None of the characters mentioned herein belong to me. They are the property of Stephenie Meyer and associates and I derive no monetary gain from these stories.

A short drabble that examines Carlisle's intimate relationship with Guilt. Please enjoy and please review if the notion so takes you.

Thank you.

She has long ago accepted the strange relationship, though at times she sees the shadow of it dance through his eyes and it becomes all too real. He will be reading, or having a rare play fight with Emmett, or standing over one of her blueprints admiringly, and she will see it veil his face. She knows it like she knows lack of sleep or lust for blood. She dryly congratulates herself on recognising the turn of his mouth as it grimaces into disbelief at what he has done.

Her husband broke his relationship with Solitude in order to become the bed-mate of Guilt. She is so very aware of the trade.

And Guilt is a cruel mistress.

She could be angry at him for his indiscretion, throw fury at him for his perfidy, but there is nothing but pity in her, nothing but love.

Tonight he was watching Edward play, a melancholy movement from their earlier days, and she saw his shoulders slump slightly. To the rest of them it is a manifestation of relaxation or perhaps of mental fatigue. But she knows this so well that her heart, if it could thrum, would brace itself against the agony she knows is to come. She wants to be his shield.

Edward, privy to the agony, hastens through the movement as he rushes the last few bars and the rest of them chide him for his laziness. Then Edward closes the lid of the piano and excuses himself because he can't bare to hear it.

I will shoulder it Edward, she says softly, You've done enough.

Then Carlisle makes his excuses and retires to his study. Time for your perfidy, she thinks, time for your punishment.

In his study it is cool, and she will always associate the smell of ink and leather and parchment with him because of this room. His desk is clear. He has lit one candle directly in front of himself.

He is bent over, his hands cradling his head as if he cannot hold it up. She thinks for a moment, that this is the worst surrender yet to his mistress. He might be praying or he might be burning - they look the same.

She mutters a little "Oh!"

Then she rushes towards him, crashing his head to her chest as she kneels beside him. He does not fight her embrace. Instead he sinks like a weight, falling onto the floor beside her.

"I took it from them," he says slowly, "I took it from you. God forgive me."

Tonight, while he battles with this demonic bed-fellow, she will cast her mind back to the stars above her as she woke, transformed. They were not stars, she will recall, they were the burning gold of his eyes. They were the stars that marked her salvation.

There were unconventional marriages in her time as a human. She wishes that his mistress was tangible and not just a cruelty that he does not deserve. She wishes, at times, that he would not so readily love Guilt as he does. That she could be enough for him.

Not only is Guilt a cruel mistress. She is an eternal one too. Her visits are infrequent but they come as a storm when they do happen, blackening stars and scattering happiness.

Any angsty drabble. Please review. Thank you.