Purpose.
Carlisle's favorite word.
Every person, mortal or immortal, in the world had a purpose.
Some led them through tangled brambles, others traipsing through thorny hearts, or through a bottomless sea of obstacles.
Yet it also provided a path of glorious enchantment, of tender kisses and cradled feelings, and a safe harbor to glide into.
Just as every soul has a purpose, every purpose needs a soul.
Carlisle had answered the beckoning call of his. It was a purpose that cried out for his compassion, a purpose mingled and rooted with his solid belief of making good work from his immortal existence.
Without purpose he would be akin to a drifting pebble caught in a typhoon of eternity; never finding a nook or cranny to settle into.
Oh yes, Carlisle held an appreciation for the word and its definition. It was the definition of his work, carved into everything he did, every word he spoke, and every breath he took.
Purpose defined his world.