Peacock Blue Ink

Look what I found in Carlisle's desk drawer: proof that the good doctor is as much a hopeless romantic as Esme is.

Here are a few of Carlisle's crumpled love letters to his beloved, written while she wasn't looking. It is possible that more may appear here in the future, if I happen to dig them out of the clutter.

My Dearest Esme,

Do you know how deeply I long for you? Do you know how your every step, your every smile, your every gaze tempts me? I am a starving man, Esme. I have starved myself for too long.

I am thirsting for your adoration, aching for your touch. Every day, my love for you grows, like restless ivy — I cannot kill it.

How I wish I could tell you; I wish I had the courage to whisper how deep is my ache. How I wish my tongue were brash enough, bold enough to reveal my desire.

I am wandering through a desert, Esme. A desert of desperation. The days are hot and seem to go on forever . . . I finish each with a parched throat and a dry mouth — my heart is chapped; only the balm of your love can soothe it.

The nights in this desert are so, so cold, my sweet Esme. I am burning with the need to take you here, in these cold, dark hours . . . . I yearn to hear the sands stirred beneath us; the silent sigh of your breath, the fine fruit of your lips against my flesh. How I wish that your warm embrace would be waiting for me when the dawn strokes my face. I wish to share these cold nights with you. Do you wish to share them with me?

-}0{-

Darling Esme,

I have heard the way you say my name. My ear is a blessed one, my love. You cannot hide these inflections; the sweet slip of your desire mars every cursed syllable you dare to utter . . . Or is this only my foolish hope?

My father named me, Esme. Did you know this? My name holds meanings of strength and fortress . . . but it is just a name. Did you know that when you murmur my name, this is what you speak of?

This irony is so delectable, my darling. You are a dark angel when you whisper my name. My strength is nothing when you say the word, yet you deem me strong by saying it. You address me as "the strong one" yet I am anything but, in the face of your winsome lips.

I am no deaf man, nor am I a blind man. Oh, I have seen the way your lips grow tender when they speak to me. I have seen the way your tongue glistens when your lips surrender in awe. Must you continue to mercilessly taunt me in this way, Esme? How long do you believe my control will last, my dear angel?

One of these days you will say my name, and I will shatter.

-}0{-

My Beautiful Esme,

Have you ever been told the meaning of your name? When your mother first looked upon you, as an infant in her arms, did she know she had deemed you her Beloved?

What an appropriate name it is, Esme, for you are indeed loved. You do not know that I love you, yet I confess this every time my lips murmur your name. Esme . . . Esme . . . Esme . . .

I am calling you my Beloved.

A man can only bear the weight of so much irony, Esme. Spare me, I beg of you, for I am soaked in irony these days. I can barely breathe . . .

I grow tired of other words, but never this one. No, your name is one word my tongue will always long to taste. Over and over and over.

I have called it from the top of my lungs. I have mumbled it, like a sorry somnambulist while wandering the halls of the hospital. I have even whispered it before your very ears. But my fantasies taunt me with ever more ways to say it . . .

I want to sigh your name against your very lips. I want to breathe it in and out, slowly between the sheets beside you. I want to feel it blossom from my mouth, warm and heavy, as I join myself to you.

Do you not think it beautifully tragic, my Beloved? How two exquisite syllables have destroyed me?

-}0{-

Dear Esme,

I am a man in hiding. I have hidden so much of myself from the world around me, yet I long to share what I have hidden for centuries with another. All this time I have been searching for someone — in whose heart I can lay my fullest and most honest trust. I have pined for someone to whom I can safely surrender my soul.

Every so often I will blink back a tear of indifference and find your eyes shining in my way. I have seen your tender smile in so many ways; I have long since memorized the way every variation of light plays with the soft angles of your lips . . . . I see this smile upon your face, blooming along the tempting beauty of your delicate jaw; I see it, and I am helpless but to trust you with my darkest secrets.

My darling, I grow weary of wondering . . . . I am burning but with one question, and one question only: Would you accept me if I were to offer you everything of myself? Would you turn me away gently, deeming me burdensome? Or would you open your arms for me in a sumptuous embrace of mercy, holding me close though I suffocate your joy with the weight of my woes?

There is but one way for me to know, my love. Hold me. You must hold me.

-}0{-

Sweet, precious Esme,

Do you know how I have watched you in the forest? Do you know how your every move draws me to you, like a terrible king to his court dancer? You are dancing before me, my love. Please spare me this dance, for I cannot stand one more moment of it. You are cruel, my dear. So cruel for making me ache in this way, yet I long to be nearer to you. I long to see every secret pasted in your eyes. I long to hear every need, crisp upon your breath. I am a terrible king for wanting this, Esme.

Do you know just how I savor this show? Do you feel the forceful caress of my eyes upon you as you feed on your prey? Do you sense my interests? Do you know that my poor stomach is tighter than an anchor's knot; that my chest is more strained than an archer's bow? Do you know that my hands are trembling as the blood drips down your lips; that my throat is clenching as the purrs flee from your depths?

I feel the stamina for sin building low in my belly; I relish this feeling, and I am wretched for it.

I must retreat when I see you in this way, my love, or I will do something egregious. I hope that you, in your tender mercy, will forgive me for my retreat.

-}0{-

Dear Esme,

I am envious of everything that you touch.

Would you taunt me with sweet, frivolous laughter if I were to tell you this? Would you break my heart by looking upon me as though I were mad? Would you even believe me, my darling?

To watch your lovely fingers stroke the dust from the window sill is torturous, if I allow it to be; I wish it was my skin they stroked . . . . You brush back the curtains with a sweep of your hand, and I wish it was through my hair where your palm so nimbly swept. You fold your hands together upon your lap, linking them by the fingers, so wonderfully tight . . . But you are only holding your own hand, my sweet Esme. Do you not wish to hold mine so tightly?

I have been denied the precious blessing of touch for so long, my love. So few long to touch me. So many have cast me aside, as my own father did. Oh, what hope is there for me, when the very man who brought me life refused to share with me this simplest of affections?

Am I not worthy of touch, Esme? Why does it seem that so many fear being close to me? Why must I wander about like a destitute derelict, starving for the slightest pressure of that touch?

I fear I will die of starvation if I do not receive it . . . Yet I ask for the touch from you alone, Esme. I am desperate for any, but I have refused all but yours. I ask for the bread when I can live off the wheat. I ask for the fruit when I may have the flower.

You have granted me your touch before, Esme — and this kindness I can never repay, nor express in words how much it means to me — but I am gluttonous for wanting more. My heart is an insatiable monster; my desire is twisted and uncontainable. Lay one finger upon my flesh, my darling, and you will hear my soul whimper with joy.

Touch me, Esme. I beg of you. Touch me.

-}0{-

My most cherished Esme,

Do you know how your touch has healed me? Do you know the strength of a single slender finger? Do you know that I can feel your care coursing through me by just one touch?

I love you for this, Esme. I love that one brush of your skin is all it takes for my heart to mend itself. I love that your voice has the power to put my worries to slumber. I love how your eyes are like stars when my world is like night.

Can you not see how much I need you, now, Esme? Can you not see that I would never survive without you, knowing such beauty exists in my world?

My heart is twisted in its yearning for you. I wish you would allow me to lay bare before you . . . I wish that your curious gaze would sweep over me in a furious caress — only you, my passionate Esme, could find art in my body. I wish to feel your impressionistic fingers dancing feverishly over my flesh . . . I wish that you would paint me with your passions…

I wish to show you just what you have done to me… But I fear that you will flee in revulsion, in terror.

I fear that my love will overwhelm you.

-}0{-

My Esme,

I am reeling with pleasure when I call you mine. Do you know this? Do you believe yourself to belong to me, as I wish you would? Do you ever wonder that the invasion of my venom into your throat has given you a second chance? Does this thought ignite a fire inside of you as it does to me?

Is it not so painfully plain that we might belong together? Is it so inconceivable that we are two imperfect halves of a perfect whole?

Is the desire to experience this union an obsession for you as it is for me? Do you ever dream of it when you are alone, as I do? Does the notion of oneness feel like a brick in the pit of your soul? Does the sound of a stolen breath make you think of indecencies? Does even the slightest suggestion of sensuality nearly bring you to tears?

For me, it does. Oh, Esme. I am weeping inside.

-}0{-

Esme,

I can see your passion — I see it as much in your eyes as in your art; in the way you touch things with such terrifying tenderness . . .

Oh, my darling . . . You keep this passion locked inside of you. You are afraid of it. You run from it. You whimper and fight against it. You struggle as it seeks the strength to overcome you. You plead with it to leave you in peace, but it never listens. Passion is untamable.

My poor Esme, I empathize with you, for I too share this struggle. Yes, our passions are one in the same. Though I do not dare draw assumptions for the nature of yours, I can see that it pursues you against your will. I can see that you are holding back . . . And I cannot help but wonder why.

What do you have to fear, my sweet Esme? You have so little in which to find shame. You are dangerously near to perfection, yet you hide from the world. You hide from me. What is it that you will not let me see? What is it you so desperately beat away before it rises to the surface? What is this mystery you quietly tuck away when I threaten to unveil it?

I want to know, Esme. I want to know your passion.

-}0{-

Dearest Esme,

There is a fire in my heart. I cannot recall if I have revealed to you this secret of yet, but I believe it merits repetition for your unaware ears.

This fire is raging, always, in your presence. There was a time when it cooled in your absence, but those days are long gone. I fear when you come too close to me, my darling. I fear that you will feel the heat of the blaze on your innocent flesh. I fear my flames will defile you as they have me.

I am plagued by the burn of this — scorching orgy of flames in my chest. Oh, I cannot bear it, yet God forces it upon me . . . He believes it will make me stronger — and perhaps it will — but Esme, I do not desire strength.

I want to submit myself to this fire, but only if I may submit myself with you. The suggestion of your protective embrace makes me shudder. I would burn happily if you burned at my side.

So I must ask the question, Esme — and forgive my boldness in asking — Do you have a fire in your heart? Does your fire burn as brightly as mine? Does this seductive tickle of flames corrupt your heart as it does mine? Do you ever wonder what might happen if we let the flames of our fires touch . . . ?

I have wondered this many times, Esme. I have pondered it for endless hours, for countless nights — and every time I imagine this blinding emulsion, this hot mingling of passions, I must quench myself with sin.

If I had you, I could sate my thirst without sin. If I had you, I could purify the lust in my throat, with God's consent. If I had you, my fire would strengthen ten-fold, but I would fear it no longer, for I would know it could never hope to consume me again.

Esme, only you have the power to calm the flames. I have no control over my fire, for it will only obey the wishes of your gentle hand . . .

-}0{-

Dearest Esme,

I have discovered a garden in my dreams. It is a beautiful garden, filled with life and light — It is an Eden, my dear Esme. I have seen you in this garden; I have called to you, but you have not answered.

The roses in this garden bring me no satisfaction. They never have . . . They can not make me feel complete with their wilting petals or their fragile flush or their listless fragrance. No, only you, dear Esme, can complete me.

God has given you a rose, Esme. Only one man, by your choice and your choice alone, will have the honor of tending to it. Only one man will watch it bloom; only one man may touch the petals. Only one man may bring it life.

I am asking you, from the depths of my heart, from the ache of my knees upon the ground; Let me be the keeper of your rose, Esme. Let me bring your rose to life. I promise that my love will never let it die.

-}0{-

Dearest Esme,

My cherished one, my angel.

I have unveiled a world in my dreams. God has granted me a glorious vision of this world; He has shown me the wonders within it — in pieces, in fragments. He has been infinitely kind to give me such a generous view of so wondrous a place — my eyes burn as they look upon it, Esme. Yet I am so curious. So frustrated. My heart fears that I will never find entry to this world, my love.

God has given me a key, Esme. You have asked me to unlock you. You have pleaded with me, but I have not made the promise. Tell me, am I a fool for believing I see these things in your gaze? Your eyes are swimming with my sunset — your tears are born from the very glaze of my venom . . . Do you know this, my love? A part of me resides in you, already . . . Yet, I long for more of me to reside in you . . .

I need your permission, your hand, your love to open the gates to this world. I must have you before I may have the pleasures this world has to offer me.

Oh, but I am not a selfish man, Esme. Everything in this world is for you as much as it is for me. I would give you so very much, my angel. I would love you until I have no love left to give, Esme. I would bring you to this brink of ecstasy, as many times as you asked me . . . And I would fall with you. Together we would plummet into the very depths of our passions. The waterfalls of this pleasure would beat down upon us, and we would drown together. We would need no air, my sweet. We would need nothing but us.

Surrender to me, Esme. Let me unlock you; let me enter this world. Let me drown in you.