CPOV

I held my hand over my mouth and backed away from the table, until I could grasp something, anything, to keep me from approaching Edward again. I had barely been able to stop drinking his blood, despite my precautions. I'd fixed Elizabeth Masen's face in my mind before biting him, remembering her words, her pleading eyes. Hoping that the memory of her—her last wish, and her faith in me—would counteract the first taste of human blood. It had only just worked. I'd tried to merely bite, and not drink, but I was so startled by the flavor that I'd drawn in a mouthful, and that had almost been my undoing. I'd drained more of him than was necessary, taking several gulps as I fought to control myself, willing myself to let go. My eyes had seen only crimson, once his soft throat lay open beneath my lips, the pulsing blood so much more fragrant and delectable than anything I'd tasted or even dreamed of before. I'd shuddered in near ecstasy. I'd finally understood something of Aro's perspective. If I'd started with this ambrosia, and didn't see humans as true people, it would be hard to imagine feeding on anything else. It had finally been the vision of Aro's crimson eyes, superimposed with Elizabeth Masen's green ones, that had allowed me to pull away from Edward's open throat: the fear of what I might become, juxtaposed with all I hoped I was worthy of.

I clung to the doorframe behind me as my breathing slowed and my vision returned to a normal spectrum. I'd done it. The bloodlust was passing and I hadn't killed him. His heart still beat…I swallowed down another surge of venom at the thought. Edward was not my prey. He was a person, and I hoped, one day, perhaps a friend. I let out a haggard breath.

The wound on his neck had already sealed, the venom taking immediate effect. His smell had almost changed enough that I could approach and clean the blood from the wound, but I didn't dare quite yet. He would have a scar, like mine. I'd thought about trying to bite him somewhere less obvious, but all I really knew was my own transformation, and the safest thing to do was replicate my own wound. The scar would fade, after all…humans never noticed mine. Edward started to twitch, and I knew that the rest of my experience was about to be replicated as well. Sympathy flooded me, and I hoped again that Edward would forgive me for this selfish act. His body began to thrash, and the predator within me was completely suppressed; I'd already started toward him when his eyes opened wide and he let out an agonizing scream. The doctor in me immediately took over, and I was standing by his side, washing his wound, stroking his hair, trying to reassure him that he wasn't alone, that the pain would pass, that his new life would be free of sickness. Watching his eyes, I could tell he neither saw nor heard much of what surrounded him. I wished I'd had the foresight to take some sedative when I left the hospital. I wondered as I watched him suffer, if I could have eased his pain with ether or morphine; I wished I'd remembered it as I left the hospital, but I hadn't been thinking that far ahead. I had some tools in my black bag upstairs, but only local anesthetics and mild pain relievers—useless.

Though his eyes had searched for contact when he first began crying out, they were now unseeing; he was completely consumed with his own agony. If memory served, it would last for days. I stayed with him, despite knowing he was not aware I was there. It was right that I suffer with him, but it was time that I finally did think ahead. I was no longer racing his heart or the sun; there was time to think of the future now. What did I need to do before he awoke? What would he need to be comfortable here? I took his paltry inheritance from my pockets. The cigarette case and two rings were all that he had to remember his previous life…it was barely more than I had, but all that was duly his lay only a few miles away. How was I to secure it for him?

I wasn't worried about him needing wealth. I had plenty to share for now. It was the heirlooms I wished to secure…his ties to his family and past. Though I must consider the possibility that he will not always wish to stay with me. I sighed at the thought, but I must prepare for it. His parents, I felt sure, would have prepared for him to be able to support himself with an education, some wealth, and some instruction on how to protect that wealth. I was a poor substitute for his parents, but would do what I could. The first step was to ensure he actually inherited his parents' estate.

I grew frustrated with myself. I'd thought I was so clever, being so careful with his chart. Now I regretted it. When the cremation took place later today, a death certificate would be created, based on the time of death I'd just written in his chart an hour earlier. This would be problematic for the inheritance. I sighed, contemplating the problem. The morgue was completely overwhelmed; all that really needed to be done was to sow a seed of doubt. The family house itself would remain under quarantine for at least a week; no one would be taking stock of the estate until that point, and it would likely take longer than that. It would be feasible that Edward had been discharged to a relative once his parents passed, and that some other young man had been mistaken for him in the confusion of the epidemic. All I really had to do was strip the file of the time of death, and make a reference to a discharge, without an actual time. No death certificate could be created. Then a letter sent in a week or so to the family lawyer explaining that Edward had been released to a distant relative, where he was recovering slowly, would put the estate in limbo until he was able to present himself and claim it. His eyes would change from crimson to amber after a few months, and then it was just a matter of waiting for his control to be sufficient for a meeting. Even if he had to wait an entire year, it seemed likely that letters could drag out the proceedings enough to allow for it. I knew enough law to be able to draw this out. And if it looked like we were failing in our efforts, there were other ways to secure the most precious keepsakes for him.

The plan formulated in my mind. I hated to leave Edward, but I could do what was necessary at the hospital and be back within an hour, and his condition was not going to change before then. My home was isolated enough that I had little fear of his cries leading others to him in his unprotected state. The question became whether I show up at the hospital, claiming to have missed my train, or be completely clandestine. I looked at my reflection in the mirror; my eyes had a slight crimson tinge, but it would probably not be noticeable to humans. I looked out the window, and noticed the slight overcast of the day. It would be risky to do it now; the sun could break out at any moment. I could easily be caught. However, if I waited, it would be more likely that I'd missed my chance to change the chart discretely, without having to tamper with other records as well…the more complicated this became, the more likely I'd miss a step and have contradictory elements in the records that would not pass scrutiny. And the longer I waited, the more likely Edward would become aware of his surroundings without me here to help him.

"Edward," I said, stroking his hair again. He was whimpering, having exhausted himself somewhat with his cries. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able. I'm so sorry. This is new for me, too," I added as an excuse for my lack of foresight.

I grabbed a long coat, gloves, and a hat, so that I could minimize my skin exposure once I got to the city. I left the house directly, blurring back though the forest as quickly as possible. I tried to think of what else I might have missed. He would need a room; a place to claim as his own, where he could avoid me, if he liked. I didn't know what he would want in it, but I could at least clear my belongings out of one so he had the option. If we were going to be successful in a claim with a lawyer, we were going to need documents. I could forge them, of course, but it would prove embarrassing if the real ones then turned up in the house. So a visit was going to be necessary while it was under quarantine. For any other plans, I was going to need information that only Edward could supply. I reached the edge of the forest, and came to a stop, trying to decide how to proceed.

The streets were not terribly crowded; it was after the initial rush of businessmen getting to their offices, but well before the shops opened. However, I didn't know who might be watching from the windows. I made sure my hat was pulled down low, hunched my shoulders so I was looking down, and moved as fast as humanly possible though the several blocks to the back of the hospital, where a shadowy alley held a service entrance to the hospital. After waiting several agonizing minutes for the alley to clear, and the sounds behind the door to fade as well, I slipped in and made my way to the back of the morgue. I hid in the shadows as two men rolled another gurney down the hall toward the crematorium. When silence fell on the morgue again, I sped to the waiting bodies, relieved to see the Masens still there, only three back from the front now. I removed the toe tag from the boy standing in for Edward, and rushed to the dead file, where I'd placed all the charts just hours earlier. They were gone, and panic seized me, until I saw a stack of charts on the table in the corner, apparently in alphabetical order. I grabbed Edward's and moved to a darkened closet, where I could review and alter it without fear of being caught, while still being able to hear anything happening in the morgue.

I quickly altered the chart appropriately, crumpling and pocketing the page with the death and replacing it with a notation of the death of the parents, and requesting contact for familial discharge. Then I read the portion of the chart I'd never bothered with: the section in the back with the billing contact—this was likely the estate lawyer, or someone appropriate to contact about it. I already knew his next of kin, but I read further, to any family contacts listed. When I'd gleaned everything I could, I listened carefully at the door, and then made my way back to the table, replacing Edward's chart, and then leaving the hospital for what I knew must be my last time. The Masens were no longer in the morgue; I'd been just in time.

It was frustrating to walk at a human pace on my way back to the forest; I was desperate to be back with Edward now. I really had no idea how long the process would take, or how aware he might be. I hated the idea of him being there, wanting comfort, and finding himself alone. The wind picked up, and my hat almost blew off, nearly exposing me to the sun. But I made it to the forest's edge, and removed my hat under the shelter of the trees and bolted the rest of the way home.

Edward was groaning and thrashing on the table, his fingers grasping the edges so hard that I was sure he would eventually destroy the table. I tried to soothe him again, explaining where I'd been, what I'd done, and why. I stroked his hair, his cheek. I didn't imagine that he could understand me yet, but I hoped that somehow he would register that he wasn't alone; that he was cared for.

I spent the next day alternating between being by his side and preparing the house for him. I cleared his room, and organized the living room so that my books were not strewn over the entire place. I was so used to being alone. No one had so much as entered one of my homes since I left Europe. I kept trying to imagine sharing the space, deciding what he would need to feel it was at least in part his, and pull myself back to the remaining portion of the room. I grew nervous too, that this effort was wasted—that he would hate me for doing this to him, and never consider this place a home. How would I have reacted if that old wraith from the London sewer had tried to befriend me? I shuddered at the thought.

How could I possibly explain this in a way that would ease his transition? I had believed in monsters when I'd been transformed; I'd recognized what I'd become, knew the danger to myself and to others. But Edward lived in a modern, apparently monster-free world. It was not going to be easy for him to accept. And it would be harder still to accept that I had not done it to be cruel—that I'd had his mother's blessing, her specific dying request, even. How would he ever believe it? He'd been completely delirious his last hours in the hospital. He would remember none of it. I'd have to tell him of the loss of his family, the loss of his humanity, the loss of his home—I was overwhelmed with the profound nature of that loss, and the fact that I'd only have myself to offer as compensation. What a miserable exchange. I was filled with sympathy for him, actually aching when I thought of his likely reaction. I also felt fear for myself. He would be devastated, and likely angry, and much, much stronger than me.

I stayed with him constantly now, trying to soothe him, noticing the change in his skin, his color, even his features as the transformation drew to a close. I could hear the change in his heart, too. His eyes were closed, but he still thrashed and clawed at the table, removing splinters from the edge. I explained to him that the pain would end soon, he would awaken soon, and that he was not alone. I tried to focus on my hope, even as my dread grew.

EPOV

Time began again. I noticed two things. First, my mind could focus on things other than pain. The pain had not abated in the slightest, but I could think around it. I could notice smells, and the feeling of wood beneath my fingers, and movement of air on my face. I could acknowledge these things, even while acknowledging that the pain was just as terrible as it had ever been. It was a relief to think about something else.

Second, there was a voice. I was not alone. I could not place the voice, though it was oddly familiar. But it was there, and it was constant. Really constant. It never stopped. It changed in tone. Sometimes it was clear, and I could feel cool breath on my cheek. Other times it sounded softer, more resonant perhaps. It was like the difference between a note played on a harpsichord, clean and sharp, and the same note on a cello, rich and melodious. But it was the same note; the same voice. I wondered at how the voice could change, welcoming the distraction, but it made little sense.

I wondered if I didn't appear to be burning. Surely, if I were actually alight, the voice would not be so calm. Surely it would scream, and its owner take action. But the voice was ever calm, ever soothing, ever…worried. The voice worried a lot. It worried about me, and books, and lawyers, and my mother. The voice knew my mother. Perhaps it was a relative. Perhaps I appeared to be in a coma. I'd read stories of soldiers coming home from war with brain injuries, and the doctors would have family members talk to them constantly to try to wake them up. Perhaps this voice was trying to wake me up. Perhaps people came out of comas when they were finally too annoyed to listen to the voice drone on anymore.

The harpsichord voice was soothing and encouraging. It told me that the pain was nearly over, that I wasn't alone, that I wouldn't be sick anymore. I remembered the hospital, though it was difficult—like looking through fog. I remembered light bulbs and fireflies, and music and squeaking wheels, but mostly pain. I wanted to believe the voice, believe that I wouldn't be sick anymore, that somehow this fire was burning the illness from me. The cello voice said not to worry, that things would be fine. But it was unsure. The cello voice was worried, frightened even. Frightened for me. Frightened of me. Sometimes the two voices would overlap, talking of different things, like a discordant duet. It was confusing.

Cutting suddenly through my confusion, the pain became worse again, as though all the pain throughout my body were concentrating, moving to my center, to my heart. This meant that my extremities felt reprieve: my fingers were suddenly cool and pain free, as though they'd been doused in cold, magical water. The cool water moved up my arms and legs, quenching the fire, soothing the flesh, but my mind could barely register the relief; the pain in my center was growing unbearable. I felt my core quake, even as my limbs went limp. My breath grew quick and shallow, as if extra oxygen might douse the searing flame. My heart accelerated, straining. And then failing: each heartbeat more difficult than the last. The voice was wrong. I was dying. My heart was failing, and the pain was going to win after all. I waited for it, beyond hope, beyond fear, just waiting for the pain to end.

And then it did. My heart stopped. The pain was gone. All was quiet. Almost. I could hear breathing. My own breathing. That can't be right. I opened my eyes, and saw a small crystal light fixture refracting light in every direction. Each minute beam of light caught dust floating and spiraling in the air. As I breathed I saw the particles swirl and dive. It was so beautiful.

Cracks on the ceiling stretched like an intricate spider web. My eyes roamed, noticing the depth of the colors, the detail, the enhanced contrast that made everything look crisp and vibrant and clear. It was as though I'd spent my entire life within a photograph, but woke now to find that I inhabited an oil painting, exquisitely created by a master, rich with detail…all of which I could see, no matter how distant.

Edward? It was the cello voice.

Suddenly I was crouching, with a table between the voice and myself. How had I done that? I can't move that fast. I scanned the room for danger, looking in the direction of the voice. I saw a man standing against the wall, wary, but beautiful. I stood, tilting my head slightly as I studied him. There was no danger. I knew him. I remembered him dimly, as being good—though I didn't remember him being this…illuminated.

"It's you," I said, and then was startled by my own voice. It was musical, lustrous. My face must have registered surprise. He smiled.

"Yes."

"The angel from the hospital," I added, suddenly aware of the light from the window being thrown into dozens of rainbows against the wall from the crystal light. It was strange how my eyes could not stay on a single object, but were constantly drawn to new things. I was so easily distracted

I'm no angel.

"No? No, of course. Doctor. I meant doctor," I said, looking at him again. "You were with my mother."

"Yes," he said, watching me carefully. Something was wrong. He looked startled. I crouched again, looking for the danger, but found none. I abruptly realized this was not the hospital, and stood again.

"I was burning."

"Yes," he said, sorrow in his eyes.

I raised my hand to my throat. "I burn still, and my heart is still…" My eyes grew wide, and I paused briefly, trying to make sense of everything. "Is this hell?" I finally asked.

"No, Edward," he said smiling gently. "Illinois."

I shook my head, bewildered. "It's too bright to be Illinois."

"It's disorienting, I know. The new perceptions…you'll get accustomed to them. I'll help you."

"No, this must be a dream, or an afterlife. My heart is still! My afterlife is in Illinois? Is that purgatory then? It can't be heaven…where is my family? Wait..." Dim memories from the hospital flooded my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut against them. "Where is my family? My father is dead, isn't he?" I looked around to find him in this strange oil-painting-of-Illinois afterlife.

"Yes, I'm so sorry. Do you remember the hospital?"

"A little," I said, as a birdsong caught my attention from the open window. I shook the distraction away. What was wrong with me? "It's all jumbled, and dark…"

Poor boy. It will be such a shock.

"What will?" I asked, looking at him. His eyes were wide again. This was getting annoying. "What? What will be shocking?" I remembered the hospital again, and realized that my last memories were of this man talking to my mother, trying to help her, as she struggled, and then…chaos around her bed. I took in a tortured gasp. "Oh, she's gone too, isn't she? My mother?" He didn't have to say anything; I could see on his face it was true. "Oh God, no!" I wailed, covering my face. I sobbed, but I was unable to cry. Everything was wrong.

"Edward, I'm so sorry." He was at my side, his hand on my shoulder; he was trying to comfort me. As he had been while I burned, I realized now. With my eyes covered, I recognized the harpsichord voice. It had been him, trying to help me all along.

"But where are they? If I'm dead, and they're dead, why aren't I with them?"

"You're not dead."

"Look," I said, frustrated beyond control, "I'm no doctor, but I know if your heart is still, you're dead. And my heart is still. And yet I speak. And breathe. It makes no sense!" Rage was starting to overwhelm me.

We're vampi…

"Vampires don't exist!" I yelled, looking up as I cut him off.

He froze, stunned. And then calmly continued. "They do, actually. I've been one a very long time." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "And now you are one too."

I stared at him. "No," I insisted.

"Your mother could tell you were dying. She asked me, begged me to save you."

"You don't think she might have been talking about medicine?" I asked sarcastically.

"She knew you were beyond that, she knew there was no other way, she wanted you to survive…like me."

And then I saw it. I saw his kind, worried face, and superimposed on it I saw my mother's haggard wan face pleading for me to be saved. You are more than that. Save him as only you can. Promise me! Only you can save him! The cello voice answered I promise!

"STOP THAT!" I cried. "What are you doing? Why are you doing that?"

His face was confused. "I'm not doing anything Edward, I'm just trying to explain…"

"I don't want to see her like that! Don't make me see her!"

He shook his head, genuinely confused, and then his eyes narrowed. I covered my face with my hands, trying to block out the vision of my mother so sick, so close to death. I tried to remember her beautiful and vibrant. It seemed very important that I recall these earlier memories of her…try to wash away the memories of her from the hospital.

Edward?

"WHAT?" I yelled, resenting the interruption. I did not want those memories of her. I wanted the other memories: on the shore, dancing with father, smiling at me with warm, sparkling eyes. I looked at him; his eyes were still narrow.

"I'm very sorry. I know this is a big adjustment, but I'm sure we…"

"There's no 'we'," I yelled. "My family is DEAD. I should be DEAD. You stole that from me…if this is even true. How could you?" And then I saw something else in him. He'd been lonely. My mother's request had been a justification, but he'd acted from loneliness. He saw me as family, as a friend, as a son. "NO!" I cried viciously. "I had a father!" I said pushing him away. I backed away from him, toward the door. "My father is dead. And YOU…" I pointed at him accusingly. "You made me a monster!" My vision was changing again, like a veil of red had been put in front of my eyes. I snarled in frustration, overwhelmed with having yet another completely new experience when I already had lost so much of myself. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

I ran out the door and into the forest. The speed at which I was traveling startled me, distracting me momentarily. The red veil thinned as I found joy in the run, while simultaneously feeling all the pain of my innumerable losses. The burn in my throat, the pain in my mind, and the exultation of my limbs all propelled me forward, and away… away from him.

Edward, NO! Stop, please! I need to help you!

I could hear him pursuing me. I could hear the desperation in his voice. But it grew fainter as I pushed my legs to carry me faster, the forest starting to blur even in my new, ultra-accurate vision.