Age of Edward Contest

Your pen name: Domysticated

Title: Bella Ciao

Type of Edward: Italian Resistance Fighter during WWII

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I just can't stop obsessing about it.

A/N: "Bella Ciao" is the title of probably the most famous Italian resistance song; most children in Italy learn this song, and many people all over Europe know it, too. It is a beautiful, powerful song of war, freedom, and loss. You can find it here in an energetic live version: http:/www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=55yCQOioTyY(please be aware that some of the images in the accompanying video can be disturbing). PM me if you want a translation!

This story is set in at the end of WWII, during the period of the Italian Resistance (late 1943-Spring 1945). While the Allies liberated the South of the country, the fascist regime and the German army continued to occupy the North. The Partigiani (partisans) were the insurgents and deserting soldiers who fought to free the rest of the country.

You can read more about that period here: http:/en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/Italian_resistance_movement

I am not a historian, so I apologise in advance if some of the details are inaccurate; this is out of ignorance, not disrespect.

In Italian, the word "storia" means both "story" and "history." This is Edward's storia.

The wonderful Brokende beta'ed this story and made it beautiful. Omi-Omi, Neverpush and NeonCupcakes pre-read it. The TSA collective keeps me (in)sane.

My name? It doesn't matter. I am an old man now, waiting for death, one of many who look forward to Her sweet embrace. In Death, we are all nameless. In Death, we are all free.

Back then, they called me Edward.

Today, they say we are heroes, martyrs, and we have squares and streets named after us. They teach children they owe us their freedom but don't give them too many details about what, exactly, we did to deliver this freedom. No one wants to know the details; they didn't then, and they certainly don't want to now.

You say you want the details? Will you trust an old man like me to remember what really happened?

okay then, I will tell you about it. No, not everything…that will take too long, and besides, I have no interest in talking about politics, about ideology, about history. You can read about all of that in books, look it up on the Internet.

I will tell you my story.

I was born in Chicago in 1917, the son of an American mother and an Italian father. Both of my parents died shortly afterward in the Spanish flu pandemic, and I was sent back to Italy, to be raised by my grandparents in a Northern village.

My childhood was happy, I suppose, if a bit lonely.

My grandparents never talked about politics, but I guess I realised from quite an early age that we were different, and that we kept ourselves apart for a reason: most people had made fun of the men in black shirts when they started marching down the streets, considering them harmless and ridiculous, but my grandparents…they never laughed. They always took them seriously and never trusted them. Time proved them right.

When the time came for me to enrol in the Fascist Youth brigades, my grandfather found a way to exonerate me: apparently being an orphan cared for by aged grandparents carried some sort of exemption status, or maybe someone owed him a favour… who knows. Oh, how furious that made me! I wanted nothing more than to be able to join all my classmates and friends on Saturday morning, for what looked like great fun - wearing a uniform, singing patriotic songs and marching around! But my grandfather was unwavering. So I ended up being a bit of an outcast, kicking around at home and spending too much time in the company of old people and books. I wish I could say I became isolated because of my non-conventional, revolutionary ideas, but in reality, I think the opposite was true: I became an anti-fascist to justify my loneliness and isolation. I guess that had been my grandfather's plan all along.

My father had been a doctor, and so it was assumed I would become one, too. Not having any better idea as to what to do with my life, I started studying medicine. The war intervened to thwart those plans, though, and I finally was forced to join the ranks of my contemporaries. In 1938, at the age of 21, I became a sergeant in the Italian army.

Sorry, what is it you're saying? I am going too slowly? Yes, I suppose I am. You don't want to know about the years I spent fighting for my country, fighting to defend a regime I initially distrusted and ended up detesting with my whole being. And that's okay, you are right. We don't have time to talk about my whole life, and you are young and impatient. As you should be.

Okay then. Autumn 1944. I am no longer young. And I am no longer naïve. Also, I am no longer a sergeant in the Italian army.

I am still fighting though, and I am still defending my country; only, I am no longer defending an odious, murderous regime, or what's left of it. I still carry a gun, a rifle, a pack on my shoulders, but I no longer wear a uniform.

I am a partigiano.

We fight a war of stealth and insurrection, in the hills and in the mountains, in the woods and in the fields. We fight against the Germans, against those who side with them - die-hards of the old regime, collaborators, spies. We fight against the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion that comes from months spent sleeping rough, a few hours at a time, and we fight against fear - of defeat, of death, of torture. And always, always against the filth – the lice, the mud, the rats.

There is nothing noble, nothing decent about this fight. Sure, we are the good guys, and we fight for what's right. Of that, there is never a doubt. There wasn't then, and there shouldn't be now…despite what people will tell you. But we kill, and maim, and injure, and we risk the lives of innocents around us. And so we fight ourselves, as well, trying to hold onto our honor, our humanity.

I lead a group of ten men; I don't know anyone's real name, and they don't know mine. They call me Edward, because my mother was American. Sometimes they call me l'Americano and tease me, humorlessly, about what's taking my countrymen so long - did they like the beaches so much they can't make it to the mountains?

Sometimes at night, when it's quiet and we think we are safe, and someone has managed to get cigarettes and a bottle of wine, I listen to them talk, and I learn about their lives. They talk about their wives, their girls, their mothers, and sometimes, their daughters. They talk about children who died, about friends who betrayed them. About the first time they made love, or the first time they will make love. They talk about food, the first thing they'll eat when they go home - white bread, real coffee, rice without stones, succulent roast beef.

By talking about life, they try to stave off death, and I understand their efforts. But for me...sometimes, I think I am already dead. I have nothing to go back to and nothing to look forward to. There will be no one waiting for me when I go home; there is no home. There never was soft, warm flesh to bury myself in, no scent of a willing woman, no other body into whom I can lose myself. Only the eager, desperate flesh of prostitutes.

My past is a wasteland; my future a dark, uncharted territory onto which I stake no claims.

On nights like these, I open my shirt, no matter how cold it is, and place a hand on my heart, desperate to feel it still beating. Desperate to know I am still alive.

Tonight is not one of those nights, though. Tonight there are no cigarettes, no wine, no easy talking. We have been actively fighting for a week, in the increasingly bitter cold, in unfailing rain, barely sleeping. Miraculously, no one is hurt, but we are tired and dirty, and our nerves are shot. As night falls, we make our way, warily, to a house further downhill. We have been watching this hamlet being shot at and mortared for several days in a row, and judging by the piles of rubble and columns of smoke still surrounding the remaining buildings, I am fairly confident no one will be there. No one alive, anyway.

A quick, but thorough, reconnoitring of the grounds reveals nothing suspicious, so we let ourselves into the barn - the only part of the house still standing - and fall wherever we find a spot. I wouldn't say it's warm, but at least it's dry, and within minutes a heavy, overwhelming unconsciousness overtakes me as my body gives in to the need for sleep.

I don't know how long I spend unconscious, but I am suddenly woken up by loud shouting: Carlo, who was keeping watch, is standing up and pointing his rifle at a figure cowering in a corner. Within seconds we're all awake and have our weapons drawn, and it takes me a while to hear the person's strangled pleas.

"Don't shoot me, don't shoot me, I am unarmed…vi prego…please." It's a woman's voice.

A young woman.

"Enough!" I command, as I bring out my torch and shine it on the woman's face. She's holding perfectly still, except for her chest rising and falling fast with her panicked breaths. She holds her hands up and looks unarmed, but I still motion for Carlo to go over and search her. Carlo is the oldest of the group and the most gentle, but still he searches thoroughly, with minimal regard for niceties. The girl struggles to stand still but manages to keep her obvious panic at bay as he does his job.

She's clean.

I walk toward her, and I am close enough now to see that she's really very young, not even twenty, with dark hair and huge, terrified brown eyes. She's small, and too thin for her frame. I take in her old, filthy clothes, certainly not warm enough for the season, and her muddy boots. Her hair is messy and dirty, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Despite this, I can see that her skin is clear and unblemished, and that there's a grace to the way she holds herself which is almost heartbreaking, given the circumstances.

"Okay, you can put your hands down now. What's your name? What are you doing here? How long have you been here? Where is your family?" My tone is harsh, brutal, as I fire off the questions in quick succession.

"They were here…the Germans…they took everyone…but I hid in the woods and…they didn't take me. I am….my name is Isabella. Are you partisans?"

This girl looks so young, so scared, and yet I need to make sure she's not a spy…it's happened before. I know the others are thinking the same thing, because their posture doesn't relax, and they don't let go of their weapons.

"Who we are is none of your business. How long were you in the woods for?"

She is shaking now, from fear, or hunger, or exhaustion - probably a combination of all three.

"A week." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"And how did you survive? What did you eat?"

She is almost sobbing now, although no tears are falling.

"I…had some bread and…apples."

If this is true, she must be almost delirious with hunger. I motion for the others to put their weapons down, and to sit. Then I gesture for her to come forward, and although it must cost her a huge effort, she does.

Once we are all sitting down, the girl trying to keep as much distance from us as she possibly can, I take out some food from my pack - hard bread, some cheese - and hand them to her. Her eyes almost glaze over from the intense rush that the sight of food must be bringing her, and she grabs the bread and cheese greedily, proceeding to devour everything I have given her in a mad feeding frenzy.

Only someone on the brink of starvation eats like this. And a spy could never be this hungry.

"She's clean." I state loudly, for everyone to hear. They might not believe it, they might not like it. But my word is final.

Then I turn back to her, and she's licking her dirty fingers to make sure even the last of the breadcrumbs is devoured. She looks up to me, and I see a glint of life in her eyes.

"I would use many words, but clean? Sir, I dream of being clean!" she states, and now her voice is louder, and clearer, and a bit bolder.

Some of the men laugh at her sudden display of liveliness and humor, and I can tell the tension has dissipated. I allow myself a small, quick smile.

"So, Isabella. How old are you?"

"I am 18. Sir, are you partisans? Will you take me with you? I want to fight with you." She rushes through the words, and I feel a sudden pang of anxiety. I don't need this added complication.

"We need to sleep now, it's late. We'll see tomorrow. You can move over there, in that corner. We'll leave you alone, don't worry." This is not a reassurance to her, but a command to the men. We are not animals. They know it, but they better not forget.

I sleep badly that night, disturbed by the presence of the young girl, unconsciously worried about what we will do the next day: leaving her here, alone, just as winter is coming, would condemn her to certain death, or worse. But bringing her with us…I don't know. There are women among the partisans, and we've had some with us before, acting as relays, nurses, informants. Some of them fight alongside the men; some of them are braver than the men.

But this Isabella…who has probably lied about her age… with her small, lithe, child's body, her scared eyes, her graceful movements that reveal recent ballet lessons, and her obvious courage and will to live…could she handle it? Would she be an asset or a liability? Would her presence drive the men crazy and unravel the dynamics of the group?

I get up before dawn, before the others wake. I go outside for a piss, cursing at the thick fog, the humid, clinging cold that's already assaulting my sinuses. Fuck these hills, and these woods, and when will this all be over? It's a fleeting thought, though - the doubt and weariness a luxury I allow myself only rarely.

When I come back toward the house, I see that Isabella is standing just outside, hovering, hopping from foot-to-foot - cold or nervous, or both. I can barely make out her face in the dark and the fog: she's almost a ghost.

Her voice is small and sweet, yet confident.

"Sir, please, take me with you. I am brave, and I don't get tired, and I will do whatever you need me to. Please. Let me fight. I hate the Germans. They took everything and everyone from me."

My mind is made up.

"Fine, you'll come with us. But only until we find a safe place to leave you. You're too young to fight."

"And too lovely to spoil in this inhuman fight." The thought surfaces from somewhere deep inside, leaving me shocked at its intensity.

We make our way, warily, through the nearby villages. Burning and destruction and emptiness are everywhere, but at least it's safe: The Germans have fled, and we still manage to find some basic supplies as we make our way to the base camp, where we'll hopefully find new ammunitions, rest and strategic directions.

Isabella walks alongside us, and if she's tired, she doesn't show it. She keeps pace even though it must take an enormous effort for her to keep up. Her clothes, I note once again, are just not fit for this weather, and although she never complains, I know she must be cold, too. She doesn't talk unless someone speaks to her first, and when we stop to eat or sleep, she keeps herself slightly apart from the rest of the group, as far as her fear of the dark, of the enemy, or of being left behind will allow. At night, I make sure I lie between her and the rest of the men: I don't want anyone getting strange ideas.

I am still convinced that as soon as we possibly can, we'll leave her behind, but nothing we've encountered to date - not the dilapidated farm where a woman with dead eyes and wild hair clutches her infant son like he is the last thing she has; not the village where the bodies of the fallen still line the cemetery, unburied; not the convent with boarded-up windows and hostile faces behind a grilled door - looks like the sort of place where she'll be safe.

Every time we pass over an opportunity to leave her behind, Carlo gives me a strange, loaded look, which I don't bother deciphering.

So she keeps walking, despite the growing unease of the men, who have started to rumble, not so subtly, about the drag on our progress and food supplies.

On the evening of the third day, we get to the outskirts of a small town; we have to cross it in order to reach the hill on the other side, where I know our companions are waiting. It was safe the last time we were here, and it should still be safe now, but if the last year has taught me anything, it's never to be complacent, and never to underestimate the reach of the Germans and their vile spies.

We need to reconnoitre before we can make our way across the town. We stop in the forest as the sun is setting, and the tension in the group is palpable. Angry, heated whispers and looks charged with meaning are exchanged among the men, and I know there is no other choice. I turn toward Isabella, who is leaning against a tree, her eyes closed, her face strained with exhaustion and probably pain of some sort. This shouldn't be hard - I am a soldier, I am a machine, I am used to giving and taking orders that make sense for the greater good, but not necessarily for the individual. And yet I hesitate before I speak to her; I pause to collect my thoughts, harnessing all the rationality and coolness I possess.

"Isabella." My voice is steely, and she looks up, her posture suddenly straight, startled by the tone of command in my voice. "The time has come to prove yourself. Are you ready?" She jumps to attention.

"Sir, yes, I am ready." If she's scared, or if she doesn't understand, she hides it well.

And so I explain to her, as carefully as I can, what she has to do.

"You go into town, on your own. First thing tomorrow morning. Make up a good story…you are trying to get to your sister who's about to give birth. Keep your ears and your eyes open, and whatever you do, don't raise suspicions. Find out if the town is safe, if there's been any recent fighting, if there's anyone in town who seems to be doing suspiciously well. We need to know if it's safe to go in. We'll wait until nightfall. If you are not back, we'll assume something's happened to you, and we'll leave. And I have told you many times there are no sirs among us; call me Edward."

She swallows visibly, and her pale face goes one shade whiter, but when she speaks, her sweet voice lacks any trace of hesitation.

"Yes, sir, I will do it, trust me, I won't let you down." She holds my gaze, before adding, "Thank you, Edward."

It's the first time she's called me that, and even if it is just a combat name, I feel strangely moved to hear it on her lips.

That night, I can feel her tossing and turning as sleep eludes her: she's too nervous, too buzzed on adrenaline, and almost certainly too scared. Yet, when I wake her up just before dawn, she seems composed and unwavering. My heart fills with admiration, and suddenly I am terrified for her. I whisper last-minute recommendations and instructions, placing my hand on her shoulder. It's the first time I touch her, and I let my hand linger a while longer than necessary…please, let it not be the last.

As she makes her way down the hill, a prayer springs unbidden from deep inside me.

"Be careful, Isabella." But she's too far away to hear me.

By nightfall, she's not back yet, and we're all starting to get nervous. With a heavy heart, I am about to give orders to start moving away, assuming she's been taken or worse, has betrayed us. Just then, I hear the distinct sound of footsteps approaching, slowly and carefully.

"Stop! Chi va la! Who's there?" one of us shouts, and all rifles point in the direction of the steps.

"It's me, Isabella!" It is her voice, unmistakeably, although strained and hoarse, and my heart misses a beat.

She's alive, and she's back. She's come back to me.

She's full of apologies and broken sentences as she collapses on the ground when she reaches the cave where we've spent the day. She seems so exhausted that for a minute I think she will pass out, but adrenaline is pulsing through her veins as she finally manages to convey the message that the town is safe and clear, and we're good to go. I make sure she gets something to eat and drink, and I sit with her as she struggles to keep her eyes open. I want to make sure she's okay

We are silent, because I don't trust my voice not to betray me, until she speaks softly.

"Can I join you now, Edward? Will you let me?"

And my chest is ripped by the conflicting emotions that her plea brings: On the one hand, this fight is made of danger, of bloodshed, and the constant threat of dying or worse, and it breaks my heart to condemn her to this life. But the thought of leaving her behind, of no longer seeing those trusting brown eyes, of no longer hearing her gentle voice as she calls me…it's more than I can take. I don't understand my feelings, my sudden weakness. I hate myself for this indecision.

"This may look like an adventure to you, Isabella, but it's damn serious. This is war, and it's dangerous, and as you've seen today, I won't always be able to protect you. You could die."

She shakes her head, but I don't let her speak.

"And make no mistake: Our fight is just, and we'd all die for the most glorious cause, for freedom, but that doesn't mean that what we do is easy to live with. I…we all have blood on our hands. You're so young…are you sure you want to risk becoming a monster before your life has even started?"

I see her fighting to remain composed, and she places a hand on my arm. Her grip is tight, her fingers strong despite her size.

"I am sure. I have never been more certain of anything! They have taken everything from me - my family, my home, my past - but I won't let them take my future, or my hope. I want to fight, Edward. I want to fight next to you. Please, let me. Don't take this choice away from me."

She fixes her eyes on mine, and with that, she's one of us.

That night is the first night I watch her sleep.

We spend three days at base camp. Enough time to rest, clean up, restock our weapons and supplies, get strategic and tactical orders from our commanders, and introduce Isabella to the rest of the compagni.

Esmeralda, one of the most experienced female partisans, takes Isabella under her wing and trains her on basic weapon usage and what will form the bulk of her tasks: relaying information among different groups, reconnoitering, and gathering information on the ground. It's dangerous, exhausting work, involving travelling for hours or days by foot, bicycle, and cattle truck and being exposed to the constant danger of discovery. If discovered, she'll be completely on her own, and the Germans aren't known for being soft on prisoners. I shudder to think what could happen to her.

From a distance, I watch her, clad in the new clothes they have found for her (men's clothes, too big, but at least warm enough), her hair cropped much shorter, her intelligent face frowning as she takes in Esme's instructions, and I can't decipher my feelings. I am proud of her, proud she's one of us, secretly elated that I won't lose her just yet…and yet I can't shake the feeling that I am destroying her life.

"Take care of Bella. And let her take care of you," Esme tells me in parting.

I am not sure I understand what she means.

As Christmas approaches, snow comes to the mountains, and our life becomes even harder.

There's so much active fighting, and we lose two men; one more we have to leave behind because he's badly injured. Bella is gone for days at a time, and while I am grateful she's spared the danger of battle, I keep worrying about her. I feel like I can only breathe when she's back, safe and unharmed.

To anyone else, I am still the same ruthless leader and soldier, but I know something has changed. A fatal weakness has insinuated itself into my soul, making it lighter, and yet more vulnerable.

At night, she still sleeps close to me, and there seems to be a tacit agreement among the rest of the men that she's somehow special to me. This makes me feel strangely excited, as though the possibility hadn't occurred to me before. I love to watch her sleep, and I imagine what she must look like in a real bed, her brown hair fanned on white sheets, her body free of bulky clothes, her brow distended, her hands clutching her pillow rather than fingering a gun.

Tonight is no different. She's here, so I know I'll be able to sleep. It's bitterly cold; there's snow on the ground. We have the luxury of sleeping in a safe house, isolated in the mountains. The owner fed us and let us sit around the fire. I've left everyone inside and snuck out for a cigarette.

She comes up without a sound and sits herself down next to me.

"It's beautiful here, isn't it? You can see the stars." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Yes. It's beautiful." I don't dare looking at her.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the smoke of my cigarette mixing with the steam of her breath. We are close but not touching, and I am so tense I feel I could snap at any moment.

"Why don't you like me, Edward?" she asks suddenly.

I am startled.

"What? What do you mean?" I sound stupid and childish.

"You're always avoiding me: You never speak to me, and you never let anyone else get close to me. I don't understand it."

"Well, we are talking now, aren't we?"

She doesn't reply, and I know she is humiliated by my pitiful retort. This is not the answer she wants. And I should not answer her; I should just walk away, while I still can. Because I have already condemned her to this life of hardship and danger, and I don't have to hurt and confuse her any more than this. Because I have to be strong, the strongest, and the weakness she represents can only mean danger. Because I don't deserve to steal from her any more than I already have.

She'll be gone again tomorrow, and I will have my gun - the only life I know. The only life I need.

So I stand up, ready to go back inside, but then I make the mistake of turning around. I find her eyes fixed on me: questioning, pleading, burning with hurt and desire. Yes, it is desire, I recognise it, even if she might not, and suddenly all I want is to touch her, to feel her, to press my lips to her soft, warm flesh, to inhale her scent and lose myself in her. To never let her go.

"Bella," I begin with an unsteady voice, "you don't know what you are asking."

"Explain it to me then." If looks could burn, my flesh would be scorched.

My hand travels to her face of its own accord, and I watch, fascinated, as if the limb belongs to someone else, as I cup her face. I see how she presses into that hand, letting her eyes flutter closed, and electricity jolts through my skin and nerves: it is enough to make me feel light-headed and drunk.

"When you are gone, I can't stop thinking about you. I worry all the time. If something were to happen to you…I could never forgive myself. But when you're here…when you are here, I am afraid I will be the one to hurt you. I don't know what I can give you. I am afraid I will only take from you. I am not a man anymore, not a good man, anyway." I press my fingers deeper into the skin of her face and look into those eyes, which are now fixed on me, and as she speaks her voice vibrates all the way into my body.

"How can you hurt me, Edward? I know you don't want to. The only way you can hurt me is if you keep me away…please don't keep me away. You are alone, and I am alone. We might all be dead tomorrow, and I want whatever you can give me. I, too, think of you all the time when I am gone. When I am scared, when I have to sleep alone in a strange place, when I feel other men look at me, and I fear what they could do to me…I think of you, and then I feel strong. And when I am here, I look at you, and you are so brave, and everyone respects you and trusts you, and all I want is for you to look at me, to talk to me like I mean something to you. You are a good man. The best of men, Edward."

I wish there could be words, but if there are, they escape me.

I give up the fight.

Instead, I lean gently into her face and press my lips to hers. It's a chaste, hesitant kiss. A lovers' kiss for different circumstances, for sunny spring afternoons in a meadow full of flowers, for courting and slowly getting to know each other. A kiss for teenagers with not a care in the world.

"Your first?" I whisper, and she nods, blushing. I pull her into me then, and she buries her face in my chest while I hold her as tight as I can without breaking her.

"Your heart is beating so fast." Her voice is just a murmur.

Yes. My heart is beating. I am alive.

She is my girl after that. Without having to announce it, everyone knows. Bella gains a newfound status, and I can see that she's proud and a little embarrassed. Nothing really changes, though: She still comes and goes, and as the winter progresses, so does our life of war.

At night, we sleep together now. I hold her tightly against my body, not letting myself fall asleep until I am sure she's safely ensconced in the release of unconsciousness. Our kisses deepen and become more desperate and hungry, and our hands fumble as we explore each other's bodies. I hold us back from going any further. There is nothing I want more than to make love to her, to lose myself in her warmth and youth, to make her entirely mine, but I can't bring myself to take her quickly and roughly against a tree or in a filthy shed just out of earshot from ten other men.

She never asks for anything. She just clings to me at night, as though I were the last thing she has in the world. I know she is, for me.

My heart hardens every time I see her ride off into the fog on her too-big bicycle, and I don't know whether I will see her again.

I grit my teeth; I shoot, I kill, I plan ambushes and attacks.

I long for the moment she is back, safe, in my arms. I do not care that she's getting thinner, wearier, or that some nights she has nightmares. All around us is hell and damnation,but as long as she can still smile for me, she's still here. As long as she's still here, she's still mine. As long as she's mine, I am alive.

After Christmas we fight the hardest battle yet - three weeks under constant fire, the stalemate broken only thanks to a suicidal, late-night ambush. For the first time in five years of war, I truly fear that I will die, and the thought that I may not see Bella again is enough to spur me on and drive me almost insane with daring and endurance. She's safe, as far as I know, tucked away in our territory, and I swear to God, if there is a God, that I will see her again.

And I do. I see her again, and she's more beautiful and radiant than I could ever have remembered. When she sees me arrive from a distance, she runs down the path toward me, oblivious to the fact that there are people everywhere, oblivious to my mud and blood-caked clothes, oblivious to the beard that covers my face and my dirty, matted hair. She jumps on me like a child, and she almost topples me over, exhausted and weary as I am. But I don't fall; I hold her, and I kiss her - hungrily, fiercely, not caring that everyone is watching us and chuckling good-humoredly. I want to wash off the battle and the grime and the killing and the fear. I want to feel her naked skin next to mine; I want her to cleanse me with her body and her soul.

She leads me in, her eyes burning, her lips twitching with a constant smile, her voice chanting, "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay" like a mantra.

"I was so scared…oh I am so happy you are alive! And you won! Everyone is talking about how brave you were, and I am sorry, but I didn't care how brave you were, I kept praying that you'd be a coward if it meant you'd come back to me…oh please tell me you forgive me, I didn't mean it, really…well, I did…" I shut her up with a kiss, laughing, and lift her up to me once again, luxuriating in her heady scent, grazing my teeth against her delectable collarbone as if it were the only food I'd ever need.

"Bella….Bambina…I better wash before I get you all dirty too," I murmur, reluctant to part with her, yet suddenly ashamed of my clothes and my body.

She laughs, happy, and insists I sit down while she warms up some water for a bath. I hear her argue, good-naturedly but fiercely, with someone else, convincing them that I must, absolutely, bathe before everyone else; don't they see how badly I need it? And she gets her way, because she always does, because no one would deny her, because she's Edward's girl.

And she insists on helping me bathe - turning around, blushing furiously, while I undress completely and lower myself into the tub of tepid water. She stands behind me and lathers my back, washes my hair, carefully scrubs the dirt and caked blood from my fingernails, and I think I fall asleep a bit while she does it. At some point I think I've died and gone to heaven, because I'm sure I have never felt anything better than her hands on my scalp, her firm yet gentle strokes on my back, her tender motions as she cares for me.

"So many bruises…my poor love," she whispers, kissing each one of them in turn, reverently. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore."

"I think no one has given me a bath since I was four years old," I chuckle once I am dressed, pulling her towards me.

She doesn't answer but hums contentedly against my chest.

"Let's go sit outside. The sun is shining." She takes my hand and drags me out, vacating the room so that others can tend to their needs.

And yes, it's a miraculously sunny and clear January morning, and although it's still cold, the air is clean and fresh, and everything feels alive.

"Let me shave you." It's not a question; it's a command. My strong, indomitable girl-woman.

"Only if you sit in my lap while you do it." I can't let go of her, can't take my hands off of her.

She blushes, but she complies, arranging the razor and bowl on a table just within reach and straddling my lap as she wields the instrument carefully, biting her lower lip in concentration, terrified of cutting me - as if a tiny razor cut from her small, lovely hands could hurt me, compared to the fire and the bullets and the grenades and the knives.

All along I can't take my eyes off of her, and my hands slowly reach to caress her legs, her hips. She tenses momentarily and stops for just a fraction of a second. But then she gives me the most fleeting of smiles, and she relaxes again, and I love her more than I ever could have believed possible.

"Let me cut your hair," she says once she's done with the shaving. And I let her, even though it means she has to stand behind me, and I can't see her. But her hands in my hair make up for it, and I love that she's taking care of me - like a mother. Like a lover.

"Your hair is crazy!" she laughs as she struggles to get it under control. "I never realised it's kind of red…in the sun… it's all sparkly and coppery." She seems to find this endlessly amusing.

"Hey, don't cut it all off! Leave some on my head!" I protest, joking, as the strands fall on the floor all around us. "The ladies love it!" It's a cruel tease, but I can't resist.

She stops what she's doing and comes to stand just before me, suddenly angry, hand on hip, and I can't tell whether she's serious or mocking.

"What ladies?"

And I want to throw myself at her knees and apologise for my stupid, tasteless joke, but instead I reach out to her, bury my head in her stomach, and tell her over and over again.

"No one. No one else but you. Only you, always. Only you. Forever."

That night there is wine, and music, and more food than I've seen in months - meat, and rice, and mushrooms, and even some blackberry jam that I buy from Carlo so that I can give it to Bella. I watch her lick the spoon as though the simple jam is ambrosia from the gods. This is a feast, and we need it after the horrible battles, and in preparation for the ones ahead.

The room gets hot, and people get loud. Someone starts dancing, and I look at Bella on the other side of the room, conspiring with Esme in a corner, stealing glances at me. I motion to her with my eyes, and she stands up and walks toward me, her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly dishevelled, her eyes burning. She reaches me and takes my hand, and she leads me out of the room. I am dizzy from the wine and the stuffy air, and my heart is beating so fast I think I might have a heart attack. As soon as we are out of the room, I try to kiss her, but she lets go of my hand and runs away, turning around to laugh at me, and climbs the stairs two steps at a time.

She's teasing me, daring me to follow her, and all I can think is to reach her, to touch her, to be with her. I am aroused and giddy with the feeling of it. I follow her as she leads me all the way up to the top of the house, and she must know it well because she pulls me into a door, and we're into a small, dark room with three narrow cots. As I close the door behind me, she stands there panting, trembling in front of me. The moonlight filtering through the window is the only illumination, and yet I can see her clearly, I can feel her wholly.

Without knowing how it happens I am pressing her against the wall, and I am hard against her stomach. I know she feels it, but I don't care; I can't speak, all I can do is kiss her, hungrily, desperately, painfully, while my hands roam under her blouse and under her skirt. I want to be gentle and worship her, but my hands seem to have a mind of their own, and I am lifting her, cupping her behind, bringing her legs around my waist, pinning her against the wall with the strength of my body. She moans, and my ears are ringing - I can't hear what she's saying. I am almost ripping her clothes off when her hands go to my hair, and she pulls, gently at first, then harder, and I hear her voice, finally, bringing me back.

"Edward…Edward…baby…don't hurt me, please."

Horror curses through me, and I freeze.

It's her first time. She wants it, or she wouldn't have brought me here. She wants me despite the fact that she says her prayers every night, and no priest will ever marry her in a church if she's not a virgin. She wants it even though she could get pregnant. She wants it even though I am nothing more that an animal. Even though I could die tomorrow and leave her dishonored and discarded. It's true that partisans claim these things don't matter anymore, but it's just a claim, because they still do; besides, the war won't last forever.

I put her back on the floor and lean against the wall next to her, sliding down, my head in my hands. I am filled with shame and self-loathing. I can't bear to look at her.

She crouches down and prises my legs open, kneeling between them, taking my hands, forcing me to look at her.

"I didn't mean you had to stop…Edward…I want you…I want to be your woman, a real woman, not a girl. I want you to be my man, completely. Just…just be careful, because I don't know what to do, and I am afraid it will hurt, and that I won't know how to do it right."

I shake my head, and she pleads.

"Please…please baby. Make love to me. Make me feel alive, make me feel loved. Make me your woman."

Her lips find mine, and I let her set the pace this time. She unbuttons my shirt and explores my chest - she's already seen me almost fully naked, but it's different now, and while her touch earlier was soothing and gentle, now it's electrifying. She leans down to kiss every scar, every bruise; she licks every small patch of raw skin.

Slowly, we take our time shedding our clothes, and I make sure to match her careful tempo. When we are both naked, standing in front of each other, I am sure I'm just as nervous as she. Her body is lean and too skinny but strong and supple, and her skin tastes and smells like a different time and place. She sits on the edge of a bed - her bed, I assume - and lies down on her back, swallowing audibly. I lie on top of her, and my fingers trail on her breasts, eliciting a shuddering moan, and stop to tease her pink, perfect nipples. The sounds she's making are shooting straight to my groin, making it hard to think and talk. But talk, talk is needed tonight, sweet talk, to reassure my beautiful girl, to make it special for her.

"Have you ever touched yourself, Bella?" I ask, and my voice is raspy, agitated.

She shakes her head no, and I am simultaneously elated and terrified at her response.

"I am going to use my fingers first, bambina, okay? That will feel good for you, and if it feels really, really good, I want you to let yourself go and not be afraid, okay? You just let your body do what it needs to do."

She nods, biting her lip once again, and I gently start stroking her folds, and that alone is enough to make her convulse. She lets out a loud moan.

"That's it, baby…feel good…that's the way it should be…this is love…you are so beautiful, so, so beautiful. Bella, bellissima."

Slowly, while still stroking her, I slide one finger inside of her, and the feeling is almost overwhelming - wet, slick, warm and impossibly tight. I want to bury myself in her, to taste her, but I think that would frighten her, so I keep up my gentle teasing motion with my fingers, all the while kissing her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. It doesn't take long before I feel her clenching around my finger, and I watch her, enraptured, as her whole body seems to flush and convulse with the intensity of her orgasm.

Her first.

I hold her tight, whispering, "I love you, so much, so much," in her ear, and then I lie her down again, and her eyes open and look at me, expectantly, as I tell her,"It will hurt a bit, but not for long, and then it will feel good again. Trust me, bambina?"

She nods, and she tells me, "Thank you. I love you." And I line myself against her, then slide in slowly, as carefully as I can, and I wait for her to relax completely before pushing past her barrier. She gasps when I do, and tears spring to her eyes, and then she laughs, and I panic.

"Should I stop? Is it too much?"

"NO, Edward, don't stop! I am so happy! So happy I am yours! Please, please keep going, please!"

And I keep going, pumping slowly at first, then as I feel her slick and relaxed, I increase my tempo, and I come quickly. I fall on top of her - spent, delirious.

That night we make love again and again. Every time is better, and the last time, just as the dawn light is breaking through the window, she comes while I am inside her, and I tell her over and over and over again how much I love her. She tells me over and over and over again that she wants me to be her first and her last, that she loves me. Forever.

I wish I could tell you that after that, we spent all of our time together, and that our time was happy, carefree, blissful. That after what I regard as our wedding night, we enjoyed our honeymoon. But you know it's not the case. What followed was the worst fighting I have ever seen, and in the next few months I only saw Bella a handful of times, often only for hours.

As the German army crumbled, their remaining members became more desperate and more reckless, seemingly wishing to leave only a wasteland of destruction behind them. The Allies were closing in, and the war had already ended in most of Italy. The whole viciousness of six years of war was concentrated in a few hundred square miles of frozen mountains and hills. Many of my companions fell in those months - too many to remember, to name.

Intelligence became essential and even harder to get, and the relays - Bella and brave, selfless women like her - were literally running themselves dead crisscrossing the region and transporting information, supplies and drugs. Many were captured, raped, tortured, killed.

So when Bella comes to us, on an early spring evening when flowers are already blooming in the trees, one of those freakishly warm March days where winter cheats you by pretending it's gone, I am relieved and greedy for her presence at my side. She is so tired and thin her pale skin is translucent, the dark circles under her eyes so purple as to look supernatural, her hair limp and her step slow. And yet her eyes are full of life and laughter when she sees me, of love when she kisses me; my heart lifts, and I luxuriate in the knowledge that I'll have her close to me that night. After dark, I pull her just out of sight from the rest of the group, hugging her so tightly she laughs, "You're choking me!" Within seconds she's asleep in my arms, and it doesn't matter that we're outside, that we're lying on the bare earth: all that matters is that our hearts are beating next to each other.

We are awakened, minutes or hours later, by the loud sound of gunfire nearby, and by frantic shouting as we all jump up and start returning fire.

"Ambush! Fuck, we're being ambushed! Retreat to the river!" I roar above the din and confusion. Everyone starts running, turning to fire back, to throw grenades. I hand Isabella a gun and tell her to run as fast as she can while I cover her back.

"Edward!" she screams, her voice panicked and strained.

"That's okay, Bella, run; I'll join you; I'll be there. Run, baby, run!"

Carlo grabs her hand and pulls her away while I, together with one other, cover everybody's retreat and try to simultaneously retreat back ourselves.

The gunfire has lessened significantly, and I am starting to think we've made it to the river without any casualties - losing ground and supplies was bad enough, but losing men at this stage would be catastrophic. I find Isabella hiding behind a rock, and thank God, she looks fine - scared, but fine.

"One more time, okay?" I pant, and she nods. We wait for a lull in the shooting, and then I motion for her to run. We sprint, crouching, across the clearing, and I think we are safe. But then I hear the unmistakeable whistling sound of a bullet, and she falls to the ground, making a shocked, strange noise, like a balloon deflating. A noise I know only too well.

"NO! Fuck, Bella, NO!" and I can't stop, but she's down, and she's not moving, and I run back to her despite the shouting and the shooting. I pick her up, and she's so light, so light, like a child, and I run with her on my back until we're at the water. I cross the river, stumbling once or twice; the water is shallow here, only mid-thigh, and she's not moving. I hear a voice, my own, chanting over and over, "Be okay, be okay, baby, we're okay, we've almost made it, you'll be fine, be okay, be okay, bambina, almost there, stay with me, don't leave me."

An eternity later I am able to stop in a makeshift trench. Carlo looks at me, his eyes full of understanding and compassion, and he orders the men to defend the position. He's in charge now.

I lay Bella down in my lap and frantically feel her pulse: it's still beating, but only faintly. Too faintly.

"Bella… wake up…wake up, baby, and tell me where it hurts."

Her eyes flutter open, and they roll in her sockets before she's able to focus on my face. Her skin is so white now it glows in the dark. Her lips twitch in what I think is a smile, and she whispers, her voice barely audible, "The Germans…."

"Don't worry, baby, we're fine. Everyone is fine. You've been hit, can I have a look?"

She nods imperceptibly.

With trembling fingers, I open her coat and lift her clothes. She winces in pain, and I see that a bullet has hit her in the abdomen. I don't need to have finished my medical studies to know that it's almost certainly hit a vital organ.

My heart stops beating then.

With as much tenderness I can muster, and it's not much because I am shaking, I pull her clothes back down and try to make her comfortable in my lap.

I am wet and warm from the liquid seeping out of her, drenched in her blood. The smell of it assaults my nostrils, turning me delirious with grief and despair. I would drink it all, every drop, if it meant I could keep her life in me, with me.

"It hurts a lot, bambina…I know. I am sorry."

"Don't leave me, Edward."

"Bella…you know I will never leave you, you know." I struggle to keep my voice steady, struggle to keep the tears from springing freely.

"Never? Never, Edward?"

"No, you know it. You know it, bambina."

"When it's all over…what will happen to us, Edward?"

And I know she's asking about death, but that's a question I won't answer, because I have forced myself to never think of that. I can't speak of death. Not now, not ever.

Instead, I tell her of life, of the life I imagined for us- the life I've planned for, dreamed of.

"We'll be together, bambina. We'll live in a house near the sea, where it's always warm…no more mountains, no more snow." I force a strangled laugh, and I picture her walking on the beach in a white dress, the sunshine streaming through her long hair. With this image comes a fresh wave of desperation, but I force myself to go deeper into this painful dream. For her.

"We'll sleep in the warmest, softest bed, and there will be jam for breakfast every morning."

Her eyes flicker: She knows what I am doing now, and I see that her hand is moving, searching for mine. I grab it and hold it tightly, bringing it to my lips, relishing her touch, probably for the last time.

"Edward…will we be married?"

"We're already married, Bella, don't you know it? But if you want to, bambina, yes, we'll be married, in a church: We'll lie to the priest, and he will marry us, and you will wear white and have flowers in your hair. You'll blush when I take your hand, and I will be the happiest man in the world. And when our children are born..."

"We'll have children, Edward? How many?" She's closed her eyes, and she's crying, and I can no longer fight the tears that are blinding me.

"Three, we'll have three children, two boys and one girl, and they'll make fun of us when we tell them our silly war stories. They'll be loud and wild, and they will be free…free - no war, no hunger, no cold. And the girl, she will be beautiful and fierce and a little crazy, like you, and you'll be jealous of her, but you will be wrong, because I will always love you more. Always. You are the only woman I will ever love. You know it, bambina."

I lean down to kiss her lips, and they are cold now, so cold, and I am sobbing, shaking, and I almost don't hear her when she says to me, in a strangely peaceful whisper, "Thank you, Edward. What a wonderful life."

And then she's gone.

Then there's only the cold, merciless, stony ground.

I hold her, sobbing and wailing, until dawn breaks. I don't know when the fighting stops, and it's not until I feel Carlo's hand on my shoulder and hear his caring, fatherly voice -"Enough. Edward. Let her rest now. There's no more time, we have to go." - that I break from my trance.

We bury her quickly, in silence. Her resting place by the river is marked only by a makeshift cross and a lone flower I found nearby.

There are no prayers, no pretty words.

I don't have any. I am dead. Cold, hard, thoroughly dried, like a stone of S. Michele.

I march away, onwards, towards more death and more destruction.

A few weeks later, it's all over. On April 25, 1945, the Partisans free Milan and Turin, and the country celebrates with a last salvo of vendettas and violence.

But there is no peace for me, no liberation. I fought for freedom and became a prisoner of pain.

After the war, I tried to stay, to live in the country I fought so hard to defend and liberate, but it was too hard. I could still see the scars, the hatred everywhere. I tried to go back to what I used to know, to finish my medical studies, but everything around me reminded me of my loss.

So I left, came to America. The life I lived since…it's another story, for another time.

You're crying. No, please don't cry. Not now. It won't be long for me now, and I am going to her, soon. I know it. I lived a long life; I honoured her memory by living it fully, tasting every drop of this exhilarating freedom we dreamed of and fought for when we were young.

But when my heart stops beating, finally and for good, I know she will be there. Waiting for me.

A/N: The stone of S. Michele Edward refers to in the closing paragraphs comes from a beautiful war poem by Italian poet Giuseppe Ungaretti. The poem is called "I am a creature" :

Like this stone of

San Michele

as cold

as hard

as thoroughly dried

as refractory

as deprived of spirit

Like this stone

is my weeping that can't

be seen

Living

discounts death