Carlisle

He flew past so many people. His children fighting the werewolves. Wolves fighting wolves. Everything was the same as when he ran away from the house yet so, so different. If only he had enough time to stop and notice. If only he had enough time to stop and help.

Alas, he didn't.

There was only one thing that called to him. His now silent beacon. His wife. His Esme.

He had to get to her.

Carlisle broke through the clearing into the yard of his house.

The place was in chaos. He could see barely one or two boys now. It was otherwise entirely occupied by wolves. Far too many. Far too huge. He slammed into more than one as he pushed past the heavy and violent press of bodies. The night air was filled with sounds he could not hear. When Esme's scream was silenced, so was everything else for him. Now the world around him was just a heavy buzz.

Bright. It was all too bright. It shouldn't be!

His haggard brain sought the source of the orange hue. The clamor of fur and bodies pressing into his face made it difficult to see beyond a certain point, the air almost choking his senses with the pungent scent of inedible blood.

Something hard slammed into him knocking him to the ground. He crawled away from the stampede of feet and that was when he saw it.

His house, almost a quarter of it ablaze with fire that was spreading far too quickly.

With a clarity he did not believe he was capable of possessing again, Carlisle pushed himself off the ground. He used the nearest wolf, friend or foe, he did not care much, as a support to launch himself up, higher than the fight on the ground and bounded nearly two-third the distance to the gate in a single leap.

The battle raged thick just near the door step. He could see Alice struggling against a wolf. Another came to her help and Carlisle rushed past.

Help had reached her. She would be fine. Dear Lord, please let her be fine.

Carlisle swerved to the right when a wolf attacked him. Angry jaws snapped close barely an inch from his face. He elbowed the skull away and tremors ran up and down his arm from the crushing impact. He pushed past.

With a single leap, he was over the steps and through the door.

Pain shot through his already sensitive forearm when large, jagged teeth sunk into it from behind. Carlisle cried out and pulled his arm back. Bones, muscles and skin cracked with a fiery agony. He should have fought the mangled wolf. Punched and kicked at him till the creature opened its mouth.

But time was precious.

The heat of the bright blaze danced far too close to him. The abrupt silence of his wife's scream weighed far too heavily on him.

He did not fight. He pulled back.

The wolf's teeth dragged through his forearm, down his wrist and across his palm, splitting everything into two. His eyes stung and his arm was wrecked with pain. His mind, his legs, his heart, however, did not give a single damn.

Instead, he turned and bolted inside, shattering furnitures, walls and anything else that stood between him and his wife. His eyes spotted the humans, huddled together and he followed the direction of their horrified vision.

No no no no no no no no

His mind rang with the senseless, ceaseless pleading long before it registered the view before him. Everything in him screamed at him to step away from the fire and his heart, his mind silenced it all.

Carlisle leapt into the bright flames of death and his good hand closed around the far too familiar torso. Within a fraction of second, he was out and away, lugging not one, but two people with him.

Charred and melted together as they were, Carlisle thrust his hand between the two torsos and pushed the one at the back away. He pulled and broke away the limbs that held his Esme chained down.

The pieces fell away and Carlisle slid further back, further away from the fire with the black body with him. He sat, crouched over the body he clutched in his arm with a furious grip.

No no no no no no no no

He refused to acknowledge it. He refused to accept it. He fought truth with denial.

And when the silence of his wife's lips reached his ears, the limpness of her limbs answered his grasp, the purple ash and burnt flesh covered his caressing palm…

The truth smiled at him. Mocking. And cruel.

The truth smiled at him. From his wife's half charred face.

Something had made his Esme smile. Something had managed to give her joy despite the mind-jolting agony she would have been in. Something had reached her, in her last moments and given her one fleeting bout of happiness.

If only he knew what, perhaps he could tempt her back with it. Oh if only he knew, he would shower her with as much of it as her heart desired. If only he knew. If only it would bring her back to him.

"Esme," he blubbered, his mouth bubbling up with venom. "Esme, please," he begged her, unsure what he asked of her.

Open your eyes? His Esme no longer had eyes. Just charred holes oozing sweet smelling liquid.

Talk to him? His Esme no longer had a throat. Just a thready network of skin and tissues over black bones of her vertebrae.

He caressed her head, and clumps of hair pulled away in his hand.

He kissed her face, and peeled-off skin stuck to his lips.

He begged her to come back to him, and half a face of soot covered skin looked back at him from a frayed and scorched body.

Carlisle rocked back and forth, sniffs and sobs sabotaging his senseless speech.

A medley of Esme and please.

Nothing reached him. No sound. No scent. No texture. Nothing but the vision before him. And Carlisle wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes out.

He clasped his wife to him, pulling her into a tight embrace and his rocking increased in intensity. He begged and pleaded and called. His eyes closed shut at the lack of response.

Nothing.

He pulled her closer, tighter. And in his arm, Esme's body cracked in two.

Her hips and legs broke off, sliding down his waist and clattered to the floor soundlessly.

Carlisle was undone. He doubled over her torso. His pleading cut short, he let out a wail.

Every ounce of grief, every ounce of pain that he refused to feel. It poured out into the sound he did not recognize. Into the sound he did not know he was capable of making. His throat pressed against his wife's face. His eyes shut to the horror before him, he screamed out.

Wordless. Senseless. Animalistic. And so, so, so loud.

And through it all, he heard it.

The first sound he heard since Esme's scream was silenced.

A whimper.

It was small. Feeble. Almost inaudible.

His desperate ears latched itself to it. He pulled back, and searched. Hungrily, his eyes and hands roved over his wife's face. Esme. It had to be Esme. If she had whimpered, this meant there was still hope!

This meant he wasn't too late!

This meant he could still save her!

"Esme? Love?" he called to her. His hand caressed the hair away and it pulled away from her head entirely.

Esme loved her hair. She would be sad about losing it, he knew. But he was sure he would find something. Human technology was advancing rapidly. He would travel the world, and adapt the best the human world had to offer so that Esme would have what she wanted. If she wanted her hair back, he swore upon his faith in the Lord, he would find a way to give it to her.

Her clothes were in tatters. He would shower her with all the clothes she could ever want. Her skin would heal too. He would make certain of that. Anything his wife wanted, he would give it to her.

His mouth already flooded with venom, he spat onto her throat. The venom would help her heal!

She had whimpered.

He hated the sound of her whimpers but oh wasn't it the loveliest sound on the planet in the moment to him. He just needed to help her a little. His Esme, she had always been a fighter. She had defied death once before to give his venom enough time to work. She could do it again. Of course she would do it again.

She wouldn't leave him just like that!

"Esme, please," he begged again. His venom trickled through the charred tissue. Nothing healed. Nothing rejoined. And he begged.

Again and again.

He hated the sound of her whimpers. Yet, he begged for it.

And he heard it.

Another whimper. Terrified and small. But it was there!

His eyes searched, desperately and ceaselessly.

A stray lick of fire touched the arm he held protectively over his wife. A single ember. It sizzled over his ice cold skin. But that soft sizzle was his awakening. His eyes left his wife. His focus expanded.

And the sinking realization struck him.

He had heard the whimper.

But it did not come from Esme.

He looked around him. The blazing remains of his house. The fire lapped dangerously close to him. The sound of the fight outside grew loud. And his suddenly keen senses knew where the whimpers came from.

Two floors above him, his grand daughter stood terrified. It was her. He had heard her terror.

Reality pulled its cruel rug of hope from under him and he crashed.

The truth mocked him and Carlisle kneeled helpless before her. The fire touched the edge of Esme's detached legs and he snarled, baring his teeth at the indifferent blaze. Fire did not fear him.

He snarled again, this time in frustration. The fire had taken too much from him. He would not give what he had left, of his wife and his family, to it anymore. He grabbed Esme's torso with his good hand and used his sliced one to pull her lower half. Without getting up from the ground, he dragged both back. Away from the fire, almost to the middle of the living room. He laid her torso down and placed her legs beneath it. Despite the proximity, her body did not rejoin.

His eyes snapped, first towards the front door and then towards the back door of the house. The fight seemed to be the thickest there. He had barely crossed the threshold unharmed. His grand daughter, or the humans behind him, would be shredded to pieces within seconds.

The fire was spreading quickly too. It would reach the third floor in matter of minutes, if it hadn't already. The house would be gone in under ten minutes.

"Renesmee," he called out, his voice sharp. The poor child mumbled in reply. "The trees," he commanded.

It took her a few seconds. And Carlisle waited as patiently as he could. He heard her take in a deep breath and with a short run, she bounded out the window. She sailed over the fight and landed a good three-fourth of the way up the tree, well out of reach of any shape-shifters.

"Wait there!" he called out before she could bolt away. He looked out the shattered glass windows and saw her terrified and confused face looking in his direction. He gave her a silent look and the perceptive girl understood what she had to do.

"You're ready?" he asked and she gave a nervous nod.

That would have to do. He did not have time for any other plan. He spun on the spot and grabbed the nearest human girl beside him. Rachel gave a surprised yelp but Carlisle gave her no heed. He picked her up and with one look at his granddaughter, chucked Rachel out.

Her scream was drowned out by the mayhem outside and shut off abruptly when Renesmee caught her. High up in the trees, Renesmee settled Rachel on to a branch. Then the child hitched her bag strap back on her shoulder, and holding her scarf out of the way, hopped on to the adjacent tree. Ready for the next one.

Carlisle turned again, this time, grabbing Kim. The girl was surprised but ready. He tossed her out too. Like a shot put ball with a single arm. It had a lot to do with the lack of dexterity on his own end but Renesmee couldn't grab Kim quickly enough and with a shower of leaves and a resounding snap, she crashed against the branch. It would have hurt. But better injured than charred.

His grand daughter did grab the girl a moment later, and holding her by the arm, climbed a couple of branches higher before she settled the human there.

Carlisle looked at Sue. And then at Emily.

Emily was gone too. But she deserved to be laid to rest according to the custom of her people. Not be burnt to ashes on enemy territory.

"Sue?" he called and the woman stepped forward. A little awkwardly. Carlisle picked her up, looping an arm near her thighs and Sue folded in on herself. She was prepared to be chucked out and Renesmee was ready too. Standing on the third tree, she deftly caught her, thankfully without injuring the older woman. They'd all be bruised, if from nothing then from the impact of Renesmee's hand on them. But they'd be fine.

Carlisle turned to the last human in his house. Emily lay on the bed, the sheet and the mattress soaked with her blood. He pulled the sheet free from under the mattress and folded it over her and repeated the process on the other side, wrapping her tightly in the drenched fabric. It was the most he could do for her. And then, he threw her out too.

Renesmee caught the last human he sent her way. She staggered dangerously on her precarious spot on the branch. Carlisle took a hurried step forward but Sue, still beside Renesmee, steadied her. Unlike the other three, Emily's limp form offered no aid in balancing that far up in the trees and Renesmee, though supernaturally strong, was a small girl.

With Sue's steadying hands, Renesmee pulled Emily up. The older woman sat with her back against the tree and his grand daughter draped Emily before her, almost on her lap.

She turned to look at him, questioning. Terrified.

"Leave," he told her. She did not move. Her wide eyes looked at the scene before her. The battle. The mayhem. The fast-spreading fire. "Renesmee!" he shouted out. "Run! Now!"

Renesmee gave a nod. A small hesitant one. And then, disappeared.

Carlisle breathed out a sigh of relief. If nothing else worked out tonight, he would at least know his grand daughter was safe. Tanya, Kate and Garrett, Eleazar and Carmen, they would take care of her till this fight was over and his children could go find her.

Somewhere behind him, a part of the roof caved in with a loud clatter. The fire was spreading through the place quickly and the house was caving in on itself.

He had to get out. He was needed out there too.

Carlisle stepped towards the door.

And then stopped.

Come back soon.

For eighty years, this had been his wife's gentle command. Every day. Every time he stepped out of the door. She asked this of him. She demanded this of him. And for eighty years, he had bent to her will. He had come back, always, as soon as he possibly could.

And she had been there, waiting for him by the door, to greet him with a kiss, an embrace and eager questions about his day.

He looked out the windows on to his front yard.

Rosalie and a lithe gray wolf were fighting together. Bella was standing close to a human Jacob, her eyes closed in concentration. His sons and Alice and some wolves were together fighting the werewolves. The shape-shifters were fighting, a strange, mutated form of their brethren.

In a rather uncharacteristically empty corner, Arthur sat languid on the hood of the car. No fight reached him. And he looked upon the sight with a disinterest. His hands folded, he looked almost sad.

Perhaps the older vampire felt Carlisle's gaze upon him for he looked up.

Carlisle did not know what Arthur saw. It was not something he believed he could ever comprehend. A strange mix of relief, grief and joy?

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him and jerked his face to the battle. A mocking invitation. A false reprieve.

He looked back at the fight. Somehow a lot of the wolves were back in action. Far too many were engaged in fighting their own brothers. Carlisle could not ever hope to make sense of what was going on out there with them. But he did know his presence would speed up the fight. It would bring the battle to a close. He did not yet know in whose favor. But it would.

The logical thing would be to go out, help his family.

The logical thing would be to get away from the fire.

Carlisle was a logical man. At least he considered himself so.

He turned away from the battle. He turned towards the fire.

The logic had been hammered out of him that night. With a resounding crash, the kitchen and half the living room ceiling collapsed.

Carlisle strode over the burning beam and went to the middle of the room.

Come back soon.

She had asked him.

Carlisle Cullen was a logical man. A knowledgeable, a wise man. He knew many things in many fields. But there was one thing he knew better than anything else.

If he walked out that door, tonight, he would never come back to his Esme.

Whatever remained of her, would be gone too. He would have nothing to come back home to.

No house. No kiss. No embrace. No Esme.

Was it even worth coming back to?

Before that night, Carlisle did not know there were so many different kinds of pain.

His face smarted. His mouth protested the acidic taste. His hand shot with pain as each fiber rejoined. So many injuries, healing and healed. Each demanded attention.

Each was given attention. He focused on them. The burning face. The foul taste. The painful limbs. He focused on them, again and again.

For he knew, the moment his mind stepped away from these pains, it would be in a different kind of agony all together. One that would never ebb, never heal, never decrease.

One that he would have to live with for the rest of his life.

The pain of a broken promise. The pain of a lost heart.

Carlisle walked back to the center of the living room. The fire was all around him, spreading almost circumferentially. Esme was before him.

He knelt down, in the circle of shuddering death, and pulled his wife to him. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her forehead, as hard as he could.

"I commend you, my dear wife, mother and grandmother to Almighty God, and entrust you to your creator. May you rest in the arms of the Lord who formed you from the dust of the Earth. May Holy Mary, the angels and all the saints welcome you now that you have gone forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peace. May Christ who died for you, admit you into his garden of paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd embrace you as one of his flock. May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen."

His prayer was silent but fervent.

He had promised her he would come back to her.

And he would. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

"Carlisle get out of there!" Emmett's voice thundered over the mayhem.

Carlisle looked at his son. Very, very briefly before the roof a few feet to his front caved and his vision was curtained by fire.

He pulled Esme closer still, and dragged her lower body back with him. Away from the fire in front of him. Towards the fire behind him. Away from the fire to his right, closer to the fire to his left.

The blazing licks of death came for his wife from all sides and he held her in a protective embrace. Shielding her with his own body.

"Get out, Dad!" Rosalie's voice rang sharp and it was immediately followed by a pained shriek. He searched through the orange wall of obscurity for her, but he could no longer see anything.

The pain in her voice, it rang in his mind long after he heard Emmett bellow and a wolf screamed out. She would be fine. Alice would be fine. Bella and Edward and Jasper and Emmett would be fine. His children were resilient. They were fighters. They were protectors. They would fight the battle before them. They would protect each other.

Carlisle, for the first time that night, knew he was neither.

He looked at his wife.

Still. Silent. Charred. And in pieces.

He was not resilient. He was not a fighter.

A coward.

That is what Carlisle knew he was. He felt the pain he had inflicted on Arthur. And he was far, far too big a coward to live with that pain forever.

To live with the knowledge that he did not fulfill his promise to his love. To walk out the door knowing he would never come back to Esme.

The fire teased its way closer to him, circling him from all around. It crept up his feet and legs, caressing him with its painful, perverse touch. It was excruciating and so, so relieving!

"Bless my children, eternal God, with the comfort of your love that they may face each new day with hope and the certainty that nothing can destroy the good that has been given. May their memories once again become joyful, their days enriched with friendship, and their lives encircled by your love."

Carlisle prayed, for he knew his children would mourn. And if he could not be there to comfort them himself, he would do the best he could. He would ask Him to watch over his sons and daughters and grand daughter.

No tears left his eyes, yet his heart bled.

The fire turned his body into fodder and blazed harder, consuming his flesh.

His fear, his instincts kicked in. Hard. They screamed at him to run. To get away. To protect himself. He could hear so many other things. The loudest of them all was the strange roar of the fire. The fall and collapse of his house around him. Outside he could hear his children. Fighting. Yelling. Begging. He heard the wolves. The werewolves.

So many things.

They all screamed at him, begged him and tortured him and commanded him.

It was painful. He felt himself burn away. Piece by piece. The pain unlike anything he ever experienced.

The humans believed dying by fire was the worst way to go. He agreed. And yet, the death brought him nothing but relief from the true agony he never allowed himself to feel.

Everything was so painful. And everything was so loud.

Nobody would hear him. It was not possible. But he had to try. It was too late already.

But he had to try. One last promise to his wife, that he hoped to fulfill.

A silent request to his first son. Scatter what remains of us on Isle Esme.

"Dad please no!" Edward's voice thundered over the cacophony outside. But his voice knew what his heart refused to accept. He knew it was too late.

Carlisle knew it too. He felt agony turn to numbness. He saw the bright blaze dim into a hooded hue.

It was time.

Every fiber in his body still protested the end. It screamed and thrashed and struggled for survival. Just as his family and friends did outside.

It was time.

He knew it. He truly knew it. He closed his eyes and allowed his taut, protesting body to relax. To merge and melt with his Esme's.

And the end came for him.

At last it did. At last, the screams in his body and in the world outside t faded away. At last, the pandemonium of life turned into eternal obliviousness' sweet whispers.