The Body is a Temple
This is the entirety of "Chapter 47: No Shame in a Safe Haven" from Carlisle's point of view.
The lights were all off when Carlisle came into the bathroom that morning. His feet were like ice on the freezing cold tile. The promise of warmth was quietly alluring, being what had drawn him into the bath in the first place.
He lit a single candle for a feeling of safety, a reminder of purity, and he placed it on the window sill so that nothing could touch it. So that he could not change his mind and blow it out.
He had planned for the water to be cold, but instead it came out of the faucet, sloshing and hot. He'd felt it with just the tips of his fingers and was put under its spell. He couldn't bring himself to turn it back to cold.
The air was soon choked with ghostly white steam, the windows encrusted with ice crystals on the outside and fog on the inside. The atmosphere contained in that tiny washroom was heady and intoxicating. It felt thick and oppressive, but in a strangely comforting sort of way.
He undressed himself slowly in the empty room, nervous for the way each tile on the wall seemed to be blinking back at him behind the swirling steam, watching him with their cold, stony blue eyes. The running water hummed critically as each inch of his flesh was exposed, the particles of air prodding him from all around, testing the vulnerability of his every limb. The only thing that was not judging him was his candle, fluttering innocently in her frosty window with her skirt of pale yellow wax and her halo of heavenly fire.
He'd always felt that there was something discomfiting about being naked, even while alone. His trousers came off and suddenly it seemed every inanimate object in the room was stirring, chattering amongst themselves in perfect silence, taunting him, gossiping, glaring.
He swallowed hard as he turned his head back to the lone candle in the window, seeking her guidance. She winked back at him sweetly, and he was at peace again.
As he dipped his toes into the water he felt like he was back in the Turkish Baths, the haunting medley of Marrakesh incense flooding his senses. It was all imagined, but he could almost taste it, as if it were real.
The bubbles spread across the surface like a tiny field of crystalline clovers. He smiled lightly as he let his hands pass over them, distracting himself with their simple beauty. By the time the water rose to the top, the tub was bloated with copious amounts of bubbles – enough that he could no longer flick each with his finger and make it disappear before another popped up somewhere else. They were like hydra heads, the little beasts. All over the place they tickled him and giggled softly whenever he moved the slightest bit.
For a while he encouraged their pestering games, but then they began to disappear slowly as his thoughts shifted from absent playfulness to more tantalizing realms.
He felt again that everything in that room was listening in, participating in his private fantasy. The tiles on the wall were dripping with condensation, as if cold sweat were glazing over their squared blue faces. The candle on the window sill danced about nervously, its flame glowing a hearty pinkish hue as if it were blushing. The sounds of snowflakes nesting on the rooftop were like soft kisses, each one harassing him with its utter loveliness.
Suddenly everything reminded him of her.
He wanted her to share this quiet, wet, confined space with him. He wanted her slim, nude body to mold against his own, her hands to thwart his chastity one body part at a time. He wanted to see those bubbles cling to her breasts, the water shining on her smooth, pale skin. He wanted to see the way her face would change as she settled into his hot bath, the way her long caramel waves would thicken from the humidity. He wanted to run his hands through her hair and watch the way the strands darkened from the dampness of his fingers.
Subconsciously he could feel his hand scrubbing his shoulders and chest – the slightly rough, fibery texture of the washcloth as it stroked across his skin. Back and forth, it shifted between rough and soft, soft and rough. He thought it might be nice to make love this way. He wanted it both ways, sometimes. His mind was perfectly capable of wandering in either direction.
The bubbles were all gone by now. His inappropriate behavior must have frightened them all away. There was nothing but a film of soap left on the surface of the bath water. The iridescent sheen still lingered, lapping at his skin, swirling absently into the nooks and crannies of his elbows and knees.
The water was cloudy, like a mixture of milk and moonlight. It would make no difference if he were to release the desires that plagued him now.
It was this thought that encouraged his hand to dip below the surface of the water.
He could hear her stirring about in her bedroom. Lord, she was on her bed. He could hear those tiny shifting sounds of sheets being tossed about, the weight of her lithe body as she settled on the mattress. A tiny scratch of paper against paper punctuated the ambiance, and he was filled with a ravishing thrill at the thought that she may have been sketching in bed.
His hands scrubbed more swiftly.
He imagined himself laying beside her, running his hands over her curves while she toyed around with her drawing pencils and sketchpad. He imagined slipping his tongue around the shell of her ear and hearing her sigh in response. The reward was so real that he could have sworn he heard it echo from his daydream into the tangible world.
His hands were shaking, but he couldn't bother himself to steady them.
No one could see them under the water anyway.
Out of curiosity he looked down and marveled at the cloudy bath water, how it remained so still despite his desperate movements beneath, how it afforded him such beautiful protection – translucent and warm.
Combined with the reliable strength of his hand and the unreliable softness of the washcloth, the hot water became a powerful shroud, hugging his desire even while it seemed slippery and tentative at times.
He wondered if this were anything close to the way a woman's hand would feel. Perhaps not so hard, perhaps not so rough. But with a bit of gentleness and a softer touch... Yes, that was how it would feel.
Of course he was only supposing.
He had seen Esme wash her hands, and play the piano, and smear paint onto canvas, and twist her fingers when she was nervous. He knew enough about her personal subtleties to know how her hands would work in almost any given situation. Even one as unthinkable as this.
She was... an artist.
That thought put him so close to the edge.
She was also a broken woman.
That thought brought him back from the edge.
But she was a broken woman who longed to be healed. Healing in this case could take any form, he supposed. As a doctor he could improvise easily. And he knew Esme needed to be healed in so many ways – mentally, emotionally...physically.
His hips nudged up into nothing, stirring the water a bit on the surface and sending some splashing over the rim of the tub. He could hear his breath catching faster, but all he could do was hope no one was listening.
His doctor's instinct infused with his animal instinct, the thought repeating seductively in his head. Heal Esme... I must heal Esme...
It was a direct order to himself, but it made so little sense that it became more of an empty phrase. He simply took to the way it sounded in his thoughts, sinking deeper into his subconscious, motivating the tiny muscles beneath his belly.
But the sensation was not only physical. It never stopped there when he thought of Esme. It ran further than that, like a punch in the gut, awakening him to all of the reasons for his existence. He was thinking of all those heartbreaking things she had been through, the unfulfilling life she had led as a human, how she had been mistreated as a woman and a wife. These thoughts nourished the fire in his loins until the quintessence of his passion was boiling deep in his heart. He could feel it all rushing together, creating something unseen and dangerous, something charged and convulsive.
He found himself wavering on that disturbingly pleasant ledge, perilously close to bliss but taunted by the bittersweet urge to pull back. If he were only innocent enough, good enough, restrained enough he would have done it in a heartbeat. But because he was a disaster and imperfect and unrestrained, he gave himself up on it.
But this time it felt as if there had been a reason behind it.
This time his motivation was not just physical need. It was emotionally charged, almost fueled by sympathy as much as arousal.
Only it hadn't reached her.
His venom was clouding the already cloudy water instead of warming the cradle of her soul. Here it was poison. Inside of her it could have been...precious.
The anger rippled through him, urging his hand to reach for the drain lock at the bottom of the tub. With a quick yank, he pulled it out and watched as the cold water began to sink rapidly around him, consuming the evidence of his lust along with it.
There were quick footsteps in the hallway – footsteps that undoubtedly belonged to Esme. She was so light on her feet, always slightly panicked, it seemed.
"Let's take a walk, you and me," Edward said softly from downstairs, his voice perfectly natural though his thoughts must have been urgent.
"Yes, I think I could use a walk," her voice responded, the muted bell of her sigh chiming in the back of Carlisle's head. His chest tightened as he listened to her slide her boots over her feet and step outside the door after his son.
Edward knew so well when circumstances begged the woman to leave the house. Carlisle wished there had been a more proper way to thank his son. But it was true, the best way to thank Edward was to simply never mention what was really going on.
Outside he could hear the snow crunching from their footsteps as they left in the other direction. A hollow howl of wind confirmed their absence, making him feel all the more empty when he was at last alone in the house.
On the window, his candle flickered with pity for him. As the last of the water slipped away, he found himself utterly naked in the tub, his flesh coated with the filmy residue of soap. He took the washcloth and washed it away, touching his body with uncertainty and fear, as if it did not truly belong to him.
Sometimes he felt that this was not his body.
Two and a half centuries, and he still stared at himself in the mirror with a disconnect he could not seem to resolve. He stared at himself like a scholar would stare at a statue – with unfamiliarity, and a slight discomfort. His posture was always awkward as he stood before the reflective glass, still so unsure how to handle this unpleasantly natural grace. No matter how he arranged his limbs, altered the weight of his legs, straightened his back, he could not find a single position that did not remind him of the concrete bodies that held up the pediments of ancient ruins.
This was not the body he had been blessed with at birth. This was a mask, a shell, a ridiculously morphed variation on what he used to be.
The body is a temple, his father used to say. But what was a vampire's body? A temple, or a prison?
It pained Carlisle to wonder what Esme might think of her changed body. Was she as uncomfortable with it as he was with his? Did she feel as detached from her flesh, as cold when she saw her full reflection in the mirror?
How he wished he could see her reflection in this mirror.
The thought revealed before him the fleeting image of her slender form, draped in soft gray shadows as she stood beside him in front of the bathroom mirror. The sight of both their bodies together, in mutual nakedness was shamefully stirring though it was nothing more than a feeble image in his mind.
Esme's flesh was warm and pink even in the darkness, making his own skin look paler than eggshell. She stretched her lovely arms above her head and turned slightly, observing the fine slope of her back beneath waves of long, reddish-brown curls. Her feet fit perfectly between the squares of tile as she took two steps forward, looking more closely at herself in the glass. She lifted her large eyes to meet his, and smiled impishly when she caught him staring. Though she was just a figment of his imagination, he still ducked his head in embarrassment.
The dream carried on weakly through his wavering interest, his ears picking up the faint sound of imagined footsteps on the wet tile as she walked over to the window where his candle was still shining bright. He lifted his head to watch her bask in the low light from the flame, letting the glow spread across her flawless female curves. Her eyes closed happily as she gathered her silken hair to one side, exposing the creamy skin of her neck, her shoulder, her back.
He took an unconscious step forward, testing his balance on the tile. But when he reached out to touch the tempting mirage, she feathered away into nothingness.
Carlisle beat himself mentally over it all – these distracting desires that were sticking to him like glue. The only way to expel them was to sit before his journal and spill them all out as words.
He would take advantage of the time he had to himself, without his son to listen in on the thoughts that cascaded restlessly through his mind.
Resisting the urge to shatter the bathroom mirror, Carlisle rushed back to his bed-less room, and quickly tucked himself into the first clothes he saw dangling lazily from the drawers of his bureau. In a second's time he was behind his desk in his study, rummaging for a suitable ink pen.
He was running low on blue ink.
Blue was his cathartic color. Something about it seemed to draw the emotions away from his heart more reliably than the others. Not wanting to waste the blue for now, he settled instead on a shade of green. But there were so many shades of green to choose from. Some were like the fronds of a baobab tree, still and proud in the sun; some were like the algae at the edge of the sea, drifting towards eternity. But there was one like the deepest, richest emerald – the way the raw stone almost glowed between two halves of a geode. He chose that very shade of ink, for he felt it would best emphasize what he needed to write.
He settled himself down halfway on his chair, the back of his shirt coming untucked from his trousers as he hunched over the surface of the desk, gripping the pen too tightly as he suspended it over the page.
With the first spatter of shocking green ink, he already felt the power of his desires subside into relief.
God, you have made her so beautiful. You have spared her no blessed feature. You have granted her with unmatchable loveliness and such tempting talents. I owe the credit of Esme's perfection to you . . . yet I often entertain the idea that I have made her this way. That my venom, having run its course so fully, infected her with the very beauty I desired to find in my own heart. I longed for a beauty I had yet to find, and now I have found her. She is partially my creation, yet I have surrendered every scrap of my control over her for the sake of her freedom.
Esme is a free woman because I wish her to be free. Still, in my heart I hope she holds true to her promise to stay with me always . . .
He glanced up at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, the tiny ticks telling him to rush. Ten minutes until he must leave for the hospital. Several more until Esme and Edward would return from their walk.
Breathing hard, he bowed his head back over his journal and attempted to purge the last of his thoughts before the clock chimed.
Lord, if you must, punish me. I wish not to think of myself as weak, but in your eyes, I surely must be. Is it a sin to say that I care no longer for my own honor? The only thing that now keeps my burden is the honor of the woman.
I have been told that to want is to sin. If this be true, then curse me for wanting know too much! Curse me for wanting to know what it would be like to have her shudder beneath me; curse me for wanting to know her darkest thoughts, her deepest desires. Curse me for it, but do not keep me from it. I have asked so many times for my burden to be lifted . . . But there is a secret part of me that longs to keep this burden, a part of me that relishes in it. It is true; sometimes I find myself aching from it, but this ache I have grown to savor.
I do not wish to expel my desires for I have also been taught that every feeling you ignite in a man's heart is good. So I must assume what I feel is good in some unearthly way; that what I feel must have some higher purpose. Should it be so wrong that I find pleasure in it? My pleasure is not so selfish, I think. Some nights I long to do nothing but give to her. But I am tired of giving material gifts. Quite soon, I fear, I will reach a time when I must give a part of my soul instead. Nothing less than this will be satisfactory. Nothing less will fulfill me. Esme deserves nothing less than my entire being, if only she would have me.
But I fear this deeply. Should she come to desire me in the way that I desire her, how will we find the justice to consummate our love? Are those things that are holy in the previous life still holy in this life? I have nothing to fear but my own trepidation in the face of such a decision, that my choices will fare well for us both, that my judgment will keep her feeling safe and loved despite the trauma from which she has escaped. I fear that I will reach this moment, unprepared and quaking, and Esme will depend on me to lead her through the fire . . . a fire I will not have the courage to pass through.
He felt the weight of the words themselves spread over his body, infecting his chest with heaviness and heat. He felt as though he had fallen victim to an actual fever, his brow throbbing and his neck sweltering as if the sun were glaring over him.
His wrist became too tight to move properly, and the pen in his hand came to an abrupt halt, ripping through the flimsy page.
The tick of the clock grew louder until he could no longer ignore it. Slamming the journal shut, he reached instead for the telephone while keeping his eyes on the clock.
He felt inexplicably nervous as he waited for the operator to link him to the hospital receptionist. Each fuzzy, gurgling tone on the other line sounded like demons chuckling in a distant dimension. He tried to concentrate on what his excuse would be, but before he could come to an agreement with himself, someone had already answered his call.
"You've reached the medical staff offices of Saint Thomas More Hospital. How may I help you?"
Carlisle easily recognized the receptionist's voice. "Agatha?"
His voice came out rough and ragged, ironically enhancing his intended scheme for feigning illness.
The voice on the other line wavered unsurely. "Yes? Who is calling?"
He cleared his throat, feeling commendably awkward. "Doctor Cullen."
"Oh!" she squeaked in surprise. Her voice sounded far sweeter, far less stoic when she next spoke. "My apologies, Doctor Cullen. I didn't recognize your voice."
He shifted anxiously in spite of himself, feeling the cross around his neck grow heavier as he weighed his decision to lie.
"Well, I am...very ill at the present time."
It felt like anything but a lie.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Doctor." Agatha clicked her tongue in pity. "Throat feeling sore?"
Among many other body parts.
He pressed a hand to his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "High fever," he confirmed.
"How awful! I do hope you have someone there to take care of you."
Her genuine concern made his chest ache in that funny way it did whenever someone showed interest in his well-being. He discreetly coughed away from the receiver, hoping the pause would excuse him from having to reply to her remark. "I will make up my hours tomorrow," he promised, letting his voice falter. "However, I feel that I will work better with a full day's rest first."
"Of course..." The connection fizzled a bit as she spoke, causing him to miss several words. "...but I hope that you are well again by morning."
The guilt hit him full force when he heard the concern in her voice.
"Thank you," he whispered as he absently closed his journal and pushed his pen aside.
"You're in our prayers."
And the line was disconnected.
Carlisle sat in stillness for a moment, soaking everything in as he listened to the chime of the clock. The chill of the room soon enveloped his body, chasing away a bit of the uncomfortable heat that had risen inside of him.
His "fever" lingered in limbo while he continued to watch the clock through blank eyes, waiting for Esme's return.
Sometime soon, he thought, he wanted to teach her how to carve. He briefly imagined fulfilling his promise, how he would surely spend that time watching her hands, leading her with impressive finesse. She would watch his hands as well while he worked, admiring every move he made; she would be forced to watch every detail, every nuance of the way he moved his fingers in order to learn the ancient craft herself.
The imagined scenarios quickly grew too intense once again, and he shifted his thoughts instead to prayer, asking for the power to calm the feelings. He could not count how long he sat there, with his eyes tightly shut and his heart twisting in agony. It was only when the far away sounds of someone pacing by his door caught his attention that he looked up from his meditation.
"Oh!" Esme's eyes were wide and her lips very red, as if all the blush from her cheeks had gathered there instead. "I'm sorry. I'll come back later—"
She offered him so brief a view of her face before turning away that all he could do was yelp at her not to go. "No! Come in, please."
He stood up immediately and gestured her to come inside with his hand, hoping that would affirm his insistence. She stepped inside at his bidding, and a swift wave of her scent hit him like the silken edge of a sword. Her eyes were large and unblinking, her lips full and pouting. She stared back at him as if waiting for him to speak, but all he could do was gaze in wonder at her now that she was here. He supposed it was true that after so many hours spent daydreaming about someone, it suddenly became incredible when they were finally in your presence, real and whole.
This was the real Esme, not a figment or a mirage. This was the one he could touch and smell and see in full patches of bright, cheerful colors. This was the one he could listen to and talk to. The one whose feelings he could mend just as easily as he could injure them.
"Did you want to talk about something?" he asked her timidly, hoping she would say yes.
She looked to her feet, then quickly back to him. "I, um... I wanted to know when you were leaving today."
"I'm not leaving," he told her, helpless to keep the small smile from creeping onto his face. "I called in ill. I was stretching my hours as it was."
"Oh."
He watched as her face quickly straightened to hide the mirth that had burst into her eyes.
"Were you trying to get rid of me, Esme?" he asked teasingly.
"No." Her voice failed to make the word an exclamation, and instead it came out sounding more like a slightly shocked sigh of pleasure.
He suppressed a chuckle as he approached her, hypnotized by her scent and her awkward charms. "Why did you ask me if I was leaving?" he queried softly.
"I was just…concerned," she explained, shrugging as she stepped back. "Because on any other day you would have left for the hospital by now." Her eyes flickered toward the window before he could offer any further explanation for why he had elected to stay home today. "Have you seen that it started snowing again?"
The sheer excitement in her face was contagious.
"Yes." He turned to peek out of the window where more fluffy white flakes were dancing in the wind. He normally would not have noticed something so mundane, but Esme's interest in the scene had made it exceptionally appealing. "Let's go out, shall we?"
She practically leapt out the door as soon as he opened it.
"Can you believe that just four days ago, this snow was up to my knees?" she giggled as she scampered through the fairly shallow snow.
A peaceful smile found its place on his lips as he watched her step playfully through the white powder. "Before you know it springtime will be here again," he said, staring out at the landscape that would be green again in several more months.
"And I'll no longer be a newborn." She'd said it beneath her breath, but he could still hear the wistfulness in her words.
"No," he sighed quietly. "You'll be like me."
"Edward said the same thing," she pointed out with a happy smile.
Carlisle tried not to show his irrational hurt as he asked confusedly, "You spoke with Edward about this?"
"We were just talking about what will happen once I join society again," she replied calmly.
Grateful he hadn't missed anything too serious, his brow eased with understanding. "Don't worry yourself over it now. When you're ready and the time is right, you'll know it."
"I hope so." She seemed so nervous about it already.
A little bit desperate to comfort her, he smiled broadly – the sort of smile that had to be censored at the hospital where there were very delicate hearts in the vicinity. "I have a feeling you're going to surprise yourself."
"It's not that I'm not excited for it," she admitted, lowering her face to stare at the ground, "but I do wonder sometimes... how that first time will feel…"
After her words had burrowed within his heart, she looked up again, meeting his eyes like the sun meets the morning mist. He felt himself melting slightly under the heat of her stare, and most of all he felt transparent.
A most unfortunate misinterpretation on his part, but her words were so painfully close to his own insecurity; in a far different realm than to what she was referring.
"Sometimes I imagine that I'll be there, ready to take the next step and suddenly I'll want to run away."
Oh, he knew exactly how she felt. If only he could share with her just how much.
"I think you underestimate your own courage, Esme," he said, lamenting that his "ill" voice had returned again with a vengeance. He cleared his throat to heal it and continued, "But if you ever did feel the need to run, you know that you can always run to me."
For a second after the words fled his lips he wondered if they were too forward.
"It sounds almost as though you are encouraging me to run, Carlisle," she said wryly, her eyes suspicious.
"Not encouraging, I'm just…making you sure you are aware of your options. I would never want you to feel pressured into doing something you aren't yet ready for. You can take as long as you need to adjust to being around humans. There wouldn't be any reason to rush."
"I won't lie, it would be nice if it happened quickly for me."
He smiled patiently. "All you need is faith, and it will."
"And if I still want to run?" Her eyes could be the most glorious weapons when she challenged him.
"There is no shame in having a safe haven," he retaliated with soft deliberateness.
Carlisle relished in the way Esme took his comfort to heart. It was subtle, but he saw the way the weight left her shoulders and the worry fled her mind. He felt his face grow slack as he stared at her from head to foot, taking in the endearing contrast of her crooked skirt and her perfect hair; the runner in her light brown stockings, and the way the taut cuffs of her sleeves seemed to cling so lovingly to her elbows.
She turned around as if his staring had made her uncomfortable, and she busied herself by drawing with the toe of her shoe in the snow, while humming the song from her music box.
Carlisle couldn't quite explain what had struck him about it so severely, but hearing her hum that melody like it was second nature filled him with such profound contentedness. It was like he was falling in love with her for the first time all over again. He rested his cheek against the cold marble column on the porch, wrapping both arms loosely around it in an absent hug. He could have watched Esme from that place forever, just listening to her hum while she danced about carelessly in the snow.
Then, like always, Esme caught him staring. "Is something the matter?"
"No, nothing." His reply was automatic.
She narrowed her eyes in a way that told him clearly he wasn't fooling anyone.
"You were humming that song," he revealed with a sigh. Only the sight of her dancing had been more adorable than the look she was giving him right now.
"Oh, I hadn't even realized." She looked as if she had wanted nothing more than to bury herself under the snow.
Taking advantage of her embarrassment, he said, "Perhaps you would sing it if you remembered the words."
She whipped around in surprise. "There were words?"
"Yes," he said quietly, cupping his hand to gather snowflakes while he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye.
"And how do you know this?"
Now came the best part.
"Because you sang them to yourself when you were sixteen years old."
He had known her face would be priceless when he revealed this to her, but he hadn't even come close to imagining how unfairly beautiful she would look when her lips fell open and her eyes grew dewy with memories. "I once sang that very same song?"
Carlisle nodded, thoroughly enjoying the way he was helping her to piece it together slowly. "I'm afraid you were under the impression that I could not hear you… but as you now know my hearing is rather impeccable," he teased.
"Then you remember the lyrics." Her eyes widened and she leaned absently closer to him, as if marveling at the apparition of an angel who had come bearing a precious prophecy. He nodded.
"What are they?" she demanded breathlessly.
He recited the lyrics upon her request, soft as a lullaby, and he could feel her heart following his every word. Her eyes remained locked to his until the last line of poetry melted on his tongue.
He smiled at her, watching the memories gather behind her mystified gaze. "Now you must sing it for me."
A delectably awkward giggle worked free of her throat, and he struggled with the simultaneous desire to laugh at her and to crush his lips against hers to silence her.
"Now don't be so bashful," he said, smiling tauntingly. "You have sung it for me before, after all."
"Yes, but I didn't know you were listening," she retaliated pointlessly. He could see in her face that she wasn't really trying to argue her way out of it. The possibility that she would consider singing for him sparked a most foolishly fervent hope in his heart.
"Well, obviously I was," he responded smoothly, hoping to hide his excitement under the surface.
Esme sent him a coy grin as she violently crushed a chunk of snow between her hands. "Then you don't need to hear it again, now do you?"
She was teasing him. Mercilessly, if he must be honest.
"But I want to," he gushed, letting his head fall against the pillar in anguish.
"Carlisle…" She teased him with the melodious way she dragged out his name, each syllable a chiming note that only strengthened his need to hear her sing. "I can't sing in front of people."
"You wouldn't be singing in front of people, Esme," he corrected. "Only me."
Her teeth cut slightly into her bottom lip as she looked away bashfully. "You know what I mean."
For a moment Carlisle took pity on her. She was clearly shy, but he could not ignore that glint of interest he had seen frolicking in her eyes. He was convinced that she truly wanted to, she just needed a bit of gentle persuasion.
"Please, Esme. You had such a lovely voice then," he flattered her shamelessly, every bit of it true. "I'm sure it's only lovelier now."
His heart gave a shiver just thinking of how lovely her singing voice would be now.
She lifted her head to look up at him tentatively.
"Well..."
Just one little wavering word from her and he was sure his eyes must have been brighter than a beacon in a foggy bay.
"I suppose I could sing just a few verses."
He was about to encourage her verbally, but decided it better to remain silent for fear that she might change her mind. It was such a fragile situation, but now that she seemed somewhat at ease with the idea, he didn't want to risk ruining it.
Her hands folded discreetly over her belly while she took in a few breaths, clearing the nerves. He only felt the tiniest bit of guilt that he was making her nervous – hearing her sing was all that mattered to him now, as selfish as that was.
But Esme was too kind to refuse his request.
Sooner than he'd anticipated, her full lips parted, and the most glorious song came forth. If he had ever recalled the echo of angels singing from his youth, Esme's voice bested their beauty by miles. It was not that her voice was flawless, more that it was so full of charming passion, so clear and bright and cheerful. Everything she sang reached her eyes and lingered there, glittering like gemstones of purest joy.
He had never truly paid attention to the lyrics of her song before. He'd spent so many nights listening to it clinking idly on her music box that he'd forgotten the significance of the words that went along with the melody. Only now as Esme sang them did he understand the story they told.
These lyrics were about being in love.
In love with the sea.
Such an injustice it was that Esme had never even seen the sea.
As the last lines left her lovely lips, all Carlisle could think about was whisking her away to the edge of the Atlantic. He burned to show Esme all seven seas in one night's time. He would not let her rest until she had seen that endless blanket of blue silk stretching toward a sunset horizon.
When her song was finished, Esme's eyes blinked fast, as if coming out of a dream. Her gaze had been glued to his the entire time, truly making him feel as though the song was meant for his ears alone. He had no way to describe how special this made him feel, how rife with affection she had left his heart.
"That was not so mortifying, now was it, Bright Eyes?" he asked her, the breadth of his grin almost impairing his ability to speak.
She ducked her head at the endearing nickname as she had always done, her face still blazing with the afterglow of having sung for him. He wanted so dearly to kiss her somehow...
Perhaps just on her cheek. Even her hand.
He could do it, he thought. His chest felt like it was full of fiery wires of steel when it hit him, how easy it would be. She was in such a soft state of heart right now, surely she would accept that innocent touch of his lips as a simple, polite token of gratitude for the gift of her song.
He watched her circle giddily in the snow, kicking up clouds of white powder with her shoes. Her oblivious sweetness was doing great damage to his heart. He tortured himself just by watching her, unable to deny how much he wanted her.
As if she had heard his indecent thought, Esme turned her head sharply and nailed him into stillness with her blackened eyes. Only when he caught the inviting scent of a passing deer did he place the true cause of her reaction.
One second they were in the yard, the next they were sprinting through the woods after the coveted deer.
His shoulder slammed against Esme's with every rough step they took, in off-balanced synchronization as they ran beside each other, stalking their prey. It was all happening too fast, and he vaguely worried that he was hurting her each time his body collided with hers.
The run seemed to last a small lifetime. Normally Carlisle would not have indulged the animal in such a long chase, but his pity for the beast had fallen by the wayside in the face of his excitement. Sprinting alongside a woman was so addictive, so invigorating. He felt like he could conquer the world when Esme ran beside him.
Her heavy breathing created a rhythm for his pride, pushing him past the limit. He wanted to do something impressive – to slaughter the deer himself and offer it entirely to Esme, to snap its neck so swiftly she didn't have time to catch her breath.
But it was by both their efforts that the doe was finally brought to the ground. The body landed with a hefty thud, sending a spray of snow everywhere. Carlisle moved quickly over the animal, seizing its head and twisting it back till the bone snapped in half.
His mouth filled with venom against his will as he tried to convince himself that Esme deserved to feed more than he did. Before he could give into the temptation, he turned away unthreateningly, offering it to her. "Go on."
"But don't you—"
"Go on," he interrupted, waving her on as he stood up. "I'll find my own." One glance in the direction of the utterly desolate woods did little to boost his confidence.
"You'd have to run for miles," she protested. "It's barren out here."
The sound of her insistence was so welcoming, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her for one instant. He turned to get a glimpse of her where she was gracefully poised beside the warm carcass, one hand on its back while her other hand anxiously twisted the ends of her hair.
"Neither of us is dying of thirst," she said sensibly. And after a pause, she added softly, "We'll...share it."
An approving gush of venom flooded beneath his tongue as he considered her proposition. Carlisle never remembered being so thirsty for the blood of a simple deer before. The hard winter season had been rough on his thirst. It was impressively kind of Esme to even offer him blood that had been promised to her.
She blinked at him, her face imploring as her fingers absently stroked the fur of the doe. She was irresistible.
"Alright."
He would just have to be sure he let Esme have most of it.
Her eyes widened as she lifted the doe's front leg onto her lap. "She's so...heavy," she remarked in surprise.
The implications had his venom flowing again.
"The longer they're chased, the more their muscles build up. The blood gets warmer as well," he explained, with all the breathless enthusiasm of an experienced connoisseur. "It makes for a better feed."
His desperation must have been obvious to Esme while she watched and listened to his eagerness. It embarrassed him slightly when she offered him the first drink.
As much as it pained his throat to protest, he had to for her sake. "But the blood will be cold by the time I've taken my share."
He could see a silent debate taking place behind her eyes. She had opened her mouth briefly, either to argue with him or to offer a better solution, but only silence persisted. As brief as that glimpse between her lips was, he had seen the glistening venom that coated her tongue and teeth. It motivated him to think faster.
"Take the neck," he ordered her at last. "I'll take the hind legs... or better yet, the abdomen." He petted the belly of the doe and looked to Esme for approval. "We'll drink at the same time."
He thought he saw her eyes light up somewhat. "You're sure?"
"Yes, go on." He eagerly moved out of the way, welcoming her closer.
He spared himself a moment to prolong his thirst – as painful as it was – just so that he could watch her drink.
She dove down upon the deer's limp neck in earnest, slicing through the hide with her sharp teeth. Her eyes flickered in ecstasy, hiding behind her thick lashes as the blood rushed through her mouth. Shiny tendrils of her hair slid past her shoulders, her little fingers absently rubbing the fur on the animal's front leg, like one might caress a baby to sleep. Carlisle's eyes wandered down briefly to find that the runner in her stockings had stretched from her ankle all the way up to just behind her knee. Beneath the torn fabric he could see soft skin peeking through, and his body flushed at the sight.
She was a titillating little mess. Everything about her in that moment was positively electrifying. He was almost disappointed to interrupt the show by forcing himself to drink. But the drive to sate his own thirst was too overwhelming to keep ignoring for much longer. As soon as his fingers discovered a weak spot, he lunged down to bite the animal's belly.
He supposed it was because his mind still lingered on Esme that all his thoughts were sexual. This rarely happened when he drank alone. The satisfaction one felt from drinking blood was thoroughly different than the gratification achieved by sexual means. True, it was no less potent, but it was certainly nothing like what he felt now. Blood gave him a sense of strength and contentedness – an ecstasy purely from having quenched his physical thirst. It was typically an end to an ache, not the beginning of one.
But now the taste of blood was nothing but erotic. It trickled down his throat, into his body and lingered there, like the deep, heavy warmth that settled in the pit of one's stomach after orgasm. All he could think of now as his lips sucked the blood from his prey was mating with the woman across from him. He was not even looking at her, but she was all he could see. In his imagination, it was Esme he clutched to his chest, it was Esme he drank from... and not only from her neck.
She sounded her pleasure in tantalizing little whimpers as she drank, and it fueled the reality of his daydream. He was trapped in the fantasy, prolonging it with every swallow he took. He found the fattest artery beneath the doe's flesh and stroked it with his tongue, spilling warmer blood for his mouth to steal.
He thought he could hear Esme panting beside him, but in truth he was unable to decipher what sounds were real and which came from his imagination. It seemed that every time he uttered a groan, her voice was echoing his, higher and breathier.
To any bypasser who might have happened to hear them in the dark forest, it would have sounded like they were making love.
In Carlisle's thoughts, they were.
In his thoughts, Esme's thighs were soft and pliant beneath his hands. In his thoughts, the sweetness that stained his lips came from her nectar. He was so close to the edge, he feared he would lose control before her very eyes. All it would take was one more moan from her, and he would be gone.
Just as his desire reached its pinnacle, he grabbed the deer's thighs so roughly that one cracked under the pressure of his grip. What he had just felt inside of the deer's belly erased every last drop of his arousal in one fell swoop.
His stomach turned unpleasantly as he forced his teeth to unlatch from the animal, backing away with a look of horror on his face.
Naturally, Esme noticed right away. "What is it?" she asked him fearfully. Her terrified tone tempted him to panic, but he knew he had to stay calm at all costs.
"Nothing, I'm just... I'm satisfied," he excused as casually as he could manage, raising himself up off the ground to stand on his feet. He gazed down at her, frantically thinking of a way to keep her from lingering here too long. Somehow he had to convince her that they didn't need the rest of the blood.
But Esme wasn't going to give it up so easily. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, leering at the bite mark he'd left in the belly of the doe. "You haven't even finished—"
"It's fine," he snapped at her unintentionally. "Just leave it."
This seemed to anger her fantastically.
She crawled over to the place he had abandoned and bent her head threateningly closer to the bite. Her stubbornness made him sizzle with an odd mix of frustration and admiration.
"But I'm not going to let it go to waste..."
"Don't worry about it," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm but still firm enough that she would listen for once.
"I'm still thirsty, Carlisle!" she shouted at him. A brief flash of their restrictive days in the cellar sickened his memories. "For God's sake, let me at least have the rest!"
Even though he knew it was only her thirst talking, he still felt an irrational sting of hurt. All he was trying to do was protect her.
"No, Esme!" he roared at her, but she did not even flinch. Senseless as it was, he yelled at her one more time. "Esme, don't!"
Into the deer's belly her teeth sank.
He held his breath pointlessly, as if it would help him prepare for what was bound to come next. Esme was about to have her heart shattered. He had to be ready to deal with the consequences.
Her head jerked back in shock, and her defensive instincts led her to break legs of the deer entirely with her own hands. The place where they had both bitten was now frightfully weak, and the force from Esme's retreat caused the flesh to tear straight across the underbelly, spilling the contents of the mother deer's uterus onto the snow.
Esme's horrified cries stabbed Carlisle straight to his chest. Her reaction was exactly as he had feared, but the true sight of her agony was ten times worse than he could have ever anticipated. He hadn't felt so awful since the day she had killed a human child in this very forest.
Just like he had done on that day, he gathered her shuddering body into his arms and attempted to console her through senselessly soothing words. "Esme... It's all right, darling. Don't look at it."
He should have known that saying that was only going to make her look.
"Please don't look, Esme." He ground out the words harshly against her delicate ear as he pressed his hand to her cheek, forcing her to turn away.
He struggled to keep his hold on her as he began to walk fast in the opposite direction. But God have mercy on her, Esme was just too morbidly curious to keep under control. He didn't fully understand why she wanted to go back and see it again. He was nearly tempted to take her back himself, but the wiser part of him knew that would only cause trouble.
Unthinkingly he pleaded with her to calm down. It made her seethe.
She hissed madly and scratched at his hand, trying to move her face away from where he had it buried in his shoulder. He'd forgotten how strong she still was.
"I'm taking you back to the house, Esme," he told her firmly, with that same removed dispassion that he was forced to use when talking to one of his psychologically unsound patients. "Did you hear me? I'm taking you back."
Her ceaseless sobbing shattered him. "It was still alive!"
"Hush! Esme, I don't want to hear another word about it, now move!" He pushed into her back, hating himself for having to use force on her this way.
Her voice dropped to a low tone of morbid wonder. "But it was... so..."
"Esme!"
He was unable to hold her with the same firmness that he had allowed to control his voice. Instead he touched her like she was made of china, his warm hands aching at the feel of her chilled cheeks. Her body was cold and shaking, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and take her home to the fire.
Carlisle breathed in deeply, finding his peace though the stress threatened to consume him. In a gentle voice he asked Esme to look into his eyes. Her own eyes were glassy, dark, and full of fright. Her lips were tremulous, and her hands were still clutching the sleeves on his elbows as he held her face still.
"It is dead now," he whispered with certainty. "They're both dead,"
"Did I kill it?" she panicked.
"Shhh. No. I did." He instantly took the blame upon himself, desperate to placate her.
"But I was the one who—"
"It doesn't matter," he lulled her patiently, relying only on the power of his voice and his gaze. "Shhh... it doesn't matter."
It was amazing how her breathing settled with just a light caress of his fingers through her hair. The ends were frayed and matted with snow and blood. Where they had once been silky and tempting caramel in color, they were now damp and as dark as burnt firewood.
But her face. Oh, her face. She was so close to him – so close that he could see the wild clashing of colors in her two-toned eyes, like scarlet glitter tossed into golden sand.
He suddenly felt so very much taller than her.
He thought it was the way she was looking at him that enhanced this curious illusion. She stared up at him like he was her king, her eyes flooded with adoration and dependence and something frustratingly unfamiliar to him.
Helplessly, his gaze fell to her mouth where a droplet of blood had left a faint pink trail over her delicate chin. He could not tell whether his attention lingered because the mark was appealing or distracting. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
Regardless, he wanted to make it disappear.
Carefully removing one of his hands from her cheek, Carlisle pulled the cuff of his sleeve neatly over his hand and twisted it tightly around his two forefingers. He raised the knot of fabric resolutely to his lips, Esme's wide eyes watching intently as he moistened the cotton with his tongue then dragged it gently down her chin.
Her lips were astonishingly supple, like red rose petals made soft and limp by a humid summer's day. His covered fingers had touched just the corner of her mouth as he passed over it, leaving a sparkle of his own venom on her lower lip.
He had expected the sight to set flames to his desire. He had thought that something so erotic would surely drive him insane with the need to kiss her and taste everything she was hiding from him. But instead the moment seemed to calm him remarkably, a peaceful stillness quelling his frantic thoughts and soothing his urges. He finally felt as if he had marked her in some way, even if that way was as distant as leaving a droplet of his venom on her lip.
Esme closed her eyes as Carlisle began to whisper to her, subdued words that relied only on tone and timbre for their purpose to comfort. "It's over now," he sighed against her forehead. "You never have to see it again." He knew the words were partially untrue – that even against her will, the memory could turn up in her mind again, that she would never be able to fully forget the sight. But white lies often did a man good when he wished to comfort a woman.
His words started this way – repetitive and meaningless. But they soon bordered being intimate in ways that he should not have shared. "You're safe here with me," he found himself whispering. "I'm taking care of you..."Soon he felt that he was trying to assure himself more than he was trying to assure her.
"I won't leave you," he murmured into her hair, dragging his fingers up and down the soft planes of her cheeks. "Let me hold you closer..."
She let him hold her closer.
But she barely seemed to be awake.
This tempted his tongue to speak indecently. If she did not listen to his words, he could say whatever he wished and it would have no repercussions. He could say out loud how soft her skin felt, how sweet her breath tasted, how deeply he cared for her.
Carlisle feared that, if he kept speaking, lines from his love letters were bound to come spilling out instead, so he slowly tapered off into the safety of silence. He waited in fascination as the tremors began to vanish from her limbs, her hands securing themselves over his on top of her cheeks. He pulled his hands away, supposing the gesture to mean she was ready to stand on her own now. Her eyelids lifted and the cloudy gray light filtered through them strikingly.
A pair of cardinals sang innocently some distance away; the icy breath of a soft breeze cooled the heat in his flesh. If he had not found that unusual niche of tranquility, he would have missed the silent 'thank you' in Esme's adoring eyes.
With her unspoken consent, he linked his fingers around her elbow and began to lead her out of the forest. His gaze followed the westward wind blowing through the pine trees, making them bow their heads a bit, snow falling from their tops and into piles below.
"I honestly don't know if I will ever get used to this," Esme's quiet voice interrupted the silence.
"You will," Carlisle assured with a sigh. "You've just been having poor fortune so far. It isn't always so...gruesome." His hand on her arm held more tightly, out of a subconscious will to protect her. "You shouldn't have had to see that."
He watched from the corner of her eye as her face was drawn into a distressed pout. "Does it ever make you sad that they run away from us?" she asked him, barely audible behind the howl of the wind.
"It did at first," he admitted solemnly. He hated to think of that time in his life. "I don't let it bother me anymore," he half-lied, wanting to give her something positive to look forward to.
She fell into a slower pace beside him. "How do you ever find peace with something like that?"
"It took me years, Esme," he reminded her fervently. "It took Edward months. For some it comes naturally and for others it does not. But we all must overcome our discomfort if we wish to survive."
"But they'll always run from me. I'll always be their predator," she said in a small, morose voice. "I hate that."
Seeing her degraded to such a standard was appalling to him. All he wished was for some way to take all of her concerns and insecurities away. But how could he do that when he himself felt just as lost so much of the time?
Confounded, Carlisle replied with the only defense he could think up. "In all fairness, a deer isn't likely to approach a human with any less trepidation, Esme."
It was a good point, he thought, and she seemed to at least partially agree with him. "But so many animals enjoy the company of humans," she pointed out. "Everything flees at the sight of a vampire."
"Not everything."
She stopped in her tracks and sought out his eyes, doubt coloring her beautiful features.
"Do you know the only animals that are not frightened by us?" he asked her, so delighted by what her reaction might be that he waited not a moment before answering his own question. "Butterflies."
Her lips flinched as if struggling against a begrudging smile. Even the hint of it sent his relief skyrocketing. Something in what he'd said had made her happy.
He raised both eyebrows and gave her a soft, charming smile. "It's true."
"Butterflies? Really?" she was still dubious, but less so than before.
All he could do was nod his head and hope she believed him.
"Why?"
She had accepted the truth, but now she wanted the reason – always too curious for her own good.
"I never quite understood why," he confessed, then supposed thoughtfully, "I think perhaps they're attracted to our scent." He lifted his arm for her to take as he helped her over the uneven ground.
"So you're saying when the springtime comes, I can go outside and hope for hundreds of butterflies to swarm me?"
The hopefulness in her voice would have never allowed him to say no.
"That may very well happen," he said a bit mystically, watching with elation as she finally let a timid smile fill out her beautiful lips.
The sight of their home just yards away was so welcome a sight that Carlisle found himself emitting a wistful sigh of relief when they reached the door. He brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders before he let Esme inside. Somewhere upstairs Edward stirred at their entry, no doubt surprised at what events had unfolded in his absence.
Knowing Edward might be eager to protect her, Carlisle sent a silent thought of complacency to his son, assuring him of Esme's well being. As soon as the thoughts left his mind, Carlisle heard Edward head towards the attic instead of coming downstairs. It was a silent way to signify that they were on the same page.
Carlisle turned to watch Esme remove her boots with a heavy sigh, swiping at the dirty snow caked on her skirt. She would be wanting to take a bath later on... So would he. What a waste this morning's bath had been, he thought, only able to shake his head at the irony.
He felt badly for her as he watched her now. She still seemed to be carrying a weight on her shoulders, her posture slightly slouched where it was usually impeccable. Her hair was a mess, and there was blood on her sleeves. The runner in her stockings had extended all the way past the hem of her skirt now, and he was sure it must have reached her thigh… Her eyes were no longer frantic with worry, but they were a bit hollow for his taste. He needed to cheer her up somehow.
"You know I have not forgotten that I've yet to give my real Christmas gift to you," he said as soon as the thought crossed his mind. She seemed a bit startled by this, albeit pleasantly so.
"I thought that music box was very real," she said pointedly.
Her reminder bruised his eagerness for a moment, making him realize that overwhelming her with too many offers might take away the special quality of a single significant gift.
But he felt this was too important for them to pass over. "I promised to teach you how to carve," he said gently.
He was relieved to see her eyes brighten just a bit. "Yes, you did."
"Well, I would like to fulfill this promise sometime soon," he all but whispered, for some reason lacking the courage it took to speak at full volume.
"How about on New Year's Eve?" she offered with a tiny but contagious smile.
"Is that significant somehow?"
She shrugged one shoulder and her smile grew ever more lopsided. "I think sometime around the beginning of a new year is a good time to learn something new."
"Naturally," he agreed with a soft chuckle. "All right then, New Year's Eve." He was about to go into his study when curiosity got the better of him. "Did you have anything in mind for what you'd like to carve first?"
She tucked her bottom lip beneath her teeth and shook her head. "I hadn't really given it much thought."
He grinned to himself. This couldn't have been more brilliant.
"Why don't you take a look through that sketchbook of yours?" he said, smiling significantly as he stepped behind the door to his study. "There might be something worthy of inspiration hidden in there."
He accidentally winked at her before closing the door, the image of her adorably confused face lingering in his mind.
The next thing Carlisle heard was the sound of eager footsteps charging up the stairs. And this time he knew they did not belong to Edward.