A/N: Life is once again settled after moving to a new city and starting a new job. yay! XD
Thanks to everyone for their fantastic reviews. Believe it or not, they truly are fuel.
Chapter Nine is a belated birthday gift for javidan - HAPPY BIRTHDAY sister Scorpio! Everyone should stop by her journal and fawn over her awesome and kick-ass sketches of Edward and the gang: javidan[dot]livejournal[dot]com
I command thee!!! Now go forth and spread the love. ;)
And on a related note: I am looking forward to the movie, which comes out in like 4 days. I already know I will not be able to watch it without picturing these two going at it like bunnies. Anyone else agree??? *wink*
And now, on with the show.
I don't own these characters and make no profit from this. Reviews are fuel.
Part Nine - The Ghosts of the Past
Carlisle sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes. If he were human he was sure he would have a splitting headache.
Edward and Esme. Two halves of a whole, if only for him alone. Two halves that were pulling him in opposite directions - away from the fine line of love and penance he tried so carefully to follow - a line that was becoming more obscure by the moment. Both wanted more from him than he was able to give and all would end up hurt in the end. It was only a matter of time.
He deserved nothing more than to drown in eternal sorrow for his actions, and more importantly - his inaction. The turning of Edward, his gluttonous joy of Edward's affections, Esme's stolen life, the hundreds of innocent dead by both his father's doings and his own silence... the list went on and on - centuries worth of sins stained his hands and Carlisle felt the weight of them all. Edward had once been able to make him forget everything - who and what he was, his past - all of it, but nothing broke through the regret now, not even the forbidden touch of cold skin and bronze hair shining in the moonlight.
Carlisle wandered aimlessly in front of the bookshelves in his study; his eyes landed on the worn and cracked leather binding of his father's Bible - a piece of his past he had never been able to part with. The pages were yellowing and flaked with even the most gentle of touches, belying their passionate and vengeful past. There were times, such as tonight when the present seems one with the past that Carlisle could almost hear the hellfire and brimstone of his father's voice and the long-buried screams of a dying girl...
Looking through the pages, he knew without a doubt that the vengeful God his father spoke of was no figment of the imagination. God was alive and well - and ensuring Carlisle received his taste of hell regardless of whether or not his soul would make it to the afterlife.
Out of years of habit he began to recite prayers of contrition, well worn in his mind. No number of centuries would ever be enough to forget them. Forgive me Father for I have sinned... They would probably do him little good considering the monster he had become, but he could at least try to make amends to someone in this life, even if it went unnoticed and unwanted.
And so passed the time of Carlisle Cullen - a vampire forever plagued by guilt and begging forgiveness from those long turned to dust in their graves.
. . .
Esme brushed golden fall leaves off of the downed log and sat down to watch the swiftly moving waters of the river. She had spent the last several hours convincing Carlisle to leave his self-appointed prison in his study, finally sealing the deal with a few well-placed tears. Although she disliked resorting to such measures, the man she had known as compassionate and happy had slid into the darkness of his mind. He was too kind and too beautiful to be marred by despair.
And so now Esme and Carlisle found themselves in silence on the edge of the river, watching the sun break over the horizon.
Carlisle stood on the banks away from where she sat, figuring it would be too presumptuous to sit next to her just yet. So he contented himself with finding fascination in the swirls and leaves making their way on top of the water. Round and round they circled, one after the other, all the same - fallen leaves of brief beauty carried away to places unknown.
He could have been standing there for a few minutes or an eternity; it was hard to tell anymore. Esme softly cleared her throat and patted the seat next to her. "Come sit down, Carlisle."
Thinking it would be too rude to refuse her offer, he joined her - intensely aware of the closeness of their shoulders, of the soft smell of her rosewater perfume, of her. The one he was never supposed to have now sat as an innocent temptress in a peach sun dress with her soft skin barely brushing against his.
Esme looked down at her shoes, her toes curling inside as she debated over and over on how to best bring it up, deciding that the direct approach would be best. "You can talk to me about what's bothering you, if you want," she said.
His body stiffened with tension, panic ran fleeting down his spine and through his legs. Perhaps he had not been as careful as he had imagined in his self-contained melancholy. Struggling to find a response without childish stammering, he looked down at his shoes, his toes curling inside as he debated on how best to answer her. "I...uh...there's nothing bothering me," he said, managing to look everywhere except her soft eyes - those eyes that could see to the depths of his soul in a way that no telepath ever could.
The wind rustled through the trees and blew her hair about her face. Esme tucked the long strands behind her ears. "No one who sits in a dark room looking at an ancient Bible for hours on end can say that nothing is bothering them," she said. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but...I kind of miss the old Carlisle."
Carlisle closed his eyes at her words. Should he tell her? Could he tell her? It unsettled him - the notion of even contemplating exposing his most shameful secrets. He had been a solitary creature for too long, living in his own mind day after day and year after year for centuries - not having to share feelings and thoughts with anyone but himself. Even Edward had been disinclined to talk about his or anyone's past, instead distracting him from the gloom with rough kisses when all else failed. And it had worked for a beautiful brief while.
Now he stood at the edge of a precipice from which there was no return. There would be no physical avoidance with Esme, not with her. She deserved better than that. Carlisle looked up into those eyes and knew it would all come tumbling out at once - and then his foolish notion of a chance at a fairy tale life with the girl who had haunted his waking days would be over. She would know his scars and sins and demons and hate him forever for bringing her into this world when she had only longed for death and to be reunited with her lost baby. Esme had never asked for this existence, and Carlisle had snatched her out of heaven's hands at the last second, from a chance at heaven and doomed her to an eternal life of thirst.
He took a deep breath and decided it was time. For Esme. For himself.
"Did I ever tell you of the life I led before I was turned into a vampire?" he asked quietly, the breeze rustling the leaves. Esme shook her head no. "I spent countless hours in my father's church listening to sermons on all the evils of man and the terrors of eternal damnation," he said, fidgeting with a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt. "My earliest memories were ones of sitting in an uncomfortable pew, and listening for hours on end as my father preached on how every single one of us will end up burning in hell for the sins we cannot control and for the things that are in human nature to do."
Esme said nothing as he paused, searching for the words to continue on. "My duty was to my father, there was no room to question that," Carlisle said, his eyes focused on the distant past. "He was a passionate man - quick to judge and long to forgive. I don't think he ever forgave me or himself when my mother died in childbirth with me." he said and paused, a rare smile coming across his lips. "She was supposed to have been very kind and pretty, according to my grandmother. But my mother was young, and there were complications. Before my grandmother died she told me my father had spent hours praying for the life of his young wife, but to no avail. It was after her death that he devoted himself to the church, often writing sermons well into the dead of night."
He ran a hand through his hair. "My father was training me to follow his footsteps for service to the cloth, and when I was 11 years old he took me out on my first witch hunt. He had become something of a zealot in his pain and devotion, and had become a leading figure in the movement to eradicate evil from the land. It would have been around 1651 then; the people were in a state of hysterics as England was in a civil war of Protestants and Catholics. I knew my father led witch hunts, but to me witches were the things of fairy tales - grotesque women cavorting with the devil," he said.
Carlisle paused. His eyes locked on the past, his arms unconsciously wrapped around his middle. The story was telling itself, and some part of his mind sat and watched as an outsider - surreal and terrifying at the same time. But his voice kept going. "Yet the first so-called witch I ever met was anything but a fairy tale legend. She was a 10 year old girl I had known from several streets over."
Esme sat frozen on the log, his words holding her to her seat. Somehow in the farthest reaches of her mind, she knew this story - just as she knew now there was a reason Carlisle had come for her. He went on, unaware of anything except the memories. "Her mother had the unfortunate luck to attract the wrath of a petty and ugly neighbor, one jealous of her beauty. The mother was publicly accused of being in service with the devil, which of course she were not. The trial was quick - if one wanted to call it a trial, and the mother was found guilty of witchcraft."
He paused again, his long and graceful fingers picking at his sleeves; his shoes pushing small piles of dirt around on the ground. Carlisle closed his eyes and went on, his mind clear as if the day had happened yesterday.
"The mother was sentenced to burn at the stake, along with her young daughter. My father believed that the children of witches were witches themselves and spared none mercy," he choked out, long buried memories bringing back things he wished to forget forever - his vision blurring with tears. "I knew she wasn't a witch any more than her mother was, but there was little I could do," he said, lowering his head. Esme's eyes never left Carlisle, all else forgotten in the mild and breezy autumn day.
"They were kept in the cellar of my father's church throughout the trial, and it was my duty to take them food and water each day. Each were separated in their own cell," he said. "The mother always cried and begged for me to help her daughter escape. Yet, each time I went to the girl's cell, she never cried or pleaded with me. Instead she just looked at me with those sad eyes, eyes I could never forget."
He went on. "Every night those eyes haunted my dreams, with their silent plea for help. I couldn't stand it anymore, and so for the first time in my life, I found the nerve to ask my father to spare their lives," Carlisle said. He halted and the fidgeting stopped and his eyes grew dark and hard. "My father lashed me with his belt and then with his fists until I passed out. When I came to, he dragged me in front of the altar and lashed me again as I was was made to say contrition for my sins and the evil I was allowing into my heart."
Carlisle's voice settled into a whisper that even Esme had to strain to hear. " And when the mother was found guilty, a large stake was set up in the square, with an enormous amount of wood piling around the bottom. At dawn my father drug me to the scene by my collar for the last bit of my punishment," he said. "The girl and her mother had already been tied to it, and the mother was screaming to anyone for mercy. I could barely see them through my swollen eyes, yet I could hear every whimper and plea."
He stopped and buried his head in his hands; and Esme laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. But Carlisle didn't notice. "He forced me to light the pyre, Esme. My own father shoved a torch in my hand and made me light the pyre that sent those two innocent souls to their death," he said, his back hitching with dry sobs. "I had to watch them burn and there was nothing I could do about it," he choked out.
The scent of vampire tears filled the air as Edward edged closer, having heard every word. He had also seen it in Carlisle's mind.
Whether Carlisle had let him see on purpose or not, the horror of it was drowning out all else.
"I had horrible nightmares for years - of the screams of pain, the smell of burning flesh, of the cheers of the crowd. Even after I became a vampire those nightmares didn't stop. They simply became a waking vision constantly replaying in my mind. It never ended, not matter what I did or how much work I did for distraction. Not until I saw your face," Carlisle said, looking into Esme's concerned eyes. "You are that girl, Esme. I know it in my heart," he said. "I have never believed in reincarnation before, but all I know is that the screaming in my mind stopped completely when I first saw you again ten years ago."
Esme sat there in silence, unsure of what to say - if there was anything she could say at the sight of Carlisle's tears. So she did what she knew best, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him tight. "It's all right, Carlisle. It's over now." He clung to her tightly and buried his face in her shoulder.
Edward stood frozen in the trees watching Carlisle and Esme embrace, knowing in the depths of his heart he had already lost Carlisle for good.
. . .
Edward walked for hours, finding himself alone in the deserted streets of the town, going over and over the scene of Carlisle's past in his mind.
The girl.
The flames.
The screams.
It all made sense to him now - the inexplicable attachment to Esme, the ever present guilt, the obsessive need to assist those in help. How could he have overlooked this? Or better yet, how had Carlisle managed to keep it hidden from him for so long?
His boots crunched softly against the dead leaves as he turned down a side street. Carlisle had not touched him once since he had come home - but not for Edward's lack of trying. Gentle touches in the hallway as they passed, a heated look as they hunted - all rebuffed with an awkward silence and a mental whisper. "Please don't."
Edward had nearly walked away the same day he had come home to find Esme in the mix with her red eyes and innocent mind. Carlisle's quiet plea was the only thing that induced him to stay, even though he felt the fool all the while. And now Carlisle and Edward were in a rut of repeated words. "Please stay. Don't go. I can't. Don't ask. Don't leave me."
He truly was a fool. A fool for staying, a fool for not being able to go. A fool for loving someone else who was destined to be with another.
There was no one to blame but himself.
A shadow came in front of his eyes and he looked up, finding himself standing on the doorstep of an ornate church, dark and silent against the moonlight. Edward stood and stared as something in him broke loose. This was the cause of all of it. This notion of guilt and sin and penance was what was tearing Carlisle away from him, not Esme.
He stood silent in its immense black shadow - his depression cracking apart and anger beginning to trickle through his bones, the anger turning into a flood of rage. His breath quickened and his hands balled into tight fists at his side. If only....
Making quick work of the lock, Edward swung the heavy doors open and stepped into the quiet blackness.
The sounds of the night were muffled and soft light filtered down through the stained glass windows and casting a soft glow on the altar, adorned with several lit candles. With slow steps Edward made his way to it, passing through the long dark shadows of the colonnade of statues. It had been years since he stepped foot in a church of any kind, and the first time since he had become one of the living dead.
The pew creaked as he sat down, and the building seemed to come alive with breath as the wind gusted against its sides. Shadows flickered and danced against the large cross as Edward sat in silence, debating on why he was here in the first place.
His body shook with anger and he heard the distant sound of sobs - until he realized they were his own. Carlisle had been torn away from him all for a long dead girl and a centuries old sense of debt - brought on by a long dead God.
Unbidden memories of soft blonde hair, Carlisle's gentle caresses, and his beautiful smile sent tears down his cheeks. He missed him and missed what they had when it was good. The months he had been gone had been miserable, tramping from place to place while spending his nights longing for a strong embrace and soft lips against his skin.
And now he was alone again. Carlisle had moved on, and Edward was left behind.
And it hurt.
And Edward didn't want the pain anymore.
He looked up to see the cross - silent on the wall and mocking his pain.
Edward decided to rip it down.
It landed with a large crash, breaking apart against the altar and sending wooden pieces scattering across the floor. "Why are you doing this to us?" he cried out, grabbing the edge of the heavy altar and tipping it over as well. "We didn't ask for any of this! Carlisle didn't ask to kill that girl. Esme didn't ask to lose her child. I didn't ask to lose my family! Why are you doing this?" he roared over the sound of splintering wood and destruction.
Piece after piece went crashing to the floor until there was nothing left to break and no more tears to shed. Edward sat on the floor amidst the mess, seeing a shattered vase of wilted flowers in front of him.
Roses.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head. "I hope you are happy now," he whispered, standing up and walking out of the church and into the night.
. . .
