I own neither Twilight nor Carlisle. I don't have the money. I own only my books, my DVD, and my computer, with which I write my bits of chimerical indulgence and read delightful pieces of news about Peter Facinelli. Did you know that, when he got the role for Twilight, he recognized that Carlisle was originally British, but didn't use an accent because "he thinks Carlisle would have adapted to his surroundings and dropped the accent to avoid attention." I'm so glad we're on the same brainwave, Peter!
Sorry for the ridiculously late posting, folks. Life has been out-of-control-insane. I was on some medication for a few weeks that made me unable to think straight, let alone write. But I made sure to deprive myself of sleep to bring you your Carlisle fix, and/or Edward angst.
This chapter is dedicated to CareBehrsGem for making sure this isn't complete crap--I see your crystal heart, and it's little and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good.
Special shout-out to hopesallthings. You're in my thoughts, always.
And, to you, my faithful readers, who are now too numerous to mention (*squine*): Thanks for sticking with me, and reading and reviewing. It is so awesome to hear your reactions to everything.
Now, when last we left our happy couple at the end of Chapter 10:
Her honeyed scent and taste invaded my senses as our tongues slowly savored and explored each other's mouths. It was all so familiar, and yet so new. She had been right—I hadbeen missing everything. Now, I wanted more.
But then I heard the footsteps.
Esme froze at my sudden inaction, pulling away to look at me in confusion mere moments before a dark, velvet voice broke through the darkness behind me.
"Well, this isn't exactly the prodigal homecoming I was anticipating."
Had the all-too familiar voice been somehow forgotten and foreign, I would have known his scent anywhere—earth and rain, lightning and flowering meadows, interwoven with the slightest trace of my own—
"Edward," Esme gasped, looking over my shoulder, her face a mask of utter shock. Her stunned eyes met mine briefly, and I could almost see my own thoughts reflected back at me. I could imagine how this contretemps appeared to Edward, as Esme was held so indecently against me, both of our appearances disheveled from our fevered osculation.
In the next instant, we had disentangled ourselves from each other and were on our feet beside the piano bench. Esme immediately began straightening her dress and smoothing her tousled hair as Edward politely averted his gaze to examine me, undoubtedly taking in my current state of discomfort, both physical and mental. My joy at his return was eclipsed by an acute trepidation as I met his gaze, a petrifying fear that I would find bright ruby orbs staring back at me. But relief flooded through my being when I saw the light topaz of his eyes, only to be replaced with deep regret at the unmasked pain that flashed distinctly within them.
"Welcome home, son."
I opened my arms and moved towards him, anxious to change the tone of the moment by welcoming Edward back to our home as a father would—with an embrace. But he shook his head, still standing apprehensively in the doorway, his eyes darting to Esme briefly in a silent indication of the reason for his coldness. She was standing directly beside me once more, beaming up at Edward, her happiness re-igniting and fueling my own elation.
When my gaze returned to my son, his distraught, topaz eyes still bore into mine.
I cannot express how much you were missed, Edward.
He shrugged indifferently, his words sharp with a deeply-rooted bitterness. "I hadn't realized I would be interrupting anything. Maybe I should leave." Surprisingly, I found myself having expected such a sarcastic response. Despite his long absence, it seemed as though nothing had changed at all. At least, he hadn't changed. I, on the other hand, seemed to have lost all patience for his impertinence.
"Edward—" I began to protest, but was stopped short when Esme's hand came to rest on my arm. The movement captured Edward's attention, his golden eyes narrowing coldly as he glared at the gesture. Clearly, he still held tightly to his initial contempt, and if history patterned my expectation, as it did, he would undoubtedly cling to his animosity with the fervor of a newborn to his first meal.
If Esme noticed his expression of displeasure, she chose to ignore it, keeping her eyes locked on my face as I turned slightly toward her. It was the bright glimmer of amusement dancing in her carmine eyes that piqued my curiosity, causing my suspended tirade to go unfinished.
How could she remain so blissfully optimistic despite Edward's deliberate attempts to drive her away? Her smile widened even further as I nodded, encouraging her to speak.
"I think you have much to say that would be easier to discuss if I weren't present," she stated softly, her voice low and calming as she looked between Edward and me. The tone surprised me, the paramount confidence entirely absent, replaced by an almost passive quality. Though unlikely, was it possible she was somehow intimidated by him? If that was the case, I wouldn't have it.
"No, Esme. This now concerns you just as much as either of us," I asserted, "and I think it best that you be included in the conversation."
"Thank you, Carlisle." She paused briefly, her gaze darting to Edward quickly before returning to mine. "And I will—just not yet."
I glanced over at Edward, still standing obstinately in the doorway. His expression voiced his objection to my statement, though he remained suspiciously silent. I could tell he was focusing intently on Esme's mind, his entire demeanor like that of a soldier in enemy territory, searching desperately for something he might use as a weapon.
For the second time since Esme's arrival into our lives, I was ashamed of him. And as before, he knew it, unmasked hurt ripping through his features as he let his gaze fall to the floor. It was agony to see him in such pain, even if it was of his own doing. Everything within me struggled to find a way to make it right.
However, I was brought from my thoughts by a firm pressure from Esme's hands, which had somehow found their familiar place within mine.
The moment I turned back to her, our eyes locked in a tight embrace. All ceased to exist in the world, save for the woman before me, whose beauty could never be put into words, nor fully comprehended; and whose heart, however little I knew of it, far outshone any other on this terrestrial sphere.
I could almost hear her words of encouragement, as I had that day in the forest—I'll be right here. She was reassuring me that, no matter what happened, her love would remain steadfast. Indeed, it seemed I was approaching Edward completely blind in this matter, whatever the matter was.
But would her love be enough if I lost my son? I wasn't entirely sure. And whether it was communicated through my eyes or in some other unconscious way, Esme sensed my doubt. She tightened her hands around mine in reassurance, and I winced, suddenly reminded of her newborn strength. Gasping in shock, she loosened her hold immediately, her gaze falling to my hands in concern.
I became aware of my surroundings again as the moment faded, the dull light from a lamp atop the piano casting a faint glow about the room. Edward had apparently lit the lamp at some point, and was now sitting behind us, in a chair by the couch, his perplexed gaze locked on the two of us. How long had we been standing there, so inconsiderate of his presence?
Looking back to Esme, I found her attention had followed a similar path. She appeared sad, the look fading to hopeful as she met my gaze. Closing the small distance between us, she reached up, kissing me chastely on the lips, giving me one small smile as she turned to leave the room. She paused just before closing the door, opening it up a bit wider to look straight at Edward.
"Welcome home, Edward," she beamed, then quietly shut the door.
As I turned to face my son, a darkened silence filled the room. The clock in my study chimed three o'clock, the incessant seconds' measured ticking and susurrus of the early morning breeze through the branches outside reminding me of those few hours after Edward's first awakening into this life—he'd felt frightened, lost, alone. So much had changed since then, and yet there he sat, looking as solitary and wayward as he had that day in October, not three years ago.
A humorless laugh escaped him at my thought, his hand coming up to run through his unruly hair as he sought to hide his brokenness. Now, as then, the love I held for him cried at his distress, and I moved quickly, sitting on the end of the couch nearest him, placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort. I could tell the past two weeks had been harder on him than me. It was the longest we'd been apart since we had known each other, and he had spent it alone. Though I was anxious to share the events of my days with him, it was far more important to me that he had been all right.
"You won't need to bother," he said, raising his head up to meet my confused gaze. "While you were busy accusing me of procuring ammunitions, Esme filled me in on the…finer points." He grimaced at this, and I immediately felt again what I had experienced upon Edward's unexpected arrival, only just then finding a name for it—utter mortification. The corner of one side of his mouth turned upwards slightly, the beginnings of his trademark crooked grin, but disappeared as he exhaled in an exasperated sigh.
"Things seem to be moving along with her," he continued, his voice colder somehow. "Perhaps I shouldn't have interrupted." His head was back in his hands now, preventing me from reading his expression. Immediately, two theories came to mind: either he was baiting me, knowing his statement to be false and merely seeking to hear the truth straight from my mouth, or he truly thought that. Either way, I was going to settle the matter once and for all.
I took in a deep breath, grasping Edward's shoulder more firmly to get his full attention. He sat up, but kept his gaze averted.
"Edward, to doubt my unconditional love for you, as my son, would be to not even know me. Yes, I do love Esme, and she helped to open my eyes to things about myself that I never could have dreamed. It has freed me to see everything in a new light, and that includes you." I was careful to keep my thoughts from getting ahead of my ability to speak them, knowing it would catch his attention if he didn't know where I was going with them. It worked, as he finally looked me in the eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration as he sought out my thoughts.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself. "I understand now how hard it must have been on you, having to live with me while you were a newborn, feeling that you somehow had to achieve some unspoken standard. I'm sorry I was so distant. So…human."
Edward's eyes widened slightly as he sat back in the chair in apparent wonder, finally understanding what I was trying to say. "You think you drove me away when Esme came?"
I sighed, closing my eyes as the weight of remorse crept through my being. "I know I did, and I'm sorry."
He didn't answer, but the atmosphere suddenly felt significantly lighter, like the air after a thunderstorm. But there was still a dark cloud hanging over us, and it had to do with his absence. I was relieved to see that his eyes were still gold, to be sure, but it did little to tell me what else had occurred. The memory of his departure returned, bringing with it the condition for his return.
"I just need…time…to figure everything out for myself," he had said. What implications did his homecoming hold, then?
It was the sudden sound of movement that made me open my eyes, and I found Edward standing beside his chair and looking out the window behind it, leaning his shoulder against the wall, a distant look in his eyes.
"I went to Chicago, to my parents' home, like I told you I would," he began, crossing his arms in front of him. I smiled, despite myself, at his practiced habit, and he looked over at me, unable to keep a self-satisfied smirk from forming. "If you think a simple gesture is impressive, you would have been amazed at how well I handled being around all those humans—all that blood. I didn't even lunge at anyone," he flatly joked. But I didn't see the humor in it, the immense pride I felt at his accomplishment smothering all but my apprehension at his ambiguous air.
I am inestimably proud of you, Edward. The amount of control you have demonstrated would impress even the Volturi.
He simply shrugged at my praise, his manner still unwavering in its melancholy. I was becoming increasingly worried with each passing moment of weighty quiet. He was guarding his expression, knowing I could easily read it, and I had to quickly contain my thoughts as my mind began racing with the possibilities of what he was hiding from me. He clearly had enough to think about without also having to consider my endless concerns. If he had somehow heard my thoughts, he didn't acknowledge them, sighing heavily before continuing his tale.
"It was incredibly hard to be around such a large number of people—so many thoughts buzzing in my head, I nearly thought I would go insane." That was something I hadn't even considered at the time; but certainly, it would be an issue. Edward held up a hand, anticipating my concern. "But it was much like learning to ignore your thoughts, Carlisle—I found that the harder I focused on something specific, like a piece of music, the less clear each individual thought became. By the end of the third day, I could make those thousands of minds more like a monotonous drone, like a beehive." I could barely contain my pride at his perseverance, unable to imagine the torture of having someone else's thoughts in my mind, much less a thousand others.
"So by day, I kept to the house, playing the piano and studying—not unlike my usual activities here. I would spend most nights walking around town, seeking reminiscence of my fading human memories, keeping out of sight as much as possible. It was quieter while most of the city slept—easier to think…about everything."
I was unable to restrain the tangled mess of questions that emerged in my mind at his final statement. I knew, to some extent, what he specifically disliked about Esme—he felt she was somehow taking his place, and that he would no longer be welcome. But I couldn't believe that was the whole story.
A shake of his head confirmed that it was not, but he didn't elaborate. I was going to have to draw it from him, like poison from a wound.
So, you thought about Esme, I silently stated, more than inquired. He didn't reply. What did you conclude?
"Other than the obvious fact that she's impossibly irritating?" He replied, and I could feel my body tense at his patronizing tone, a small, frustrated hiss unconsciously escaping me before I could stop it. I'd had enough of his petulant equivocation, and I wasn't going to put up with it. The shock in his expression told me that I didn't need to convey my warning through my thoughts, though I could hear the growl beneath the words nonetheless.
What, specifically, annoys you the most?
Edward was silent and entirely still, his eyes fixed on a distant point outside. It was something he often did as he searched his inward thoughts. I, on the other hand, was running circles inside. We weren't yet five minutes into our conversation, and already, I was feeling impatient at the slow pace of our discourse. Never before had he been hesitant to be forthright with me, and yet there he stood, editing his thoughts and feelings when I wanted nothing less than to know everything—I absolutely longed to truly understand his position where Esme was concerned.
"She's madly in love with you to an absurd degree, and always has been," he began, "and that I could live with, especially since you seem to feel the same way." He turned from the window to face me, leaning his back against the wall, a resigned expression on his face. "After everything you've done for me, Carlisle, you deserve to be happy. And I can see that Esme brings you a joy that I never did."
"Edward, you know that's not an entirely true statement," I practically growled again. He had to know that it wasn't. It was as Esme had said—I never really allowed myself to be truly happy, even when I was. I didn't feel that I deserved it; that life devoid of true happiness and love was small penance for being the creature that I was. It wasn't Edward's fault, and it was wrong of him to shoulder the blame for it. Regardless, that wasn't the issue here, and he still hadn't answered my unspoken question.
"You're right, I suppose," he continued. "But what I meant by that is to say that I will put up with her, for your sake." I was relieved, and yet also undeniably exasperated. In that one sentence, he had calmed my fear of his leaving, blamed me for some implied inconvenience, and, once again, refused to give me a direct answer.
I stood swiftly, unable to sit idly while he proverbially pointed the finger at me. "I've had enough of this petulant expression of your negative opinion, Edward. What has she done to merit your poor opinion?"
"I don't like her attitude," he snapped. "From the very beginning, she's acted like she knows everything just because she's in love with you!"
"I see, Edward," I countered, suddenly realizing the source of his discontent. "Much in the way that you assume you know everything because you can read our minds?"
His entire form froze instantaneously, and I knew I had struck a nerve when his eyes closed firmly, his mouth forming a tight line. His arms flew to his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly, abdomen and legs shaking as he visibly restrained himself from stooping into a defensive crouch. It had been entirely unintentional, and yet I had apparently stumbled upon something incredibly important—the reason why he hated Esme so. Was it, perhaps, because they were so similar is their ability to read each other, or was there something else there?
I barely had time to touch the surface of this novel idea before Edward sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, releasing it slowly as his eyes opened at a comparable speed. The repentant resignation I saw in them surprised me—I half expected him to snarl at me, as he had in previous matters, but the softness of his eyes suggested that he would be amenable.
"I don't assume I know everything, Carlisle," he said with a frustrated sigh, his unwavering gaze meeting mine. The flawlessly controlled, even tone of his voice concerned me, however; it felt as though he was attempting to divert my attention from my theory behind his grievance with Esme, so I quickly masked my diligently analyzing thoughts behind a curtain of attentiveness as he continued to speak, his gaze falling to the floor.
"I can see why you may think as much of me, though. But I do know more than you," he asserted, a fiery determination behind his words. I nearly laughed at his arrogant declaration—the very idea of his knowing more than my nearly three hundred years' experience could teach absolutely preposterous—but he cut me off before I could voice it, his features tightening in resolve.
"If you don't believe me, then perhaps I should elucidate." He raised a brow in what appeared to be a challenge, and I was more than happy to oblige.
I would love nothing more, Edward. For now, I would let him think he was controlling the direction of this conversation, allow him to continue this verbal tantrum while my mind was busy thinking about my newest revelation.
The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards in a grim, barely amused smile. "You think Esme has been entirely honest with you over the past few weeks, would that be correct?" I nodded, feeling my body tense at the unspoken accusation against Esme in his words. She had shared everything with me, even disclosing her close call with a human in my absence. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation was taking, and he knew it.
He continued. "Then I suppose it will come as a complete surprise to you to know that Esme has been into your private journals while you were at work." I sat once more, my legs unable to hold me. I felt as though the wind had been knocked from me, though I needed no air. Dread gripped my stomach in alternating pangs of terror and pain as realization sank in. My journals.
Shortly after my change, after I had discovered that I could live off the blood of animals, I began to write down as many of my human memories as I could, realizing how quickly they were fading. I would often look back on them as I struggled with my bloodlust, the transcripts then seeming foreign and fantastical, as though they were the fictitious tales of another. But I knew they were the shadows of what I had been at one time, the very proof that I still had a soul and conscience, despite what my treacherous desires dictated. Even as I forgot them, the written recollections lived on, helping me form much of the control that had eventually led me to attempt medical school.
But it was the journals in which the events since my change were cataloged that I was most concerned about. In an effort to hold myself accountable during my time with the Volturi, in which many opportunities to abandon my strict diet were presented with much appeal and encouragement, I chronicled my early struggles. I was determined never to allow myself to disregard my newborn experience, lest I fall into the seductive arms of my thirst for human blood and become a monster. I wrote of my first encounter with the herd of deer that led to my current philosophy about my existence, the various methods used in my attempts at suicide. But it was the narrative about my first awakening and early hours of newborn life that terrified me the most, especially if Esme had read them.
In my mind's eye, I could see the exact page in the third journal, the neat, copperplate script that portended the bleak and disturbing accounts of my first memories as a vampire.
I waited 'til the noise above me quieted, and from the cellar I emerged into the murky shadows of night, like a very devil from Hades. The scent of humanity—vile decay, perfumed with life—hung thick about me, my feet carrying me with haste over the putrid, cobbled streets. Dark was as light to me, though no lamp lit my path, and my ears hummed with the thousands of beating hearts. I dared not breathe, for fear of myself, until with wrenching sobs of utter despair I fell to the ground beyond the borders of the city.
That first sob, drawn from the barren hole where my heart was naught, became my first and greatest mistake, for the warm, apostate breeze of evening brought with it the unmistakable scent of a small boy passing not a league from my huddled form. My eyes closed, my fingers dug deeply into the pliant turf beneath me, but my feet would not heed my resistance, and ran unbidden to the scent most enthralling. When my eyes opened, it was not the muddy earth in my grasp, but the arms of a young boy, the limbs crushed as though made of no more than clay. He fell to the ground with a great cry, his severed forearms still held tightly in my hands.
What little reason remained within me screamed its dissent, but the child's screams only fueled my brutal desires, adding a frisson of demented delight to the act. One hand pushed the boy's head against the ground to still his thrashing so I might feed from the open wounds, but too tightly, for his skull crumbled beneath my fingers and the part fell unnaturally to the side, his neck broken, blood then flowing like water.
If our Father in Heaven still had any mercy left for me, he supplied it that night. Just as my body made ready to feed, I stilled my breath, then my hands, and eventually my whole body. The demon within me roared with all its rage, shaking me to my foundations with his thirst. I stood, somehow, fighting my carnal desires each second, and between each second, until I was far enough from the corpse for what I had done to be comprehended.
I was a murderer. And I would serve the sentence my crime deserved.
It took me only a moment to understand what Edward was saying. Esme knew, and she hadn't told me. She hadn't lied about it, but she had hidden her knowledge from me—for what purpose?
A memory from our hunt the day before suddenly hit me full force.
"I've been thinking about it all day, and I've concluded that you're afraid to give over to what the vampire within truthfully wants," she had said.
I tried to reason with her. "Esme, try to understand—"
"Stop telling me that I need to understand when I alreadydo," she growled.
My head fell forward into my hands, my elbows braced on my knees as I finally realized that she had known all along. She knew I was a murderer.
"After everything you've learned about Esme," Edward's voice cut through my despair, "it probably won't surprise you to hear that she doesn't think any less of you for it. In fact, she believes it made her love you even more, knowing everything you've been through."
My earlier frustration with his childish scheming returned, mounting by the moment as I realized what he was attempting to do with his espionage.
"That was out of line, Edward," I growled, standing and walking slowly toward him, the arrogant smirk fading marginally from his face. "Regardless of your intentions, which I can only assume to be deleterious, those are Esme's private thoughts. Just as it was my choice to finally reveal my feelings for her, it is her choice to tell me." As I reached him, he took a step away from the wall, his arms once again crossed against his chest. I looked him square in the eye. "It is not your place to disclose that information. Do I make myself clear?"
Never before had I spoken to Edward in such a tone, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was as surprised as I. He nodded once, swiftly turning his back to me, looking out the window again. The matter of my journals was something I needed to work through with Esme, alone. If only I could make him understand…
Then, it struck me. That part of my mind that had been working ceaselessly on that theory finally found an answer, meeting almost seamlessly with the thought at the forefront of my consciousness. Edward and Esme were indeed quite similar with their ability to know what others were up to, telepathy or no; but there was one glaring difference.
Knowing is not understanding. Simply because Edward knew so much about what went on in the minds of others did not mean he took that knowledge and turned it into a means of understanding them, perhaps empathizing with them.
That was the difference between them that had Edward so at odds with Esme. She had loved us both from the very beginning, in different regards; even though Edward expressed nothing but utter vehemence towards Esme since her rebirth, she had yet to have one unkind thing to say about him. It seemed as though Esme's unparalleled love for Edward and me allowed her to take what she knew of us, and understand us deeply and more thoroughly than I could have imagined possible. Perhaps that was a special ability she had, one that would enable those she loved to truly be known by her, in every way possible, and to know that they are loved regardless of what they have done, or will do.
Edward, on the other hand, seemed to base his love for others on the knowledge he obtained from them. Was it perhaps that he knew so much about her—about her abusive husband, how she lost her child, and how she wanted to end her life—and yet was unable to piece it together into a broader definition that would enable him to actually understand her? Was it so frustrating to him that he was unable to premeditate her next reaction because she could comprehend his actions better than he could read her thoughts?
"That's it exactly," Edward whispered. The sound was so quiet, barely more than a whisper, that I almost thought I had imagined it, but as he turned toward me, the unmistakable regret in his features proved that it had, indeed, come from him.
You have been using your ability selfishly, then, Edward. He nodded, and I placed a hand on his shoulder in comfort.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I just don't know how else to process others' thoughts when they're almost as clear in my head as my own." He pinched the bridge of his nose unconsciously, a habit he had picked up from me, before running his fingers through his already disheveled hair.
I sighed, moving closer to him so I could wrap my arm around his shoulders, as I contemplated his statement. Someday, Edward, I hope you meet someone whose mind is completely closed to you, much in the way Esme's is to me. You'll come to see how important it is that you learn to understand them, rather than to jump to conclusions about their motives and actions, based on their thoughts. I smiled slightly, thinking back to the past few weeks with Esme. I've learned that not everything that occurs is directly connected to our minds and reasoning.
It made sense, that when altruistic ideas or thoughts became intrinsic, it would only be natural to make them more self-serving, as you might with information from a textbook or lecture. But Edward was young and inexperienced, not stupid. Surely he could find a way to change how he utilized the information gathered from the minds of others.
He nodded, his crooked grin appearing on his face, though it did not meet his eyes. I could tell he was thoroughly upset with himself, and though I didn't blame him, I had often learned, particularly in medical school, that it wasn't terribly constructive to sit and pour over your books unless you applied the information.
He laughed bitterly. "I'm not sure how to…make amends in this situation." He met my gaze, and I could tell from the look in his eye that he was once again my son—confident, if not a bit uncertain, stubborn, but willing to take advice.
Edward groaned slightly before I could start my reply, his face a mixture of relief and annoyance. Before I could ask, I heard Esme's footsteps in the hall, knocking on the door before I could register Edward's unusual expression. She opened the door cautiously and stepped inside, Edward turning out of my embrace and facing the window again. I almost felt the need to turn with him, knowing how much Esme knew of me now. My guilt and shame suddenly felt even more oppressive with her immediate presence, and I found myself unable to meet her gaze.
"It looks like you need to hear it too, Carlisle," she spoke after a few uncomfortable seconds.
My gaze traveled across the floor to her feet, and I forced myself to look at her. The confusion I felt at her statement, coupled with the fear of losing her respect, and ultimately her love, proved to be a nearly paralyzing terror. But there was no pity in her eyes, as I had expected, nor was there any judgment or anger. She had known all along, and it had not changed anything. It was not enough to drive out the shame I had always felt since that night, but the love in her eyes sparked a joy in my very soul that encompassed every ounce of my being.
However, I was still confused by her statement. "What do I need to hear, Esme?"
She smiled beatifically. "Edward said he didn't know how to make amends. And then I walk in here and you're standing there looking the same way you did after you killed that fawn…" Another fresh pang of guilt shot through me, and I began to wonder if she was actually trying to make either of us feel better, as her countenance would have suggested. "But I'll say to you precisely what I said—or thought, rather—to Edward." She was an inch away from me in an instant, our hands entwined as she laid her head against my chest.
"There's no need."
I remained quiet for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. It certainly didn't solve anything, to be sure, to know that she wasn't ashamed of my past actions. And we would absolutely need to discuss why she hadn't told me about reading my journals. But for now, I would need to let her love me, as I promised I would.
I heard Edward turn behind me, and I looked over my shoulder at him as he moved more to stand beside us. His face was unreadable as he looked between the two of us, and I wondered how he was taking it, considering all that we had discussed. I knew he wouldn't be able to accept her instantly; it was going to take time. Luckily, we had all of eternity. He smiled at me quickly before crossing his arms in front of him, forcing a stern look onto his face.
"Well, Esme, if you're finished monopolizing my father," I smiled at his emphasis, "I believe he has yet to properly welcome me home."
Esme lifted her head to look at me, her face alight with pure joy as she released my hands and threw herself at Edward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, his arms pinned to his sides. I brought a hand to my mouth to stifle a chortle, but couldn't contain my laughter at his absolutely incensed expression. I almost worried that he would attack her again once she released him, but he moved quickly to me instead as I opened my arms to my son, my thoughts nothing but complete elation now that he was home, and we were on the road to reconciliation.
"Edward," Esme's voice sang, "there were these beautiful songs Carlisle played while you were away. I don't suppose you know them?"
He was silent for a moment, undoubtedly reading her thoughts as she described the Leider ohne Worte to him, before nodding. As he sat at his piano, looking more at home than ever, he ran his hands lightly over the keys with a nameless emotion on his face.
"Thank you," he whispered, presumably to Esme for fixing the piano. However, I had a sneaking suspicion there was more to it than that.
Esme moved to stand beside me as Edward played, his fingers dancing across the keys, sending the purest, most beautiful sounds through the air. Esme wrapped an arm around my waist as mine slid around her shoulders, pulling her close against my side.
At that moment, all was right with the world. Esme and I loved each other, deeply. My son was home.
And it felt, as if for the first time, that my heart was whole.
Oh, no way--an end note!? Gasp!
Just to get ahead of you, because I know you'll ask: this is not the end of the series. I'm already halfway through chapter 12, so we will be going that far, at least. It'll all depend on how crazy my life gets from here on out. I really do hope to get through Rosalie and Emmett. They won't take four to five chapters apiece, hopefully, so perhaps I'll be able to see my full vision through and actually finish Emmett. I love them all, what can I say? I'm too much like Carlisle for my own damn good.
All right, I'll let you go now. Thanks for reading. There are so many of you on my story alert--thank you for reading. I would love it if you would even just drop a review to say "hi," or "wtf?" I reply to each and every review, and I would love to get the opportunity to thank you personally!
