Author's Note: I do not own any of the Twilight world Mrs. Meyer's created.
I know this story may not be totally compatiable with the Twilight series, but I thought it would be interesting to put Carlisle and some of the other Twilight Characters in a totally different setting and series. This story is inspired by some books by the lovely Tracy Chevalier.
Sunrise is one of the few times of the day that I truly appreciate. It is, as if, the world is frozen for those few enchanting minutes, and everything is at peace. Life under the glow of dawn is an elated form of our human existence. Underneath this light, we are heavenly creatures, even for a few moments. We are augmented from our trivial states of living and raised into this higher level of existence, where we can be Gods and Goddesses in our own palaces, simultaneously with each of our neighbours. We are divine equals at this time, and for a few moments, everything seems invincible and too perfect to ever be destructed.
Reality sinks in soon, however, and our divine kingdoms are shattered once the all-too powerful sun arises in the mighty sky, reminding us of our triviality and inferiority. The peace is broken by the first actions that the sunlight brings, whether it is the sounds of disgruntled apprentices on way to their blacksmith shops, the angry sermons of Priests permeating through cathedrals, or simply the cry of a child, awakening its parents from their few moments of serenity. Under the sunrise, life is too wondrous to be true. It is as if God is taunting man, reminding him of what he could have had for all of eternity if he did not disobey him in that one, unforgivable instance. Ironically enough, it was woman, who provoked man to do so. It was Woman, who brought this burden to all of mankind. And still, to this very day, it is woman, and women, who eventually cause the downfall and collapse of every great man.
As I glance behind me, I gaze at the once divine beauty, who now simply appears like a maiden sleeping. Under the sunrise, she had been illuminated to a modern-day Venus. When I approach her now, I see the small flaws that remind me that she is as imperfect as anything else in my life. Her stomach is round and perhaps a bit too soft than appeals to most. Her legs are stout. Her skin does not resemble fresh cream, and on the contrary, is closer to parchment that simply has faded its sepia colouring by being left out in the summer sunlight for far too long. Imperfections plague the woman that lies in my bed, beneath my sheets, in my bed chamber.
Yet, she took me under her spell with little ease. My eyes dash over the room, searching for the remnant of my attraction to her. I find it sitting on my canvas, the portrait I had finished only a few hours prior to dawn. My lips curl into a small smile as memories flood my overcrowded mind, recalling the few words exchanged, and the hours of sheer ecstasy we shared shortly after.
Pacing over to the bed, I begin to recollect and admire just what caught my eye. She was dark, in body and mind. Her black curls strewn down her back like a veil remind me of how deeply I admired her luscious locks, both from an artist's perspective, and from a man's perspective. Her breasts are divine, large and delectable, as wonderful to depict on canvas as they are to touch and taste. Her body is full and curvaceous, a feast for the eyes when fully undressed. And her skin, though unusual in tone, adds mystery to this exotic woman.
I kissed her tenderly when she awoke, my lips following a path of their own down her delicate neck and strong shoulders, before diving into the crevice dividing her breasts, savouring the feel of each one while I had the opportunity. But as mid-morning arrived, I knew I could no longer keep this woman in my company. I ceased my temptation, rid the woman's words from my mind, and bid her farewell. Before she left, she inquired when the painting would be for sale. I told her I would send it to the main gallery, where they would take care of any more questions she had about me or my paintings. She then asked if she would ever see me again. I looked into her chocolate eyes and replied with a simple "no". It was difficult for her to accept, but I could not lie about matters such as that. The truth is painful, but it is the only way to achieve true freedom.
After she departed, I slowly made my way to my balcony. Gazing out at the city life in Firenze, I wondered how I could have ever journeyed this far from my home. London had blessed me with my talent, but did not allow me to flourish in it. I needed to escape the oppressive tyranny of London, the corruption which began to destroy my love of art and painting. Needless to say, after nearly five years of living in the Italian city, I have never longed to go back.
My eyes now survey the sights below me. The sounds of the daily life were repulsive enough to force me back into my bed chamber, but my eyes caught the figure of Marissa Visconti, the imperfect goddess I had just sent away. She was an intriguing character, to say the very least. Her stay in Firenze was only for a fortnight, all for the purpose of the famous English painter Carlisle Cullen to do a portrait of her. Initially I consented out of interest, wondering what Lorenzo Medici would think of a Visconti offspring living in his city for a few days. Her attraction captivated me, however, and I absorbed myself fully, body and mind, in Marissa while I painted her.
Perhaps it is an artist's burden, to become so engulfed with an idea or with an image, which the entire world stops. With Marissa, the whole world stopped for a few of those days as I became entirely consumed by the painting, and the story I brought to art. The colours spoke to me, blending naturally and forcibly to explain the emotions she expressed, and even some of the emotions I experienced with her. None of them were new, of course. With each woman, many emotions are provoked in which I have grown so accustomed to, I barely notice until they leave me. The emotions, that is. Women come and go, and that is a part of my life I have grown to accept. But I have always wondered about the spectrum of emotions that I have still not experienced yet. Emotions, in my belief, are like shades and colours; there are so many, and when certain ones blend together, they can create something extremely powerful and formidable. Of course, not all colours blend to create a new, beautiful shade. Some blend and form atrocious colours, which should never be used even when painting the angriest of paintings. Still, there is that never-ending thought within my mind that imagines perhaps one day, with one woman, an entirely new part of me will be opened, where these emotions will be created and blended into something I have never experienced, nor cannot contain.
My thoughts are futile, I have come to accept. As romantic as my mind can be, it is idealist, and certainly not in touch with the reality I will face each day. Women are useful for two things; images for painting, and making love. It has been proven over time that women have been the factors to cause men to collapse when too closely intricate into their lives, and thus, I shall never allow a woman to participate in my life other than when I need her for one of the two tasks she is strong at.
I sigh, growing tired of the same sights and sounds I witness each day. There is Mazzini arguing with the market man over his price for fresh fish; A frustrated mother carries her infant through the throngs of self-interested shoppers en route to morning mass; a few young boys torment the mass of pigeons that seek refuge in the center of the square. Nothing out of the ordinary...nothing of interest to me.
That was, of course, until my eyes rush to the frame of an unfamiliar young woman. She is strange, almost exotic in appearance. Her hair is almost entirely covered up by a crimson veil, but the few strands framing her face signal that is it not dark; rather, it is a handsome auburn. Her frame is lean, her arms appearing to be strong as she lifts up a rather large case of something from one of the market stands. Her skin is not pale, but rather smooth and evenly toned, untouched by the sun. She is exquisite, and though my mind reminds me that my eyes could very well be deceiving me, I banish the thought. This woman will not be gone from my memory until she is in my presence. This woman has immediately enchanted me. And soon, I know that this woman will be the subject of my next work.