Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant.

Very, Very Seldom

"A man can seldom - very, very, seldom - fight a winning fight against his training; the odds are too heavy."— Mark Twain

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Edward's POV

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I've always known of my obsessive personality trait. It isn't exclusive to my being a vampire.

When human, I can still remember how it was made manifest. There is no question I came from an affluent, privileged background. My family was upper-crust, and I wanted for nothing material.

One would think this can make anyone happy. Not wanting for material possessions is a good thing, I wouldn't lie about that, but it isn't everything, and as a young human boy, I felt it acutely.

My father, being the big-time attorney that he was never really had time for mother or myself. With his many obligations filling his already full schedule, time was limited. For a young boy who craves his father's attention and approval, it doesn't mix quite well.

So I found myself compensating and controlling what I could.

I was an extremely neat person, somewhat fussy about needing my possession in a certain way, organized to perfection. It was something I could control.

My mother's affection was another thing I found myself needing regularly, needing the reassurances. Being her only child, she almost overwhelmed me with her attention. Perhaps, like my human counterpart, she also felt the need to love something wholly; the need to have it returned.

My piano playing and practice was something I never neglected. I wanted to be perfect, to never make a mistake while playing. I was obsessive about putting time aside to practice. I never let anything interfere with it. I needed to excel at it. My grades for school also fell in this category. I excelled.

When older, and still not really getting the attention or approval I required from my father, it started to become clear that it was too late.

I was set in my ways, just like Edward Sr., and my heart had moved on (or so we like to fool ourselves). I now obsessively controlled the things I could and disregarded the rest. Trifling things had nothing to do with me. Out of sight, out of mind.

But the thing which had really captured me, called out to me, was the thought of becoming a soldier.

I couldn't remember where or when the obsession started, but I believed in the cause so very deeply. I wanted to enlist and fight.

But with this came the obligation I felt first to my mother. She wanted war nowhere near me. Elizabeth Masen thought her son too talented for war. She saw bigger things for my life.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the person, I never got to realize the obsession one way or the other. By the time I thought of enlisting, both mother and father came down with Spanish Influenza. It wasn't long after that I also became sick.

Even after Dr. Cullen had changed and taught me his way of life, I could still feel that obsessive need in me. It hadn't gone away with the burn of venom in my veins. It could be argued, the venom made it worse.

Unlike Edward Sr., Carlisle gave me everything I required: love, approval, acceptance, material possessions, but still, it wasn't enough.

The one thing I wanted was being denied me. It wasn't really Carlisle whom stopped me, but the respect and love I felt for him.

But even with the obligation I thought owed to him, I still rebelled. My obsessive nature all but crooned at the decision. And the first time I tasted human blood, it all but bathed in insanity.

Like most things with rebellion, the newness eventually wore off, and the bloodlust dissipated to depression.

Once again, I found myself dissatisfied. The longing to find Carlisle, to beg him to take me back was mounting.

Like the superior being I always knew him to be, Carlisle's arms were outstretched. Never had he dropped them, simply waiting for me to return.

After being forgiven and acclimating myself to having a new member to our family, my obsessive nature was buzzing. No longer being released through the haze of bloodlust, I had to find a new direction.

And I found it, clung to it. No longer would I feed from humans. I would direct my neurotic nature toward my control.

Control – something I seemed to excel at – became paramount. It was second only to Carlisle's. This time, instead of rebelling and giving shame to the Cullen name, I would embrace Carlisle's views and make them the mantra to which I walked each step of my life.

And so it has been. Since nineteen-thirty-one, I have abstained.

But now, I find that itch inside of myself tingling again. No matter how much I try to distract it or cling to my bloodlust control, I find myself wanting a different outlet.

And it became known.

Outlet, thy name is Rosalie Hale.

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Like most good intentions, it started out innocently enough. I had no plans or grand machinations when it came to this new intriguing human.

It had been borne out of my guilt: my guilt in treating her unfairly and judging her as someone lacking depth.

Perhaps my preconceived notions were beneath her, but what did I care. Edward Cullen could read minds and thusly knew everything.

After running long and far that night – that night she became intriguing – I spent the next several days contemplating Rosalie Hale.

My mind took in every nuance I noticed about her, every thought I'd ever heard from her.

Granted, she was a vain person, but so was I. My holding that against her was quite hypocritical.

So, I decided to throw everything I knew about her out. My predetermined judgments of her became null and void. But even with a blank slate, I still felt the guilt acutely. And as I know it to be my nature, guilt seems to be synonymous with obsession.

Along with this new guilt residing in my chest, came a need to know, a need to fill correctly this blank slate.

At first, I balked at this notion. What did I need to atone for? Miss. Hale was human and thus below me. I owed her nothing and my judgments had been just. The girl was vain-glorified.

However, this justification hadn't lasted long. The guilt would not relent. My obsession in wanting to know what Miss. Hale was really like began to build.

What is she like beyond the glitter, beyond the beautiful dresses and perfect golden hair?

I didn't know how to go about finding out. Attending social functions was out. My mental gift couldn't take the continuous monotony of such gatherings.

I could have asked about town, asked questions about the young woman that was Rosalie Hale. But this idea created several problems. It would bring unneeded attention to our family. And even if I asked questions, who's to say the information would be correct.

With my options already limited, there was only one course left. It was with some reluctance and a little fear (mostly of how much I wanted to know this girl) that I put my last option into action.

The only recourse I could see to my dilemma was to follow Rosalie Hale. Granted, I could have hired a private investigator, but they were messy. The paper trial would lead back to the Cullens.

And to be quite frank, I was a thousand times better than any rudimentary detective. From the skills I gained during my rebellion and my enhanced abilities, hiring someone else was entirely absurd.

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At first my following her (weather permitting) consisted of social outing. Hidden I would remain, not being able to stomach the inanity surrounding her.

Beautiful she would always appear; not a hair out of place. I couldn't help but wonder how she came off so flawless. She was human and thus subjected to frailties. But Miss. Hale seemed above it all.

One party bled into another. One cup of tea (out with friends) became another. One social obligation pertaining to her station stretched forth.

Her life seemed to be filled with nothing besides that of a socialite. This was something I was already familiar with. It had been the basis of which I initially judged Miss. Hale.

The more I followed her, the less things had seemed to change. Everywhere she went, Rosalie Hale was the picture of gentility. Oh, for she was stunning, and stood above the rest. Eyes never ceased to follow her. Every move she made was tracked, not only by myself, but men and women alike.

Among mere mortals and the humdrum of normality, Rosalie Hale was that shining city on the hill. Her brilliance was unmatched – unparalleled. Even Hollywood's most alluring ingénue would be found severely lacking.

During my 'investigation', as I called it (justified it) in my mind, I constantly reached out, taking in her mental structure, mental flavor. This would allow me to know her most intimately. Unfair advantage or not, using my gift wasn't above my moral pay grade.

Always, always, Rosalie Hale thought about herself. Again, this wasn't new to me. I already knew her self-involved. But underneath the self-concern, I felt something else.

What I had initially perceived to be extreme conceit wasn't truly that. Yes, she worried about how she looked, what the latest fashion was, if her hair was presentable, if people thought her beautiful, but it went further.

In between the conceit was her happiness. Whether she truly was oblivious to everything around her, or nothing affected her, or she knew problems couldn't be fixed by her, Rosalie Hale was content. Happy. Almost childlike.

Some would call her naïve, but I knew differently. I had heard the girl talk about current events like the most seasoned news reporter. Rosalie Hale wasn't naïve. I believed she simply lived within the parameters of her life. Existed in the sphere in which she knew. What need does she have to reach beyond? What incentive?

The only time I really saw her insecure was when the Cullens were around. I already knew what that anxiety stemmed from, and nor did I blame her. Most persons were intimated by the Cullens, for all manner of things. Why should Miss. Hale be any different?

In that respect she wasn't, but in other areas she exceeded even me.

One such afternoon still stays with me.

After another afternoon tea with another one of her many friends, both women left the establishment and started to make their way down the street.

People were everywhere, filling every available space. It was with surprise when Miss. Hale finally stopped and suddenly turned to her left.

At first I thought she had somehow seen me, suspected me of following her, but that couldn't have been the cause. After stupidly reminding myself I was behind her, and thus couldn't been seen around all the people milling about, I turned my attention back to her.

How are people able to pass . . . Unfair . . . Looks tired, so very stricken . . . I cannot understand unchristian behavior . . .

Her thoughts seemed to swirl, making them unconnected. With caution, I followed her eye's sight, trying to find what held her captive.

"Rosalie, darling," her grating friend complained. "What's happened? Why have we stopped? We do have an appointment to keep."

While rolling my eyes at her silly friend (utterly human of me), I turned back to Miss. Hale.

While I had been preoccupied with her ninny of a companion, Rosalie had started to move.

Without thought to her companion, she crossed the street, making her way to what had wholly caught her interest.

Confusion swiftly swamped me. I couldn't understand Miss. Hale's actions.

Need more than me . . . Don't care what mother and father say . . . Children are innocent . . . Looks so sad . . .

And then, the unnecessary oxygen left my lungs and the stone heart residing in my chest seemed to constrict. Before me, unknowingly to her, Rosalie Hale had humbled me.

Bending down, in her expensive dress, without a care as to getting it dirty, she reached out and touched the little child.

The unknown child at first recoiled away from this stranger, not realizing what was happening.

"Don't be scared, little one. I mean you no harm," this golden mystery (to me) whispered to the child.

The grimy child simply nodded, her eyes going wide.

"Where are your parents?" The little child studied this woman, the one whom seemed to talk to her; for no apparent reason.

Slowly, after deciding she was safe, the little girl raised her finger and pointed to a store.

Before Miss. Hale could say anything further, a harassed woman came barreling out of the store, nothing in hand but an empty little purse.

"What you doin'," the woman inquired of Miss. Hale. She took in the young, fashionable lady kneeling by her daughter.

"Forgive me, ma'am." Miss. Hale quickly rose to her feet without brushing off her dirty dress. Her attention was entirely focused on this queer woman and her little waif of a daughter.

"I meant no harm. I only saw your daughter standing here by herself and wanted to make sure she was well. That is all."

Miss. Hale allowed her beautifully full lips to spread into a warm smile. It's as if the sun had come out – though the day was quite overcast.

Like myself, confusion was quick to overtake this tired woman. I could read the suspicion in her mind, but she was also surprised. She couldn't understand how this beautiful, society woman could be worried about her daughter.

"Well . . . thanks and all." As the woman politely nodded to Rosalie, she bent down and took her daughter's hand.

Inside, her mind was whirling. She didn't know what they would do that night. The man in the store was quite unhelpful and refused to barter. She didn't know how her family would be fed.

However, before the woman could leave, she was stopped by a soft voice.

I watched Miss. Hale as she took me to my knees. I was humbled, exquisitely taken aback.

"Ma'am, if you please." The harried, insolvent woman turned back around before gasping aloud. Like me, she was astonished. For in Miss. Hale's delicate fingers was a bundle of money. I could make out quite a bit.

Across the street, still in front of me, the forgotten tea acquaintance made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. She couldn't see why her friend would give money away; especially to someone so dirty. Her nose wrinkled.

"Miss.?" the woman whimpered, shaking her head from one side to the other.

With no desire of being rejected, Miss. Hale softly stepped forward, took the woman's calloused hand into her own pampered one, and placed the bundle of money into her palm.

With a tender smile, Rosalie closed the woman's fingers around the money before removing her own.

"Please," the young socialite pleaded. Exquisite tears lingered in her violet eyes. She was beyond stunning in both her loveliness and generosity.

"Take it. You have more need of it that I." Her eyes gracefully fell to the little girl still clutching at her mother's hand, taking in the pretty lady in front of her.

A soft smile touched the corner of Miss. Hale's lips. She could see how the little girl watched her in amazement.

With an enchanting wink to the small child, the golden-haired beauty turned around and started to make her way back to the unforgotten friend.

"Thank you," was whimpered from the still stunned mother.

"You are most welcomed."

And as if nothing queer had happened, Rosalie Hale crossed the street and resumed her previous path.

"How could you do that, Rosalie," the nasally friend demanded. I wanted to twist her neck and watch as she soundlessly dropped to the ground. "She was dirty."

Cold, violet eyes took in her companion. She looked like some avenging angel: all golden hair, flushed skin and flowing dress.

"Easily," was the angel's reply. "If you would excuse me, I no longer have the money needed for our beauty appointment. Perhaps next time. Please do make my apologies." And with a well delivered parting-line she made her superb exit.

The selfish friend stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape and face pale as she watched her friend turn around and head off in another direction.

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And that was how I started to see Rosalie Hale as the conundrum she presented to me.

It was the first time, in a long while, I had been surprised by a human, and one whom I thought only cared for herself.

It wasn't the last time she astonished me. The more I watched and observed Rosalie Hale the more fixated I became. Simply following her during the day wasn't enough.

On days when the sun shined brightly, I would remain home and think about her, trying to understand her. But what made Rosalie Hale tick evaded me.

When the sun would finally set I found myself instantly leaving home. The need to be near her, observe her, was great. It was enough to drive me spare when I couldn't watch.

Her nighttime ritual was the same. Compulsively, she'd wash her face, brush her teeth and comb out her glorious tresses. She'd study her image in the mirror, thinking on how beautiful she was (which I was quick to agree); how content she was with being just beautiful.

The simplicity of her thoughts amazed me, because truly she was happy in just being beautiful. She was happy with people thinking about her as such, and she was happy to be blessed accordingly.

After saying goodnight to her parents, she'd fall to her knees in prayer. Most of the time she prayed for those less fortunate than herself, asking for them to be blessed with what they needed most – especially the children.

The love she held for children amazed me the most. Her love was almost selfless for them.

Would give it all up – beauty for children, she'd often think, while gazing in the mirror.

I would read it so astonishingly in her thoughts. Because no mistaking, Rosalie loved being beautiful, being surrounded with beautiful things, seeing the beautiful things this awful world had to offer.

But above all, her most ardent desire was to have a child to love. She wanted to feel her body heavy with child; she wanted to give birth and bestow all the love she had on said child.

In the darkest parts of the night, when I was at my most despondent, it was Miss. Hale who now pulled me from such gloom.

The splendor which shaped her dreams was magnificent. Often they were filled with laughing, bright, happy children.

Squealing, they'd run to their mother. Rosalie's arms would be opened wide, simply waiting to be filled with squirming child. Her rosy lips would press tenderly onto their cheeks while she laughed at their exuberance.

And when they were done playing, singing, simply twirling around the back yard, she'd tuck them neatly in their beds with her love radiant.

As I closed my eyes and watched the dreams with her, I would become lost in their innocence. I couldn't understand such simplicity, such happiness in giving love so freely. My nature was in complete contrast to hers. But guiltily I would bask in her vivacity.

Feeling such simplistic radiance took me to places I never imagined. The more I felt it, the more I became captivated to it. To be able to step outside of myself – even for a moment – was like a boon. It helped me to feel a little freer.

My routine started to become centered on Rosalie Hale. The very steps of her life became shadowed by a creeping vampire.

At times I was bothered by this. Following some unsuspecting female was quite out-of-order, but I tried my best to give her the necessary privacy to preserve her modesty.

My actions weren't meant for some nefarious reason. It began with wanting to understand this queer human and had transformed from there. It wasn't as if thoughts about her naked, what a luscious body she has, how she would look under a man, didn't invade my mind. Most men who looked on her saw such images – and thus I did.

At times I could feel my fingers curling, wanting to rip those fiends to shreds. My bloodlust would spike tenfold. But just thinking about one of Rosalie's dreams would calm me.

Bur regardless of how much it was creepy to follow her (as much as I was able), I couldn't stop. I craved. I wanted. I'm selfish.

After several months of rearranging my unlimited time around hers, Carlisle started to worry. As did Esme. They could see something happening to me but couldn't understand what. They only noticed my absence, my mental absence, my lack of attention to our family and irregular hunting patterns.

One evening, before I could leave and get to Miss. Hale, Carlisle pulled me into his office.

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"What is it, Carlisle? I'm needed elsewhere."

Hurt and surprise blossomed over his concerned face. Immediately I felt contrite for snapping, but my need to be near Miss. Hale was strong. The sun had been shining all day, thus stopping me from following her.

Sorry. I hadn't realized your pressing schedule near eight at night. Talk to me, son.

I looked away from my 'father' and out his study window. The sun had already set and the sky was alight with streaks of dark blue and lingering purples. So much like Rosalie's eyes.

"I don't mean to be so short, but I do have somewhere else to be. May we talk later?" My eyes fell back to his, pleading him to understand.

"Esme and I are concerned, Edward." He wasn't taking my ques.

We need to speak now. Worried, son.

I bit down hard, grinding my teeth. My frustration was mounting. The itching under my skin irritated my already sensitive emotions.

"What, Carlisle? What am I able to do for you and Esme? Simply because I'm not here, constantly underfoot, you're worried? Isn't that a little selfish." Mentally, I cringed. I truly hadn't meant to be so mean, but I wanted to leave. Yes, Edward Cullen was a selfish being.

"Son, please," my mentor soothed. I could hear the hurt coating his voice.

My ire dropped as my weariness took over. I was tired. Tired of being disgusting by following a human girl, tired of feeling this obsession, tired of being lonely, tired of my assertions about everything.

"I've been following Miss. Rosalie Hale around," I softly mumbled, ashamed of my actions and scared of Carlisle's reaction. Because, for some reason, I still wanted his approval.

When the silence remained too thick and unbroken, I looked up and saw understanding on Carlisle's visage. This I hadn't suspect.

It was the same with me. Esme, when she was human. Remember?

And I did. My jaw dropped opened. I couldn't understand how I had forgotten or how I figured Carlisle wouldn't at least sympathize with me. Above all else, he didn't judge, even when I had rebelled and consumed human blood.

"I honestly forgot."But even with his understanding, Carlisle hadn't stalked Esme. He looked out for her, tried to help her, when human. He wasn't a disgusting shadow.

"I cannot seem to stop, though, Carlisle. There is something about Miss. Hale; something so intriguing and innocent. She takes me to places I never fathomed." My head dropped as I bridged my fingers over my nose. So human. "I cannot stop."

Edward . . . my poor son. I love you no matter what . . . You were my first in this existence.

"You aren't hurting Miss. Hale, are you?" Though he asked the obvious question, I could hear his thoughts and read of his concern for me. He already knew the answer.

"Not that I can surmise," I answered honestly.

While there wasn't any physical interaction between us, I something couldn't help wonder if she sensed me; knew someone was watching her.

Oft times, when she stopped and looked around (for some phantom shadow) I feared she could sense me. But she would shake her beautiful head, calling herself "silly" and walked on.

"Then I see no harm. I only worry for you, setting yourself up for a fall. Putting expectations on something which doesn't exist. Are you able to understand this, Edward?"

Don't become hurt, my son.

I blinked several times before nodding. I understood, but I couldn't stop. Truly.

"Do be careful, Edward. Esme and I love you. No matter what. You know this, right?"

I could feel the worry lingering on his mind, for my well-being, for my happiness, for my growing obsession.

"Of course, Carlisle. As I love you and Esme. We're family."

He nodded his head while placing his hand over his unbeaten heart. Slowly he turned from me and took up looking out at the night, the same window I had been gazing out of.

Without anything else spoken, I quit his study and started for Rosalie Hale's house.

She's probably already in bed, starting to dream about dancing little children; about a world where nothing ugly can touch her or her loved ones. What would I see if sleeping were an option for me?

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Even with Carlisle finding out my secret, I hadn't stopped my tracking. Miss. Hale had unknowingly pulled me in, and to pull myself away would cause me such pain.

There were times I felt I couldn't breathe unless I saw her, even for a brief moment.

This scared me more than anything. Something so innocently started, now became almost dark and foreboding.

How much longer this could continue I didn't know. But somehow, somewhere, there had to be something to pull me from this spiral.

Until then, I cleaved to what I knew: I clung to my obsession. But inside of the recesses of my mind, I masochistically prayed for something to break me of this; all the while knowing I'd lose a part of myself in the process.

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It hadn't been until another month passed that I got my unwanted (yet still asked for) wish. I was filled with so much uncertainty, so much indecision that I felt a drowning sensation.

Part of me always wanted to watch Rosalie – to live each season of her life with her (unnoticed in the dusk, always in the shadows). She brought something which filled the empty spaces, which put light into my lifeless body.

I wanted to watch as her goals became realized, as she actually twirled in the back yard with her little ones. Both dressed in beautiful silk frocks, golden hair unbound, love felt above all.

I wanted to watch as she loved and nourished her children, supporting them in their life's calling.

I wanted to watch as life took its toll on her, took her beauty, year by year, giving back the wrinkles and smile lines she earned in return.

I wanted to watch – heartbreakingly – as her family surrounded, took her weathered hand into theirs and spoke of their enduring love. And as she took her last breath – joyful in the knowledge her life had been surrounded with beauty, love, happiness – she allowed her spirit to fly away.

I wanted to watch it all.

But on the other side, I wanted to break free of this fixation. I didn't know how I could sustain myself on it. Being a vampire, I was meant for endlessness, death and blood.

Things which should never touch Rosalie's life, even in an unknown capacity . . .

My constant equivocating was driving me mad. Yet, I couldn't stop. My masochistic side refused to let me stop. No matter how much the remaining gentleman pleaded, it refused. I was glutton for punishment. And I couldn't comprehend what it derived from.

But it didn't really matter, because wanted or unwanted, things were about to change. And when things came to an end, I found that I still hadn't known.

But oh, it didn't stop the pain, the suffocating feelings which had been enough to end me.

Something eventually must always give.

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Author's Notes: Oh, I'm very proud of myself, getting this chapter posted in a timely fashion. I hate editing(!), so I procrastinate as much as possible. But I pushed through.

Thank you for all the reviews for last chapter. They were quite wonderful! I cannot thank you enough. Hope everyone got their replies.

What did you think of this chapter? Good? Still in the vein of keeping Edward in character? What did you think of his make-up, his obsessive nature? Did you like Rosalie? I adore her in this story, just my opinion.

If you have the time or inclination . . . please, please review! I love them, and obviously they get me motivated! Anyhow, much love sent!

Updated: Sunday, 24 November 2013