Summary: Nineteen Twelve would prove itself to be the last year of mortality for Isabella Swan. Yet from the anguish of the carnage, she would awaken into another life. More poised, more beautiful, more inhuman than before. But with no memories of past mortality and a creator fixated on desert supremacy, immortality looks to be abhorrently bleak.

Or, a somewhat historical jaunt, exploring the idea of Bella having been born at the turn of the twentieth century - being changed and living life as a somewhat regular vampire, until stumbling across a pre majority Cullen coven.

Chapter One:

A Routine Day at Sea

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April, 1912

At sea, another day of routine activity started. There were meals to be prepared and served, brightwork to be polished, decks to be scraped and sanded, and passengers to be tended. Far below, there were boilers to be fired and coal passed and trimmed, steam pressure to be maintained, all to speed the ship westwards.

Settled comfortably amongst the depictions of vast landscapes and grand sailing ships, mythological figures made of stained glass, and copious plumes of tobacco smoke, the rumour of an early arrival to port made its rounds. A wondrous achievement for such a grand feat of maritime engineering, an excitement for the passengers, and a boon for the shipping company.

My father, an exceedingly tall, well-dressed man, just past the prime of middle age, had been embroiled in conversations since the late morning. His company, a constant cycle of gentlemen within his sphere, like to debate the same topics that all men seemed to revere, some bought the conversation to economics, to politics, other to card games, but most delved into the realms of shipping - and there was no topic my father liked more, than discussing shipping.

The breadth of topic and warmth of the surroundings of the smoking-room proved far too enticing to dare venture outside - a consensus for most passengers. Those who risked the uncovered decks to amble and gaze upon the frigid expanse, were greeted by a bitterly cold Atlantic day.

As the day grew later, the temperature continued to drop, and those braving the views became fewer and fewer, most finding refuge in the social rooms and cafés. Our party amongst them.

The fine surroundings, light and airy with pristine white furniture and ivy-covered trellises, provided a warm and social space for those of us within first class. Tea was taken, cakes and pastries eaten, the murmur of light conversation punctuated only by the occasional laugh, the gentle rattle of cups and clinking of glasses.

At a table we often frequented, with a prime view across the ocean, I sat alongside my mother and the woman I was soon to call my mother-in-law. The conversation was somewhat unvaried, being at sea left limited scope for outside news, so it circled from gossip from the society within, being continually awed by our surroundings, or discussing my upcoming nuptials.

"Mrs. Cartwright was adamant there was nowhere finer to visit than the house Rambova," my mother said, sipping her overly sweetened tea. "She said there was no better couturier in all of New York. I'll admit her judgment sometimes leaves a little to be desired… but it won't hurt to request an appointment."

"And what of Callot Soeurs? I thought you quite set on them?" replied Mrs. Marvin, gawping as her cup hovered near her lip. "I've heard the sisters don't take kindly to clients shopping around, as distasteful as prêt-à-porter."

My mother shook her head, "I am still very set on Callot Soeurs, they are the finest after all. And the sisters were ever so wonderful when we visited for our consultation, weren't they Isabella?"

"Wonderful," I agreed.

"I'm simply curious to see what Mrs. Cartwright is harking on about, the best in New York it may be… but it's not French," Mother said. "Now I will admit her daughter did look very fine at her wedding, the dress made a rather plain girl look very handsome. It was not from the french houses and people took notice of that, but generally, approval was given because it was quite unique…different."

Mrs. Marvin looked more aghast, her cup still hovering at her lip. "Different? Are we to look for different? Is that the dress we aspire for?"

My mother shot her a frown, "Of course not," she said sharply. "We have no need for such a dress, the former Miss Cartwright needed all the help she could get to become a beauty. Isabella has no need for such fripperies, she is a true beauty and our dress will only enhance that."

"Why of course," Mrs. Marvin replied, settling happily with her fears now quashed, sipping her tea. "And next to my George, you'll be the best looking couple there is."

"Undoubtedly," Mother said primly, "I think you're a good match for one another, good in temperament and looks. And George will do very well at the company, Charles will teach him all there is to know."

"I couldn't agree more," I replied diplomatically, having heard the repetitive encouragements on numerous occasions.

If they thought me unconvinced on the matter of my marriage, they need not have worried. George was decent and kind, he was handsome and well dressed, and there was no great age gap between us. He was intelligent and bright enough to please my father and the other gentleman of the company board, and when the time came, take over in my father stead.

It was a smart and sensible marriage.

I was not in love with him. But that didn't matter.

I respected him and was fond of him, and that was good enough - not all in my sphere had been as fortunate.

When the topic of the wedding had run its course for the day, the conversation drifted to discussing our tour of New York. Listing all the places we wished to go, things we wished to see and gave little consideration to the true reason for our trip and the important detour further north. For those in my immediate company, the excitement over the delights of New York overshadowed any interest in my father's business expansions in Halifax.

So upon joining us, having been enticed away from the smoking lounges by the lateness of the day, my father was perhaps a little disappointed to find the conversation not enthusiastically discussing his new shipyard, but deep into the merits and complexities of the bevy of balls, receptions, parties, and dinners, we were to attend.

Mrs. Marvin greeted her husband and son with the same gusto she always did. Fawning over her son in a rather humorous display, exalting his good manners and punctuality in the same way she did before our engagement was confirmed.

George looked a little embarrassed by his mother's praise, the tops of his cheeks turning pink, "We thought it time to dress for dinner," he said.

From over George's head and his attempts to cover his discomfort, I caught my father's eye. The twitch of his moustache and raise of his brows forced me to hide my mirth behind my cup and cover a laugh with the sip of hot tea. It was a small miracle I did not choke.

Luckily for George, respite came in the form of my mother, who now aware of the lateness of the day was all gusto to usher us off to be made ready for dinner.

Hats, gloves, and coats were collected with no little fanfare, and into couples, we parted for the short amble back to our staterooms.

"I have to admit I was glad to rejoin the company of you ladies," George said to me, "there's only so many times one can be privy to men argue the technicalities of shipping."

I smiled at his mock distress. "There are few things my father loves more in life than discussing all things shipping, I would have thought you aware of that by now."

"I enjoy the discussion very much, it is in my best interest to enjoy it… I don't think anyone at Bullard and Swan would be happy to hear otherwise," he said, glancing surreptitiously towards our parents to make sure we were not overheard. "But your father and mine came up against some other like-minded -or perhaps unlike-minded people in the same industry- and a rather passionate conversation took place-"

"You needn't say no more," I laughed, shaking my head. "He has his opinions and others have different ones, but it certainly remains in our best interests to simply nod and agree."

"Excellent, that was the exact method I was employing," he said.

"You did not jump in with your own passionate defense of the Wireless Act? Or perhaps the Commons Laws of the High Sea? I don't doubt they came up at some point, they usually do."

For a moment he seemed surprised, then bobbed his head in bashful acceptance, "You, of course, would know, having grown up with it."

"Precisely. You might think mother and I speak of nothing but parties and balls, but you'd be surprised about how much we know about merchant shipping. I've been privy to it for all my eighteen years, and my mother her whole married life."

"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed to learn I did not add in my own opinion, I thought it would be rather presumptuous and I do not feel qualified to give it so freely as of yet."

This simple declaration made me uncommonly giddy. "I'm not disappointed at all, I think more of you for it. There is an entitlement to give one's option too freely and too loudly sometimes, and to do so when you are not fully schooled on the subject is foolish."

He seemed pleased with my assessment.

We passed along the covered promenade, admiring the great view of the endless deep ocean, and bracing against the bitter cold. It was no small relief to find warmth again, against the backdrop of the grand staircase.

"I think we shall be quite a merry party tonight, sitting with Colonel Simonius-Blumer and the Dodge family," George said, guiding us along the staircase balcony. "And if duty commitments allow, perhaps even Captain Smith."

"I like the Dodge's immensely, we had such fun playing Deck Quoits with their daughters," I said, "I've not had the pleasure of the Colonel's company, but I have heard favourable things from my father."

"I'm rather jealous to have missed a game of Deck Quoits," George admitted honestly, "we shall have to play together before we make port."

"I look forward to it. Although I should warn you I lack any skill in the game, you shall have to go easy on me, save complete humiliation."

"That's a shame, for I have never played in my life and hoped you would teach me," he laughed.

"Oh dear, we may have to share in the humiliation then."

Mother, who had been hovering close by since we came in from the cold, took it upon herself to interject, "Nonsense," she said, "there will be no humiliation, you cut a fine figure playing. But not in this weather, it's far too cold to play games on deck. I will not have you getting ill."

"I'm glad you think so," I told her. "We have no intention of playing while it's so cold, we'll simply wait for a warmer bout of weather or play under the covered deck."

Appeased with what she heard, she said no more on the topic of deck games, but artfully turned the conversation to dinner and was able to relate with fearsome accuracy the background of our dining partners; unwilling to have any sense of inelegance or boorishness at any table she sat at.

At mid-ship we parted ways with the Marvins to dress for dinner. Aided by my maid we set about removing my dress coat, day dress, and petticoat, before tackling the horde of pins that held my hat and hair in place. There was little time to be idle or for book reading, as I was soon accosted by my mother and her choice for my evening dress.

No direction was given by me, the household staff knew exactly what to do, and completed the task with all the efficiency that they were known for. With my hair set, I stepped into my dress and stood stoic with a book in hand while the numerous little buttons on the back were fastened.

Happy with their efforts and upon overseeing the addition of jewellery from the family safe, they were dismissed until my return from dinner.

Knowing my father's irritability at a lack of punctuality, I made sure to be ready for my parents to knock on the hour - and at seven o'clock my door was knocked and I joined my assemblage for the walk to dinner.

The dining saloon spanned the entire width of the ship, and could easily have served several hundred people, and yet the small, elegant tables had an intimate feel. The ceilings curved into detailed moldings supported here and there by thin white columns. A plush, patterned carpet covered the floor, while the tall windows were frosted adding only to the intimacy.

Upon arriving, we were shown towards the large circular table on the port side of the ship. The captain's table. I recognized Captain Smith from a photograph that had been published in The Atlantic Daily Bulletin; he was an elderly man of average height and stature, a short well maintained white beard and an air of general politeness about him. To see him in the flesh was rather surprising.

We were joined by our other dining guests and sat down to eat.

A stream of black-jacketed waiters bearing the usual silver platters appeared at our table, offering only the finest of service.

Throughout the meal, the orchestra played their quiet stirring melodies in the background. Adding to the ambiance of conversation, and merriment that the copious amounts of wine were having on my dining companions.

It was nine o'clock when Captain Smith offered his apologies and retired, returning back to his duties on the bridge.

By the time dessert came around, I could barely savour my peaches in chartreuse jelly, for it was the final round in a ten-strong course menu. I politely declined the fresh fruit or cheeses that were available, instead nursed a coffee. The meal went on well into the night, and by the time the gentlemen of the table had drunk their port, it was well past eleven.

Feeling like I should never care to eat again, we finally retired ourselves, bidding the Marvins goodnight, with a promise to meet on the morrow for our usual routine.

My mother and father departed to their own room and I to my adjoining one, and was soon joined by the same members of the house to ready me for bed.

They set about undoing all the small buttons they had laboured over before, unpinning my hair once again, and helping me out of the many layers. Hanging and folding each item immediately, save something creasing or crushing.

By the time my evening toilette was complete the hour was late. Finally alone, I did not sleep immediately but took to reading a book I had borrowed from the ship's library.

No more than a quarter of an hour later, my attention was taken from my reading by a low rumble from far below. It took my notice for barely half a minute before I disregarded it. The engines often made noises, but it was the pervading silence after that was strange, the constant, almost soothing rumble of the engines was gone and in its wake a hollowness.

I continued to read until the carriage clock in the shared sitting room struck twelve, then began my final preparations for bed.

I had succeeded no further than beginning to untie the cord of my dressing gown when the sound of voices and footsteps in the corridor stopped me dead. Through the walls I couldn't make out the words, the voices were too muffled, but the intonation was rushed and frantic. It ceased suddenly before footsteps tapered away in opposite directions.

My intentions for sleep were replaced by curiosity. I did not dress down, but sat on my bed and strained to hear anything further. Minutes passed without anything else, then the sound of voices came again, alongside the rapid knock of knuckles against doors.

I startled in surprise at the loud rap against my cabin door and stumbled over the hem of my dressing gown in my haste to stand.

"Miss Swan, if I may have your attention please," came a voice from the other side. "It is your cabin steward."

I frantically tried to set myself right, and cover myself best I could, throwing my braid over my shoulder and tugging at my gown. Calming myself, I answered the door to the smartly dressed man who had been tending us for the majority of our passage.

"Forgive me for the intrusion, but you need to put on something warm and report to the Boat Deck with your life vest."

"Life vest?"

"No need to worry, Miss. Simply a routine drill."

"Have my parents been informed?"

"They have, and are readying themselves." He bowed and left, heading down the row of staterooms to continue delivering the message.

No sooner had he left, and with barely a knock on the adjoining door, my father materialised in my room. In usual fashion, he filled the room with his sheer height, but dressed for bed it was a strange image I was not used to and set me on edge.

"You need to put on something warm," he said calmly, but the hardness of his brow betray something else. "Don't fuss with proprietary, put on your warmest dress over your nightgown, get your thick coat, and do not forget your life vest. Do it as quickly as possible, please."

"Yes, sir."

I did as he said, throwing on my warmest day dress, but my hands were shaking too much to do all the buttons up properly. So I covered myself in a heavy fur-trimmed coat, one I had requested from my wardrobe in the hope of wearing on the morrow for a game of Deck Quoits.

Bundled up per his instruction, I scrambled around beneath my bed grabbing my life vest stowed beneath and all but ran from my cabin to my parents.

Mother was upset, she had been awoken by the news and had been given mere minutes to ready herself. There was no time for the house staff to attend her. At my appearance she lamented furthermore on how absurd it was to be awoken in such a manner, setting about trying to fuss over my appearance, tucking my hair behind my ear and pulling my coat closer to my neck.

My father, in no mood to be trifled with, marched us from the cabin his life vest and mother's in hand.

The moment we stepped on the Boat Deck any lingering warmth was stolen clean away, the air was frigid and biting. A routine drill in such dire temperatures was sheer madness. The complaints were numerous and vocal.

On the open deck, the ship's officers and seamen were uncovering lifeboats, dragging the large, heavy canvases to the side. Groups of passengers huddled in small groups, merely looking on with interest. Some had simply thrown on coats overnight garments, slippers still adorned their feet, looking pale and sleepy.

Huddled together, sharing warmth and consolations, I did my best to settle my mother, fussing over her appearance in the same way she had done to me. She was further appeased by the appearance of the Marvins and set about continuing her peevish discontent alongside Mrs. Marvin.

"Do you know what's happened?" I asked George.

"I can't say that I do," he replied apologetically, offering his arm to me. "They were lax to tell father and I anything, simply that it is a routine drill. But perhaps it is more a precaution, this ship is far too advanced to be in any peril."

"This is not being handled at all well," Mr. Marvin said, looking critically over the uncovering of the lifeboats. "I'm not at all impressed by it."

"I will not be mollycoddled or palmed off," my father said sternly, he gestured for Mr. Marvin to follow him and the two were lost in the crowds.

The officers began calling for people to board the lifeboats, but no one volunteered at first. Then gingerly a few women stepped forward, they were quickly ushered into the boats. Having no desire to teeter over the black expanse on a bitterly cold night, we declined and stood back.

The night was a quiet hush of voices, the occasional call to board the boats, and soft music playing from somewhere further down the deck. But that calm was shattered by a tremendous burst of steam from the funnels. People startled and shrieked, and cried out in alarm before voicing their contention louder.

We had been standing for well over half an hour on the open deck, even the hot drinks had done nothing to warm us. Speculation was we had hit something, perhaps another ship, but there was nothing to be seen beyond the deck rail but endless black, there was barely a moon to light the way.

I was cold and grumpy, longing for the warmth of my stateroom and comfort of bed. So it came as a great relief when I spotted my father making his way towards us through the crowds, his height above all others a welcome comfort.

But before he could reach us, there was a bang, followed by a high pitched whistle, and a bright explosion high above us, before stars rained down over the sea.

"Distress rockets," I murmured.

The stunned silence that followed was broken by a great wave of hushed voices, more figures moved toward lifeboats, now heeding the call of seamen and officers.

"We need to board a lifeboat," my father said upon rejoining us, his voice a strange eerie calm.

"Is it so bad we must? What has happened that they would need to fire distress rockets? This ship should not be in... distress," my mother said, her words tapering into a mere whisper.

He paused for a moment in an act of deliberation, looking at my mother intently, before he eventually replied. "We have collided with an iceberg, it has torn a substantial hole in the hull, and the ship is taking on water."

My mother for all her complaints and fretting, held her gasp at bay, the tears sprung to her eyes but she never voiced her fear. "We must get to the lifeboats," she agreed.

The true extent of the unfolding catastrophe only hit me as we were helped into the small wooden boat lurching over the edge of the ship's side, looking back up at the face of my father as he stepped away to rejoin the other men.

I had not known fear to be so sudden or all-encompassing, to feel terror as a physical ailment, more cold than our surroundings. No matter how tightly I held onto the bench beneath me, my limbs shook uncontrollably.

It seemed like a nightmare, or something from a novel, it did not feel real.

Our lifeboat launched at just gone one o'clock in the morning, dropping down into the black ocean barely full.

The four seamen who accompanied us, rowed us away from the ship, until we were off its stern and almost able to view it's gargantuan length in its entirety.

Against the dark void of the sky, the outline of the ship's funnels could only be seen against the stars. While its great hulking mass was illuminated by the hundreds upon hundreds of tiny portholes and the electrical lights within.

Even with the pervaded darkness, the wrongness of the view could not be mistaken, the unnatural angle of the ship against the glass-like sea. The bow of the ship was lower than the stern. She was sinking before our very eyes.

Distress rockets continued to blast into the sky, one after another, exploding high above us.

Time ceased to exist.

The bow continued to slip below the waves, the rows of portholes going dark as they fell victim to the sea. I could not take my eyes from the sight, staring at that same spot in which we had parted ways until my eyes burnt with tears.

Those hundreds of little lights flickered once, then twice, then blinked out of existence completely. The ship disappeared before our eyes, we could no longer see her in the darkness, only a vast space where the stars did not shine - but we could still hear her.

A loud and haunting moan cut through the air, followed quickly by an enormous din of shattering glass, twisting, grinding metal, and the explosion of the water as something struck the surface again and again. The noise was almighty and deafening, beyond any mortal sound, drowning out our screams and cries.

The lifeboat rocked violently as something crashed into the water not far from us, bobbing two and fro, before the world tipped once again, and I was suddenly submerged in ice-cold water.

It took my breath away in an instant.

The water burnt cold.

I tried to cry for my mother.

To swim.

But my limbs were numb and heavy, filled with a pain so intense that it made me sick. Any call or cry was lost as I choked on what little air I could, breathing came not with ease, but laborious and shallow.

The dark was filled with screams and cries, voices calling out from every perceivable direction. Phantom wails and guttural moans that came from the water, but remained beyond me.

I wept for my mother and tried, again and again, to call out to her - begging her to find me. But perhaps far from me, or equally as lost, my calls elicited no reply.

I was alone.

Time was not on my side.

Eighteen years listening to cautionary tales about the sea's terrible might, of sailors falling into frigid seas, had left their mark. Just like my father had warned, exhaustion overcame me, swift and without hesitation. Any remaining feeling leached from my limbs, robbing them of strength.

I was going to die.

Alone and freezing to death in the North Atlantic, I was going to die.

The acceptance of my death only made me weep harder and fruitlessly try to move my sluggish limbs in utter desperation - but my hand made contact with something hard in the water.

There was something large and flat floating just within arms reach of me. In an act of sheer instinct, I gripped onto it with all my might, frozen fingers scrabbling to find purchase against its surface. A lifeline within reach, I forced my weight upon it, praying the last of my strength would be sufficient to haul myself up.

The great bulk of my life vest prevented my success, snagging on the edge of the surface and keeping me from climbing on. I tried again and met with the same resistance.

My arms shook weak and unresponsive, the tips of my fingers barely able to keep their purchase, I saw my last chance of survival begin to ebb away. In a final effort, with nothing left to expend, I jammed my fingers into the notch, and pushed down on the hard debris with all the might I had left. Forcing the edge beneath the surface of the water, and giving me just enough leverage to haul myself onto it.

Unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to stop the convulsing shakes of my body, I lay crumpled on the hard surface, and resigned myself to fate.

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Edited Jan 2020