Chapter 20 - Interlude, Pt. III
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee:...
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
- from London, 1802 by William Wordsworth
I followed Carlisle back into the cabin and watched as he lit an oil lamp and carefully hung it over the piano. The colors of the new painting, even in that little bit of light, stood out magnificently. Even human eyes would have noticed.
His mind was completely open again, and this time I knew it would last. Still, he couldn't help throwing in a line or two of Paradise Revisited, just to goad me a little.
I frowned when he did it; he grinned mischievously, and then turned his admiration to the Vrubel again.
I knew I should be more tolerant of his affinity for Milton. After all, he'd always admired the man, and had even met him once, an event Carlisle didn't remember anywhere near as well as he wanted to. John Milton had been a contemporary of his human life, and had more in common with Carlisle Cullen, 17th century Londoner, that my human self ever could have. And Milton's works, in their preoccupation with gods and demons, spoke of things that were intrinsic to Carlisle's outlook.
And evidently fallen angels, in particular seraphs, were a fascination of his. Aro had chosen his gift well.
"Are you going to hang it up?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Not here, though. I'll wait until we move, I think." I should get a frame for it, though.
"So how come you never told me you sculpted this?" I asked, wandering to the limestone plaque, his own tribute to seraphic entities.
He paused with an indecisive expression. At first I didn't think it appropriate. After that I just didn't think to mention it. I don't sculpt often.
"Why wouldn't it be 'appropriate'?" I asked with a raised brow. "Just what theory is it you've developed, Carlisle?"
He snorted slightly. "Well, first of all, it's not a theory. Aro's the only one who ever treated it as such." He could turn the most casual of subjects into an intellectual decathlon.
"It can't be trivial, either," I countered. "Chelsea and Demetri gave me the distinct impression that you thought quite a bit about whatever inspired you to sculpt this. You even told me once that it's something you 'muse on.'"
"So it is," he replied. Well, let's see... where to begin...
With that, his mind started leafing through a multitude of subjects and memories, until it settled on something unexpected. "You know," he said speculatively, "I've always thought it ironic that vampires were called 'the cold ones' by some."
"I've never heard vampires called that."
"Several indigenous peoples call us that in their legends. And it isn't inappropriate, since we are, after all, cold to a human's touch... but to be one of us, as you know, is to know that we always burn."
Carlisle wandered over to me by the sculpture, contemplating its depiction of beings twisting in holy flames.
Everything about our existence is fire; flames consume us in transformation, our thirst is scorching, our passions burn with greater intensity than mortals can know, and the fire of the sun reveals to them what we are. And to die, if it is indeed death as other earth-bound creatures know it, we must be destroyed by fire. Eternity is our pyre, and on it we burn forever with something we don't understand... the burning ones.
He was utterly transfixed by the limestone forms, and had unconsciously withdrawn a pocketed hand, tracing the burning edge of a seraph's wing with his fingertip.
"I'd always wondered where our immortality came from," he murmured.
I watched Carlisle, suddenly uneasy. His amber gaze was a million miles away in that little sculpture, the subtext of his thoughts lost in profound questions that sentient beings naturally have about where they come from, why they're here. The trouble was, he was finding answers in those fiery figures, and I began to wonder if the centuries of Carlisle's deprived solitude had taken a toll of insanity on him.
Obviously he wasn't pulling these ideas out of thin air. One of his layers of thought spoke of inky, fragile scrolls written in ancient languages, of forgotten histories, scraps of buried legend and artifacts - things that spoke of years of sporadic, but intensive research. But, for God's sake, he was a vampire identifying with depictions of angels.
"You think... we're angels?" I asked.
"No," he replied quietly, "but we're like nothing else on earth. That first night I drank, and then lay there looking at the stars as I'd never seen them before... feeling my new body soothed and alive, even as my mind... my self returned... I realized that so many of the notions I had about our kind weren't true. I wasn't some mindless monster. So much of what I'd been taught was wrong, and I was filled with questions. I wanted to find out where we really came from." He glanced down, a rueful smile toying at the corner of his mouth. "I had no idea, at the time, how difficult that would prove to be. Perhaps it's fortunate that we live indefinitely, because even with millenia to spend looking for them, answers are elusive."
"I know time sometimes dragged, Carlisle, but you haven't exactly been around for millenia."
He chuckled. "Not yet. But even after I have been, I doubt I'll have found any answers. I've spoken with many vampires, and most of us know who sired us; I'm a rare exception to that. A few can even trace their lineage back through four or five sires, going back thousands of years, but not one of us remembers where it started... how we happened to begin with."
His brow furrowed as he gazed again at his limestone depiction of the Seraphim.
"We're immortal, apart from humanity, and yet our population is culled from humanity. We're like bastards who know our mortal mother, but not our eternal father, caught between spirit and flesh with no explanation. It had to come from somewhere... and so we look to legend." Or at least some of us do. And why not? If we, as vampires, are facts that have faded into myth amongst humanity, then why couldn't our predecessors have faded into myth amongst ourselves?
I swallowed apprehension long enough to attempt reasoning with him. "But the Seraphim? That doesn't make sense. Even if you believe they exist, the Seraphim are angels, the supposed bearers of God's eternal light. They're not earthly."
"Of course not," he replied, his gaze lighting up as he looked at me. "Have you heard of the Nephilim?"
I shook my head. "Should I have?"
"Not necessarily. There are many stories of fallen angels, and yet the Nephilim are largely unknown. They're hardly mentioned in canon, which is odd; that creatures with such extraordinary beginnings, with so much influence in the ancient world, are barely acknowledged... it implies deliberate omission."
"So they were fallen angels?"
"No. The Nephilim were the offspring of angels who had coupled with mortal women they'd become enamored with."
"You're talking about what was alluded to Genesis," I said. "I have heard of this; the angels who walked the earth and took the daughters of men as wives."
"Yes... and some of those angels were from the ranks of the Seraphim. Imagine what the progeny of such creatures might be like; how would their burning, venomous powers be manifested in their earthly descendants? What havoc might they wreak upon humanity?" His gaze fell from mine, and then returned to the sculpture. "The angels who fathered them were, of course, damned for their actions, and cast down. Their sons and daughters, the Nephilim, remained here, neither divine nor mortal. They were earth-born creatures, so they weren't cast down with their fathers, but because the nature of how they were begotten was forbidden, their souls were condemned."
I tried not to look as disquieted as I felt.
"But weren't the children of the angels giants?"
He smirked. "That's the interesting part. It's so commonly believed that they were giants because, over time, people have come to think that the word Nephilim itself meant 'giant,' but they're wrong. Translated from its Hebrew roots, original meanings of the word Nephilim differ, but 'fallen ones' is the most common. There is also 'those who cause to fall,' as well as 'unnaturally begotten men,' 'those who are feared,' and even 'those who are extraordinary.' That it was a reference to actual size is unlikely."
"Then where did the idea of their being giants come from?"
"Probably from a mistranslation of the Greek text. In it, the word 'gigantes' appears as the name for the Nephilim. On the surface it seems like a reference to size, but it's literal translation is actually 'earth-born.'"
I couldn't find words to respond with. After the conversation a few days ago with our visitors, I'd had an inkling as to what to expect from the story behind the sculpture, but somehow I thought it would be easily dismissed. I found myself having the urge to run off and scour Greek texts to see if he was right about the word 'gigantes.' And then Chelsea's words came back to me...
"Careful. You've stumbled onto one of Carlisle's pet theories. You'll end up hearing about more than you bargained for."
A sage warning it seemed now, as Carlisle continued, obviously in his element.
"Mistranslation aside, it's still easy to see why the confusion of giants came about, because those who were in the presence of the Nephilim felt inferior in every way. The children of the angels were tall, incandescent and pale, and so beautiful that it made mortals weep to look at them. They were incredibly strong and fast, with great intellects. Like Prometheus, they were even reputed to have brought to mankind the understanding of certain arts, crafts and sciences. They took on the mantles of kings and emperors. They lived for centuries and millenia, seemingly immortal.
"But they simply weren't built for this world, like those who'd sired them, and yet they were forever banned from the celestial home of their fathers at the same time. With no place they truly belonged, they became bitter, and chose to make their own terrible niche; dominion over mankind. It was their own form of rebellion- taking man's worship of God and directing it to themselves... and they became cruel to accomplish it. Their thirsts and passions made them terrifying; nothing could satisfy their appetites. They consumed all and demanded blood sacrifices, eventually abandoning all other forms of nourishment. The very lifeblood of humanity became the only thing that would satisfy the Nephilim." Carlisle's gaze fell. "They were an apocalyptic plague."
"How come I've never heard of them?" I asked.
"I couldn't say. In the realm of theology, the Nephilim have been shuffled into obscurity so deeply, it's as if they aren't a polite topic of conversation. They aren't easy to find, but scarce mentions of them come from diverse places; the Old Testament, apocryphal texts, Rabbinical writings, even Norse and Sumerian legends. "
"Is there anything about what happened to them?"
"Nothing definitive, unfortunately. What few scraps there are conflict with one another, but all of them are rooted in Noah's flood, which I find interesting, because none of the canonical stories about the need for the flood ever made sense to me. It was as if mankind was full of ordinary sinners one day, and then the next they'd become so corrupt that God saw fit to get rid of nearly all of them and start over. There's no real reason to it, unless you look at stories that never made it into canon."
"I take it you mean the Nephilim," I said.
"Among others, but yes, their story in particular. If apocryphal texts are to be considered part of biblical history, and there's no reason why they shouldn't – many of them are no less authentic than the chosen texts, once you look past prejudices of the time – it makes sense. It wasn't the wickedness of man that God sent the floods to cleanse, but the Nephilim, their progeny, and the world they had poisoned so deeply. They had insidiously violated God's plan for mankind. They had to be annihilated."
"So they did die, then?"
"Probably not all of them; one account is so generous as to say that as many as ten percent of the Nephilim were spared, while others say there was a lone survivor, a king of Bashan, who was on the Ark. One version says that he simply hung onto it to survive, another that he was wedded to one of Noah's daughters. Others relate that all the Nephilim perished, while their spirits remained perpetually bound to Earth, restless and agonized- demons of a sort."
"Well, there's one hole in your story," I said with a smirk. "There's no point in sending a flood to kill creatures who can't drown."
"But what could they feed on? It was ten months before the waters receded enough for even bare mountaintops to peek out, to say nothing of the time it would have taken for living things to replenish their numbers. All the blood left in the world was on the ark, which was protected. So long, with no blood... I can't even imagine what that would do to our kind... except... perhaps we turned on each other, destroyed by madness."
I had to draw the line. He was no longer saying the Nephilim, but "we" and "our kind."
"Let me get this straight. You're honestly proposing that vampires are the descendants of an ancient race of half-angels who survived Noah's flood?" No wonder Aro spent decades arguing with him about this.
"No," he said, softening. "No matter how compelling I find this to be, it's just a muse. Aro was the one who treated it like a theory; he was unwittingly more responsible for its development than I ever was. I admit, it was entertaining to keep the discussion going, but these hammered-together bits of legend aren't what I believe. There are dozens of mythologies from all over the world that one could glean vampire origins from. The story of the Nephilim is just one of them."
"What do you believe, then?"
"When it comes to the origin and fate of our kind?"
I nodded.
"Nothing specific... except-" he stopped short, his ocher gaze falling before lifting cautiously again to mine. That our souls are truly damned.
The look on my face must have been one of sheer stupefaction. "I can't believe it. You'd take that entire mythology and throw it out except- oh, that part about eternal damnation. Let's keep that one," I half-snorted, half-chuckled. "How can you say that? You have to commit some pretty horrendous sins to be damned."
"True, but-"
"You can't really believe that."
How can I not believe it? "Edward, I don't presume to separate my fate from that of the rest of our kind," he said. "My humanity was taken away when I was changed, just like the rest of them; there's no getting it back. I was born into this life consumed by the same lust for blood, violence and death, and when you look around, you simply can't deny that we aren't built for this world. We can't even let our existences be known of without creating havoc. It doesn't matter what story one digs up to explain it, it's obvious that what we are is fundamentally wrong. It's in everything we do. We're like parasites in our feeding habits-"
"Oh, come on," I interrupted, desperate for something in all this bleakness to argue with. "Everything is a parasite; all living things in this world need to consume other living things to sustain themselves."
"Not the way we do it," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "We come from humanity, we live among them, wear their clothes, enjoy their music, writing, achievements- and then prey on them, not because we have to, but because it brings us ecstasy. That's evil if ever there was any!"
I was somewhat taken aback. He was usually so reflective – even placid – during discussions about our nature and role in this world. But not now. I'd never seen outbursts like this from him- not even in his memories. The depth of his passion on the subject obviously wasn't something he let out often. Maybe he never had at all. It might have felt like a privilege to be let into it if it wasn't for what he was saying.
"I've seen it- and last night, you saw it in Demetri," he seethed, "the sadistic pleasure we take in treating our mother race as inferior playthings! And do you know there are some among us who barely take pleasure in it anymore, but like addicts they still drink away human life, regardless of how much it troubles them? Isolated, tortured creatures suffering under the burden of eternity, each year they endure as meaningless as the one before-"
"Stop it," I ground out, though it sounded more like a plea. "You keep saying 'we,' but you don't do any of those things, and I know you don't think like the rest of them. You respect humanity. For God's sake, you nurture human beings! You can't hold yourself accountable for what other-"
"I don't! But just being one of us is a damnable fall from grace. Don't you see-"
"Okay, fine! I get it!" I yelled. "We're nothing but miserable wretches bound for hell whether we resist temptation or not. That's just great, Carlisle! Thanks for bringing me on board."
With that I stalked back out to the porch, slamming the door behind me. Instantly the doorframe and glass cracked, even though it didn't feel like I'd exerted any strength at all. Just a minor display of temper...
Not built for this world.
Except that wasn't his thought this time, but an echo in my own brain.
I was too agitated, in turmoil, to listen to his thoughts. My fists clenched handfuls of hair, pulling my chin to my chest as I paced. As if to twist the knife, my ever-present thirst gnawed with fresh vigor. Out of sheer habit I froze in place, unwilling to take another step lest it be the one that launched me to where I should never, ever go.
But why? What was the point if I was damned anyway?
No, no! Carlisle just couldn't be right, at least not as far as his own fate was concerned. And not mine. Okay... so we'd been yanked into a species of vicious killers. But not him. And not me... almost, but still not me, either. There had to be a reason for all this self-deprivation and effort. We weren't beyond hope, were we?
And it could be done. I could control myself. I could exist here without being an offense to God and nature.
What about the offense you are to mankind? an inner voice taunted, whispering under burn that fueled my thirst. Or were you just pretending you were going to kill Franz last night?
No, I argued. I can do better. I will. Maybe I should just remain isolated; keep away from them. How long did Carlisle exile himself?
Even after learning to dull his thirst with the blood of animals, he'd stayed away from humans for a long while. He remembered all too well the inexorable draw of their scent. There were few moments in his existence filled with more trepidation than when he'd finally allowed himself near a pair of travelers camping out for the night... that first, halting breath with human scent in the mix.
But what good did it do to be so cautious? To deprive himself so horribly? He thought he was going to hell anyway, if death ever truly claimed him.
I must have been out there for at least fifteen minutes, stewing and arguing with myself, while Carlisle let me be. Finally, though, he stirred in the cabin, putting out the lamp. The door was broken, of course, so when he turned the warped handle, it didn't budge. I reached out and yanked it open, figuring I may as well spare him having to be the one to break it the rest of the way, since it was my fault. I turned away without looking at him, my grip settling on the porch rail. He walked over splintered bits of doorframe, cautiously coming to my side.
"I'll fix it," I grumbled.
I know. Don't berate yourself, please. Four months here, now, and that's the first thing you've broken.
"Great. A new record."
He was silent for a time, and we both ended up at each others side at the rail, gazing out at the night sky. It was as clear as could be. Still so many stars to my eyes... and behind tangled, naked branches, a full moon had risen in the southwest. I couldn't enjoy it, beautiful as it was. All I could think was why couldn't just one thing be simple? Just one.
"I'm sorry, Edward," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you. I try not to think about these things." There's more than one reason I don't often dwell on eternity and all the questions that surround our fate. Contemplating it invariably makes me despondent, sometimes even angry.
I shook my head. "I think you're wrong. It can't be like that. We can't be lost already, not if we haven't done anything wrong. We didn't ask for this. It can't be that unfair."
Maybe, maybe not. I just don't know. But our race is made up of unearthly murderers, plain and simple.
"But you said yourself most of us don't even know we can live without killing human beings. It's in our nature to do it. How can we be blamed for doing what we were meant for?"
"I don't think we were meant to be to begin with. And there are those of us who do know they don't need human blood, who feel the humanity buried within them, but they kill anyway-"
"For the pleasure of it," I finished. "Okay, so write them off to hell, but why us, too? Why those who know better and follow our consciences, and not our bloodlust? Doesn't that count for something?"
"I hope so," he conceded. "And I've probably made my outlook sound more bleak than it really is. After all, where there's damnation there is also redemption. Most philosophies and religions teach that there are no irredeemable sinners. There's forgiveness to be found for all those who come to terms with their wrongdoings and do what they can to correct them."
"Is that why you put yourself through all that agony to be a doctor?" I smirked, glancing at him. "Buying your ticket to heaven?"
He chuckled, meeting my gaze. "Well, I wouldn't put it that way."
"But it's true, isn't it? You're fostering hope for redemption."
He looked away from me, his thoughts a plethora of memories.
"In a way," he said after a moment. "I don't presume to hope for myself, or for our kind. Not really. Vampires are blatantly unrepentant. There are too few of us trying to rise above our natures..." he shook his head as if in a trance. "But when I work, when I help people, I feel like, in a way, I'm making small payments towards the huge debt of life that we owe. And on a personal level, it brings me meaning and purpose. Doing well at it is the closest thing to fulfillment I've ever experienced..." and sometimes I feel like I'm taking a step, on behalf of our kind, towards being something better than we are.
"Which doesn't make sense," he said. "I could live and work for three thousand years, and it still wouldn't come close to making up for the life we've taken – and still take – every day. And what I do won't convince the others to stop feeding on human blood. In the end, I only do it because it's satisfying to me, not because it promises redemption for myself or others of our kind."
"But you do have hope."
"I feel it sometimes, and then I move my thoughts onto something else before rational thinking has a chance to quash that hope."
I started laughing, which was egged on by his puzzled expression.
What? What did I say?
"Nothing," I chuckled. "It's just that I'm wondering if I shouldn't have gone with them. Gothic castles full of bloodsucking demons would be cheerier than you are right now."
Sorry. Carlisle grimaced. This has all really upset you, hasn't it?
I shrugged as the last bitter laugh faded, staring over the rail at bushy weeds growing below the porch.
I shouldn't have gone into all that. With his gift, it's too easy to forget how young he is.
"Okay, so I'm not two hundred eighty years old, but I'm not two, either. Isn't eighteen old enough to handle subjects like eternity and redemption?"
Yet another thing I haven't exactly relished the prospect of discussing... "It's not the topic, or your intellectual ability to come to terms with it that's related to your age," he said carefully. "It's your emotional reaction to it. You'll always be seventeen, Edward."
"Physically, yeah. I know, I get it. I'm frozen. But I can still learn."
He nodded. "You can learn, you can gain wisdom... but emotionally you're as frozen as your body."
My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
I don't know how to put this without unintentionally offending you.
"Give it a try."
He still hesitated before speaking, which gave me a good preview of what he was about to say, and he was right; I didn't like it one bit – not when it was just a thought, and especially not when he actually voiced it.
"Emotional maturity is more a product of age than experience," he said, his gaze sliding to mine carefully. "It's physiological, not just psychic, and one of the curiosities of our kind is that the hormonal development that accompanies age stops progressing with the rest of our bodies. I will always be twenty-three – emotionally speaking, just on this side of adulthood. You, however, were changed when your hormones were just settling out of pubescence." He paused, choosing his next words. "Boys your age tend to be... reactionary. You get upset with little provocation."
My jaw clenched as I fought not to be 'reactionary.'
"Well, the good news just keeps coming," I said tightly.
It had been such a strange night. Here I'd thought it was going to be better when the Volturi left, but after these conversations I just felt more hopeless, the resonating thirst inside me aching more acutely, a reminder of its power over me, over every aspect of my existence. And maybe Carlisle was right about my disposition, because that's when I was struck with an idea. A dangerous, rebellious idea.
Ignoring his apologetic thoughts, I turned to him; he recognized the determination in my posture, and apprehensive suspicion filled his mind.
"Yesterday morning you said you trusted me."
"I do," he replied cautiously.
"May I borrow the Peerless for a few hours?" I asked.
"Rig-?"
"Right now."
This was it. The big test. Every legitimate question and its potential outcome ran through his worried head. But he knew better than to ask. This was an exercise in trust. He'd give it to me or he wouldn't.
Finally, he nodded. You know where the keys are.
(to be continued...)
A/N: Well, folks, there you go. The story behind Carlisle's sculpture.
Long ago, I stumbled upon the tale of the Nephilim while researching a different aspect of MLY, and it caught my imagination right away as a potential vampire origin myth. I've spent a lot of time researching it since, and became convinced it was a subject that Carlisle, with his background, scholarly ways, and preoccupation with damnation and redemption, might have latched onto. I also discovered that there are other people who've made the same connection I did between the Nephilim and vampires. However, research or not, I admit that I've pulled a Dan Brown here. This is for fun. If you're a theologian or just want to debate/discuss, I welcome it.
To that end, I've posted a MLY discussion thread on Twilighted. I don't expect it to be a really hoppin' place, but for those of you who want to discuss MLY and any of the topics within, you are welcome to drop in. I'll be vigilant about checking it and replying frequently. I'll also be posting outtakes in the thread, too. The one I'm starting with is an extended, much more revealing version of the conversation Carlisle had with Chelsea and Santiago the night Edward was out hunting with the other two. It's up now:
http : / / www (dot) twilighted (dot) net / forum / view topic (dot) php ? f= 17&t = 16839
These last couple chapters were especially fun (and challenging) for me. In the Twilight books and countless fics, we've seen references to long, all-night conversations Edward and Carlisle used to have. Here, we actually get one of them.
Yeah... it was a lot of talking. I hope you're looking forward to action, because the next two chapters will have plenty of it.
Thank you for reading.