thick, white blanket overnight. I smile with the thought that Elizabeth and Edward will be outside playing in it soon, and then the thought of my husband playing with our children in the snow – making snow angels – causes me to chuckle quietly. He’s such an overgrown child at times, but it’s one of many reasons why I love him so.

My thoughts drift then, and I am drawn into my memories. The sun reflects brightly off the waves, chunks of ice float across atop the ocean waters, letting known just how cold it really is. My nose has long since gone numb, and my hands are buried deep into my pockets, warm gloves covering each. I’ve been up since before sun rise, coming here to watch the beautiful orange and pink glows as they rose above the clouds, making the scenery look almost magical.

It was fitting really, because this place was magic. At least for us it was.

Sighing, I palm my keys inside my pocket, knowing that my time is up, and I need to return home. I rise from the piece of driftwood I have been leaning against, touching my fingers to my lips before gently pressing them to the engraved letters in the wood. They are still present despite the person who carved them being long gone.

I shed no tears, no words are spoken, there’s no need.

Once in my truck I turn up the heat as high as it will go, and make my way back into town, only stopping to pick up breakfast because I know my husband will be more anxious to play outside with the kids than cook for them.

I drive away from the memories of what could have been, and drive towards what is, not looking back, but knowing I will visit again, next year.