sin beckons
not deceived by honey
he resists
It's always there in the back of his mind, calling out to him and reminding him of how disturbingly simple it would be to give in. It would be easy to let himself be swept away in its tide of degeneracy. All it would take is a momentary lapse of reason – a single bite – and the bloodlust would take over. Within moments, he would find himself stranded in the middle of a sea of frivolous debauchery. The shoreline would be out of sight, and so he would have no way of ever returning to it. As such, no one would expect him to seriously try. He could exert a token effort before giving up gracefully and without consequence. From that point on, he wouldn't have to think anymore; he could just be and, more importantly, do.
The idea repels him, yet, even when he's at his most resolute, its temptations resound in his head like sweet nothings whispered into a lover's ear. Honey paints the murmurs with a thick coat of sweetness, concealing the true violence of the words. He has heard enough about the pleasure of succumbing to know that all of its promises are completely founded. After all, Aro used to take great joy in describing the experience in painstaking detail in an attempt to lure him into the swell.
Humans and vampires alike inevitably get dragged under the glistening surface, but only one of them can indefinitely survive without air. He could survive forever out there, survive until the stars stop burning and the world stops turning. Judgement might chase him, but he could run with the speed of the sunlight that sends sparkles across his skin like a message and the never-ending endurance of the gravity that keeps him grounded.
One day, however, he would be caught. A snare would entrap him, and something would kill him; a venomous snake, perhaps, or a shark. It would be an excruciating end to a gratuitous life, demanding payment for an elongated half-life of selfishness. And then all of the repercussions would catch back up to him, only the wait would have sharpened their edges and amplified the agony of punishment.
It is tempting to give in anyway. Volterra would welcome him back in a human's heartbeat; he could return to his old friends to live among them and run alongside them. They could live together in the false bliss of ignorance and use all of the resources of the Volturi to hold off their pursuer.
But he doesn't want that.
Because it's not just about the consequences and the uncertainty and the fear; that he could risk. He could conceivably live until Judgement Day; he could revel for centuries before repenting, toying with the rush of the chase before saving himself from the penalties.
The thing is that it's also about life and love and faith. Human life is worth more than sating his tastebuds or quenching his thirst. Love and compassion constantly pleads with him to resist the urges, their voices a shout in comparison to the blood's whisper. And his faith promises him that there is more and makes him yearn to meet his omnipresent shepherd.
He knows that Edward thinks he's some sort of saint. Despite his mindreading abilities, he somehow thinks Carlisle's a better man than he actually is. It's flattering and motivating and reinforces his desire to constantly strive to be a better person, but, in his opinion, it's far from true.
After all, he's only doing what any decent human being would do.
A/N: Written for the If You Dare Challenge for the prompt, 'Angel on the Precipice'.