Cornelia: A Tale of Twilight
“This is my story. I should probably start at the very beginning, so you may understand the better: my father was a vampire; my mother was a human. It’s been quite a few centuries since I was born, so I have decided to make a record of my life… as I may not have much longer to live. I have seen death and love; despair and hope; tragedy and miracles. I regret little, as everything I have done has been right in my own eyes. My motivations were purposeful, and my memories are pure. My name is Cornelia.” Follow the life of a hybrid through the Twilight universe from her birth in 1778, through love, loss, and friendship. Drifts in and out of canon. Main pairings: CarlislexOC, JasperxOC.
I wrote the majority of this before Breaking Dawn was published, so this was my version of "hybrids." My reasoning is that Cornelia is a "venom-producing" female hybrid, whereas all the girls in the books are non-venomous. Enjoy reading! More published on FanFiction.net, under the same screen name. -Scarlet
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Chapter 2: Nature
Somewhere in New England
A warm hand nudged my shoulder.
"Go away!" I shouted shakily, my voice quivering as I curled in on myself further.
"I… mean no harm."
Finally, something I understood. I relaxed a tiny bit, and cracked an eye to see the man who stood over me. His brown eyes looked at me worriedly, and his brow furrowed. I slowly came out of my ball, and scotched away from the man, using my hands. His skin was much darker than I was used to, and he wore no shirt or shoes, which I had never before seen on a man. He scared me greatly.
Even my own voice startled me, "Who… who are you?" I held my knees tightly to my chest and stared up at him. He sat down slowly, crossing his legs on the grass.
"My name is Lakota," he said, and a strange accent was strung in his words. "What is yours?"
I swallowed thickly, not too inclined to be friendly. "C-C-Cornelia."
Suddenly, another man appeared from the trees. He had a similar appearance to Lakota, but had longer black hair and wore a frayed shirt of some kind. He wasn't as tall and imposing, either. He began speaking in a foreign language, and I felt myself becoming afraid again. I had heard of Indians before, but no good things. They were enemies, savages. Who knew what they wanted with me?
Lakota put out his hand to silence his companion, not taking his eyes from me. "Where do you come from, Cornelia?" he asked, simply continuing our exchange.
"Uh… um," I stuttered, my entire body quivering with nerves. I wasn't much the conversationalist. "I-I hail from Boston, but…" I paused, relaxing slightly under his friendly gaze. "Can you tell me what's happening to me?" I asked him, my voice trembling.
He smiled, beckoning to the other man. "I must tell you a story…"
He went on to explain about the world I'd stumbled across. They… were destined to always be inherent enemies, and they had been since before time. I listened, with much difficulty, as he told me that he was a "guardian," a "protector" of humankind.
He was a werewolf.
Something began that day which took me several years to understand. I call it the "vampire magnet." The mixture of my human blood and vampire venom in my body created a pheromone-type effect, which attracted vampires. Once a vampire caught wind of my scent, they became crazed, feral – consumed by uncontrollable bloodlust. Which, as you may imagine, made it very hard to survive.
However, this allowed me to become a natural friend to the werewolves of the Native North Americans. They protected me from them… yet, what did I do for them? This question haunted me with every death on my account.
My blood wasn't the only unique thing about me. The vampire gene I inherited from my father gave me a special ability. I have the power create any sized barrier, which appears in the form of a haze, or mist. They are impenetrable, indestructible shields. I've never been able to create a shield without the use of my hands to trace where it would go, which is the only limit to my gift. It's is a strictly physical power, though there is an element of intellectual will.
Years passed, and I stayed with Lakota's tribe for one decade. I leaned that he was the leader of a "pack" of werewolves, and the other man, Quee, was his second-in-command. They taught me the art of combat, so I could help them fight and defend. So many vampires came in those first few years, and other young warriors of the tribe changed into werewolves. I couldn't stand all the trouble I caused them - fighting, death, war.
I remember the very last thing Lakota said to me. He had made me a gift - a parting gift of sorts - and, as he gave it to me, he said, "Survive, Cornelia; that's all that matters." It was a foot-long dagger made of unpolished silver, with a carving of a baying wolf on the hilt.
And, with that, I moved on. Not soon after, I was being so savagely hunted by vampires, I was forced to find haven with another tribe of werewolves. I found that not all Native Americans inherited the wolf gene, and it was very uncommon that I found a pack of werewolves. So, I simply tried to avoid them as best possible. I was constantly on the run; I hated this weary existence, but the vampires never failed to come. Sometimes one or two, or sometimes a whole group, what they called a "coven."
Soon, in the course of human events, the British got fed up with American freedom and decided to come start the War of 1812. After a year of the bloody conflict, I decided to travel West. Having never been out of New England, I was quite excited. In my excitement, I accidentally ran all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
The ocean air was crisp and clear, surprisingly warm for the late month. I sighed and looked out over the peaceful waters. The sun set in the west, casting it's shimmering light over the waves. I don't know how long I stood there, over the ocean, because my mind wandered far away.
"What is your name?" the woman asked, staring sternly over the half-moon rim of her spectacles. A line was perpetually between her eyebrows, and her lips were curled in a frown. However, my mother had told me to listen to everything she said… or else.
Truthfully, I didn't know my name. Did I have a name? Martha, my mother, called me "Pigeon." But… that is the name of a foul, is it not? Joshua, the boy who lived down the road, called me "Girl." That is my gender, right? So, what was my name, truly?
The only sound in the one-room schoolhouse was the chipper crackling of the furnace in the corner, which Teacher had kindled far before we students had arrived. Martha had sent me here to this tiny establishment of learning because she had too, in accordance with the Ole' Deluder Satan Act.
Even though it was mid-winter and our young nation was fighting for independence from the Motherland, the children of rural Boston were required to learn how to read. Martha had already taught me from her copy of King James's Holy Bible, but again, she had felt the need to send me here. The girls sat in the five rows of seats to the left, and the boys sat on the right. We were arranged by age: youngest to oldest, front to back. We each had our Hornbooks set on the desks in front of us, with our ABC's and our Lord's Prayers printed and mounted on the wooden faces. My copy of the New England Primmer was fairly new – used before me only eight times – since I was a new arrival.
However, none of this was of any note to me. Teacher had realized her lack of knowledge of my name when she'd handed me a paper and told me to read it. I guessed she hadn't noticed me slip into her classroom at the beginning of the lesson. I couldn't very well say that my name was "Pigeon Girl."
"Girl? Your name?" Teacher pressed impatiently.
The bigger girl in the seat behind me, who had already told Teacher that her name was Elizabeth, giggled. The smaller girl in front of me, who appeared around four years of age, looked back at me with big, brown eyes. The boys across the aisle whispered to each other.
Thinking quickly, I looked down at the parchment perched in my small hands. It appeared to be a list of births in America for that year, listed alphabetically. "Cornelia Lott Green" caught my eye because it was the longest.
"Greene," I quoth.
There was chortling from the boys side, and several older girls gasped. The girl in front of me flinched when Teacher wrapped her knuckles with her meter stick, and she whirled back around in her seat.
"Dear child," Teacher said icily. "That is most definitely your surname. I only wish for your first. What do they call you?"
I forced myself to look that scary woman right in those cold, blue eyes of hers, and stood as tall as my 2-year-old body could possibly stand. "Cornelia," I said.
"My name is Cornelia."
Sometime later, I heard a werewolf transform into human form about a mile away. I didn't turn; I was tired of introducing myself. Fast steps pounded the ground until they came close, and slowed.
"You have… human blood," a deep voice said from behind.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded anyway and turned around to see a nearly seven-foot-tall Indian, who smiled brightly. I couldn't help but smile too, as a nice cloud of reassurance came over me at merely his presence.
"I am Titus Black of the Quileute tribe."
I took his outreached hand in a good shake. His clothing was that of a chief. "Cornelia." He might have made me smile, but I was in no mood to talk.
"We have peace with the Colds Ones in this area."
My eyebrows when together in confusion.
"Golden eyes," he added, motioning to his own.
That did nothing to enlighten me on the matter of "peaceful vampires", but I nodded anyway. They won't be very peaceful soon. "Where am I?" I asked suddenly.
"This is Oregon Country," he replied brightly. I'd certainly heard of it; many pioneers from the East had come there long ago. "Quileute land lies far north of here. You are welcome." He then motioned to the south. "The white settlement of Hoquiam very near, southeast."
"Thank you," I said, turning back to the sea. The sun was merely a shrinking halo of light as it dove into the sea. The man gazed with me for a few minutes.
"We will be watching."
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, then heard him phase as he ran into the nearby woods. Going north; going home.
My heart squeezed. I have no home.