A/n: A Carlisle and Esme fanfiction; one of my favorite couples. Their story is so romantic; I wish they had their own series! :)

Sunrise

The first time I killed a man, I cried- or almost, anyways. He was an innocent traveller, walking the forested dirt roads on a journey to nowhere- a drifter seeking work during the Depression of the thirties. His meagre belongings slung across his back, and he whistled a tune too cheerful for the life he lived.

For ten years, I had managed to avoid people. Carlisle hid me from the outside world, hoping to nurse me through the difficult newborn years with no bloodshed. However, I yearned to explore, to view the world through my heightened senses; to smell the pine needles, my favourite scent; to listen to the inane chattering of squirrels and smile; and then, ultimately, to return home and fall in love with my beloved's welcoming smile all over again.

Nevertheless, such ideals are foolish as a vampire. The good comes with consequences, with evils such heightened senses provoke.

Moreover, this man, with his living, breathing skin, with his pulsing, gushing blood, called out to me like the devil. And I, lured by such temptation, such irrational lust to conquer my thirst, sang like a bird. The wheedling notes caught his attention like a Siren. His head turned inquisitively, and his eyes, blue, wide, and innocent, met my red ones with astonishment, then terror. His face contorted into panic, and he whirled to run, screaming.

His shrieks of panic gurgled into death as I killed him, sucked him dry, then deposited him under a nearby tree like trash. My thirst quenched for the moment, my rationality returned, and I realized, dumbstruck, what I had done.

His belongings scattered across the dirt, and blood droplets had fallen here and there. All were witness to his murder, to the fact that I was a killer. A murderer.

I was no better than the husband I'd fled, the man who had abused me- who had sucked the joy right out of my future, just as I'd slurped the vitality out of that man. That man, who surely had a family, hopes and dreams and loves, as well as his own fears and demons to overcome, was dead as a doornail- at my hands.

I looked at his pale, bruised face, at his sightless blue eyes, his once-smiling lips, who had surely once kissed a woman with as much passion as he'd defiantly faced the world with a tune. Fearless against the Depression, powerless against me. He might have been somebody great one day.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, hands shaking uncontrollably. My entire body quivered like an alcoholic in need of his ale, in the yearning and desire for both more blood, and a chance to undo my deed.

Dry, hitching sobs erupted from my throat, and I turned and ran back into the woods, leaving that poor, lonely body alone. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hoped somebody came along and gave him proper burial. I covered my face with my hands to block his image from my mind, to hide my shame, but my demeanour betrayed me when I entered our house.

It was a tiny log cabin, just enough for Edward, Carlisle, Rosalie, and I. When I came in, my dress torn and tattered, smeared with blood and convulsing with self-hatred, Rosalie looked up from the book she was reading and gave an uncompassionate sniff. Her eyes were redder than mine, as she was truly new-born, but she paid little heed to Carlisle's lectures about the sanctity of human life.

But I had seen the look of disappointment on his face when Edward accounted his various failings, and my stomach felt like lead to have to admit my own. Edward was playing chess with Carlisle at a small wooden table, using wooden stumps as chairs. He was winning, if only because he could tell Carlisle's moves before he used them. His brow creased in pretend concentration, a habit carried over from his human years.

Carlisle sighed and flicked over his queen. I watched it fall, heart sinking, feeling like that queen- defeated, the loser of an inner battle. He sat back, smiling affectionately at his adopted son. His amber eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, and his blonde hair was ruffled from constantly running his fingers through it. Moreover, that face, first seen at sixteen and never forgotten, pale and kind, handsome and sympathetic, made everything so much harder. As well as his intellect and self-discipline, such admirable qualities in our kind, contrasted so much with my futile attempts.

Edward, I thought, and noticed him start. He had been so focussed on his game that he had neglected to notice my distress. Now he turned to me, reading my face and thoughts before nudging Carlisle gently. "Esme," he said in a low voice. Carlisle's beautiful face turned towards me, and I felt both heartbroken and hopeful at once.

"What is it, Esme?" he asked, brow creased in such human concern.

"I…I killed somebody," I whispered, my throat clogged from imaginary tears.

"Oh no," he breathed, rushing forward to gather me in his arms. Every movement was fluid and graceful, and I melted into him as easily as if we had been moulded together by a potter's hand. My arms snaked around his neck, and I inhaled his scent of pine and old books, such a deep, warm scent that my entire body hummed. I nearly forgot my grief as my still-young body wracked with the overpowering desire.

His arms around my waist tightened, and when he leaned back, I could see in his eyes that he felt the same. It made me feel a tiny bit better, as he had centuries of practice on me. I sighed, and he propped his chin on my hair. His nearness, his acceptance despite my horrid sin, made my dead body feel alive again.

However, that did not excuse my actions, and an explanation was still in order.

Reluctantly, every nerve in my body screaming not to, I stepped back from his embrace, taking his hands instead.

"I need to tell you," I said. He nodded, his face solemn, eyes grave.

Without another word, we left the house and ran out of Edward's hearing range, bounding over rocks and rivers, leaping like deer through clearings, until we reached the wildness of the mountain's peak. The forest was sparser here, tiny copses integrated throughout the rocky formations.

Carlisle sat on an outcropping, beckoning me to join him. Twilight was setting in, the sky overhead cloudy grey. I sat on the furthest edge of the rock, furthest from him as possible. The pull of his body tugged at me like ceaseless, nagging fingers, and I struggled to keep myself in check.

Carlisle tilted his head to observe the ominous sky. "Looks like rain," he remarked, trying to soothe the tense atmosphere. I said nothing.

Finally, he turned to me. "What happened?" he asked, tone light and without judgement.

"I… I just lost it," I whispered, shamed.

"Who was it?"

"A drifter. He had his little traveling pack and everything. He had a future," I said. If I had been human, tears would be streaming down my face. Carlisle watched me, face intent and gentle. My lips trembled. As a vampire, all my senses were sensitive and passionate, and sorrow without the relief of tears pains even more.

"Do you still love me?" I asked, my voice high and uncertain like bells tolling on the wrong day. "Do you regret turning me into a vampire?"

"Oh Esme," he said, as though he talked to a silly child, "I will always love you. Does God stop loving men because they forgot His name? Oh no, darling." Scuttling towards me, I could not retreat; his eyes held me as though in an embrace. His hands came up to cradle my face, his touch sending jolts running along my skin. I gasped, gripping his arms so hard my nails dug into them. "And any regret on my part comes from my own musings on the human soul," he added. "It has nothing to do with my love for you. For heavens' sake, Esme, you are my soul. You're what makes me feel human again."

His words were comforting, as soothing as healing balm. Yet they reminded me like a slap on the face how different we were; how we'd never live in the safety of human ignorance again. How we'd never be blameless of blood-guilt, how our very natures demanded others' sacrifice.

"How do you do it?" I blurted as he leaned towards me. He paused, eyes wide and startled.

"Do what?" he asked, in a surprising moment of, dared I say it, stupidity. Or perhaps he'd lost himself in the moment, as I surely would have if my thoughts had not been so plagued with guilt.

"Not kill them? It's so hard."

He smiled grimly. "Lots of practice, love. Lots of practice."

"But it hurts," I gasped. My hands moved from his arms to his face, caressing his cheekbones and trailing across his brow. He closed his eyes, relaxing under my touch. I was suddenly struck by how stressed he always seemed; he was like a father caring for his forward brood, trying to keep us all out of trouble.

"Carlisle," I said, and my tone caused his eyes to open again, peering straight at me questioningly. "I'm going to do better," I said confidently. "I'm going to become your equal. I will help you care for our coven. I will not make promises I cannot keep, but I will try harder. And I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven, love," he said. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, and it took every bit of control I had not to kiss him.

"Do you remember where you killed him?"

I nodded; I remembered all too well. Together, we made the quick trek to the crossroads. There, we found his mangled body. I knew his motives as soon as he began to dig with his hands, as a dog digs a hole to bury a bone. I helped him, and by the time we had placed his body in the makeshift grave and buried him, our pale skin was smeared with dirt. My hair was clumped with mud, my light blue dress tattered, Carlisle's white suit brown and torn.

We stood at the foot of the mound, Carlisle's cross of sticks marking the place. He murmured a few words and placed a pine needle on top, instead of flowers. I did the same. As we headed back for home, it slowly began to rain.

Just before the little cabin came into view, Carlisle's arm wound around me and crushed me against my chest. His lips pressed against mine. My heart plummeted into my stomach, and I meshed myself against him. How I wanted him to absorb me, to become so wholly part of him that we were synonyms in the dictionary.

"Esme," I heard Edward moan in disgust from the house. Carlisle smiled against my lips, and his kiss deepened. There was one good thing about not needing to breathe.

My fingers clenched his shirt, wrinkling it, as his hands gripped my waist, gently stroked my neck. Carlisle broke away first, only to kiss my brow, my hair, my ears, my neck, my eyelids, my cheeks, my chin. All the planes of my face, every contour. Bliss, pure and content, filled me. I was forgiven, and perhaps, with such love to live for, I could be better. The rain soaked through our clothes, slicking his hair against my fingers as I ran them across his head, his skin, his neck.

I loved him; I loved him so much. And he loved me, as he always would. He knew I wasn't perfect, and didn't expect me to be. But I wanted to try.

However, if I failed, the sun would always rise again, and Carlisle would always love me. There would always be someone who would help me rise again, get back on my feet after a failure.

The rain gradually lessened, the clouds parting to let through the sun. Carlisle sighed, kissing me again before intertwining his fingers with mine. As one, we walked into the house.

I turned back only once, on the threshold, to whisper an apology to that unnamed drifter. The wind snatched my words and scattered them to the woods, before Carlisle drew me inwards, towards eternity.

Just as I knew it would, the next morning the sun glimmered across the horizon, marking the come of a new day. I would face it, along with its gifts and curses, accepting the good with the bad, doing what good I could accomplish and gracefully rebounding from my failures.

That afternoon, I stole through the forest and laid a bouquet of wildflowers on his grave, so I would never forget. When I returned, Carlisle smiled at me, and my heart felt full to the brim. I wouldn't forget that drifter, but I wouldn't forget mercy either, or compassion. Or love.

For just as the sun ascends the mountains to take its throne in the sky, I would conquer my thirst and become a vampire fit to be Carlisle's mate.

"I'll become your queen," I murmured to him that night. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"You promise?" he asked, arms around me. I nodded, filled with satisfaction as his face lighted up like a lantern. I stroked his hair from his face, kissing the tip of his nose. He sighed like a little boy being tucked into bed by his mother, relaxed and content.

"I promise," I whispered, eyes straying to the window, waiting for the first glint, the first promise, of sunrise.