You guys, I am SO EXCITED to finally write something in 1918. Thank you to everyone who requested this scene- it was a pleasure to write! I still don't know if I'll ever take on the daunting project of writing a Tale of Years: 1918, but here is Carlisle's version. This first half covers his deliberation and Edward's transformation, and the second half will cover Edward's awakening and first hunt, and then an epilogue-y sort of thing set a few weeks later. (EdwardsMate4Ever, I'm reimagining your outtake request for the epilogue-y thing)
Early November 1918
Chicago
Carlisle POV
I had stood alone in this parlor many times. When I tired of re-reading my books and it hadn't yet been long enough to make an appearance at the hospital, and the weather was poor… I would just stand here, alone, waiting for the hours to pass. But I was no longer alone, because I had done it.
God help me, I had actually done it.
For decades – centuries, even- I had been preparing myself for this day. Debating with myself, chiding myself, horrified at myself, pitying myself, challenging myself… and when I felt bold enough, turning my eyes toward Heaven and asking for a sign. But I had made my choice at long last. A raging epidemic, a mother's plea, a face that shone with goodness and promise, and my own desperate hope had all fallen together in one unexpected opportunity, and the time had come.
The young man lying on my couch was Edward Masen, age seventeen. I had first cared for his father earlier in the week, though scarcely long enough to pronounce him dead: yet another hardworking citizen of Chicago, suddenly fallen in the city's battle against the Spanish Influenza. Edward and his mother were not far behind. There was little we could do for them; it was still unclear what caused this strain of influenza, and the symptoms were unpredictable. I ordered atropine capsules and aspirin and the application of Vick's for both of them, and managed to find them a private room to share. The nursing staff would be able to help more than I would, soothing their fevers and discomfort in the ways that mothers have known for centuries.
Edward's prognosis was already poor upon my first examination. He was barely conscious upon his admission, his fever raging and his history of asthma a strike against him. The mother's case was more promising at first, but she had driven herself too far in caring for her son. Time after time the nurses firmly tucked her back under her own covers, and time after time they found her seated at her son's side, whispering a breathless lullaby and coaxing a few drops of water into his mouth, or cleaning the sweat from his brow, or just holding his hand as she sat wheezing on the edge of his cot. It was a touching picture; I regretted leaving them to die while I stayed uselessly at home pretending to sleep, but I had learned that working more than twenty-four hours in a row was bound to draw attention.
By the time I returned for my next shift, she had been tucked in for the last time. Even then, she spoke from her fevered dreams; she spoke of her son, what a good boy he was, the best that had ever been. She finally wept for him, but was too dehydrated to produce tears. I was touched by her sacrifice, and even more touched to see that young Edward was now using his own last hours to comfort his mother. I was surprised that he was still alive at all; his mother's sacrifice had not been in vain.
I lingered after my shift ended, ensconced in the shadows of the shared room. I watched as Edward tried, without success, to rise and go to his mother. I would have helped him do so, but she had begun her final rest; sleep was the kindest treatment I could give her now. Edward was also fading quickly, even more so because he, like his mother, was too stubbornly devoted to allow himself rest. He called out to her, sang to her even, until his voice finally gave out. His sanity wandered more with every passing hour; his mouthed babbling and prayers became confused, when they were not obscured altogether by fits of coughing and wheezing. I ordered pots of boiled water brought in to humidify the air, but even such primitive remedies were scarce by now. Finally he lay still, his respirations small and weak, his hand stretched out toward his mother even after his eyes had closed. He awoke soon after that to cough, but he never spoke again. His fever burned on and his lungs filled with fluid. His next bout of coughing was weaker. His sweating had ceased despite the fever which continued to climb even higher. All hope was nearly lost for him.
All hope except my own.
I saw my chance clearly: in the pandemonium of the epidemic it would not be difficult to remove him without suspicion. And he would be without family; no one to leave behind, and no one to report his disappearance. Was this really the day I had anticipated for so long? The day I had feared? My heart swelled with possibility. There had been a few other chances, in recent years, but something had always stopped me. A feeling that it wasn't time, that I wasn't ready, that I could not bring myself to inflict the same torment I had undergone on another. But there was something about this young man… something bright. The fading innocence of youth? Or the dawning goodness of a young man who would give of himself until the end? He had just done so. Would that trait be strong enough to survive next to the dangerous nature I was capable of instilling in him?
And then, so late as to be miraculous, Elizabeth Masen woke one final time. Her green eyes, bright with fever and the nearing light of Paradise, slowly searched through the room. They rested on her son, who was mercifully asleep for the moment. Then she looked straight at me. How she saw me so far away in the shadows, and with her illness, I could not fathom.
"Doctor." The word was so faint, I could have imagined it. But she stirred, licking her dry lips to try again. She coughed weakly.
"Please rest, Mrs. Masen," I protested, drawing nearer, but the weakness in her eyes suddenly blazed with defiance.
"Save him," she demanded. I did not need to ask whom she meant.
"I'll do everything in my power," I promised her, taking her burning hand. It was a platitude I had offered to families so many times before; it had been a bitter lie, every time. I had never before done everything in my power to save a life.
Would I do it tonight? I stole another glance at young Edward. His advanced infection was a stench in my nostrils, and even from where I stood I could hear the gurgling effort of his quick, shallow respiration. His pulse was rapid and irregular, evidence of its struggle against his failing lungs. I was running out of time. I had grown accustomed to spending years of study and debate over the simplest decision, but now I had no time. He would certainly not survive the night. Must I decide so quickly, then?
"You must," his mother answered clearly. A strange feeling rose in my chest at the coincidence of her answer, and at the sudden strength in her hand as she pressed mine. Her gaze was so clear, it seemed to pierce my mind. "You must do everything in your power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward."
I pulled my hand from hers, suddenly afraid. She knew! How could she possibly know? I stepped back, my dilemma momentarily forgotten in my shock. But the strength that had roused her to speak was already passing; her eyes drifted closed again. I stood staring at her, frozen in wariness and confusion. Was this the sign I had been seeking? My eyes tore away from her to her son again, and the weight of my decision pressed upon me; I held this young man's future in my hands. If I did nothing, it was very likely he would soon be reunited with his parents, at peace forever in Heaven. Was it wrong to take that from him, or was it wrong to deny the conviction I felt more with every passing moment?
It seemed only seconds later that Elizabeth Masen breathed her last. The new quiet in the room, broken now only by Edward's pitiful breathing and heartbeats, made me bolder. I moved hesitantly to his bedside now, looking again at his face. It could hardly be said that he looked at peace; a thin layer of dried sweat lay upon him and even in sleep, his brow was furrowed in pain… or fear, perhaps. His lips were dry and cracked. He hadn't yet developed a full beard, but three or so days' worth of fuzz had grown on his lip and chin, and traced the beginnings of the sideburns that his father had worn so well. His hair, so like his mother's, was a tangled mess on his pillow, some of it plastered to his forehead with dried sweat. But even in his disarray, the goodness on his face shone as if his mother's passing had spilled some of Heaven's light onto him as she moved out of this world. Remembering the piercing clarity of her eyes, I could almost believe she had done it on purpose.
Had she realized what she was asking of me?
Without thought I reached down and smoothed the hair away from his face, as his mother had no doubt done earlier today. He did not stir at my touch, but the furrow between his brows relaxed away. And was it my imagination, or did his pulse relax a bit as well? I had certainly comforted young patients like this before, but this time awakened something new in my heart. Perhaps it was the touching devotion I had seen earlier between Edward and his mother, or perhaps my heart was vulnerable after the shock of her insight. Perhaps it was the tremulous humility I felt at facing the decision that needed to be quickly made. Perhaps it was my loneliness, its ache brought to bear as I considered its cure. But whatever the reason, the thought formed itself effortlessly: this is the kind of son I would have wanted to have.
My hand lingered on Edward's brow as I mulled over this new possibility. I had never, in all my ruminations on the subject, considered that I might someday have a son. It was too much to hope for; I had, until now, been optimistic enough to believe that if I made the right choice, I had a very good chance that my creation would choose the path I had chosen: that my saving a life would not mean an end to countless other lives. I had even dared to hope that he might choose to remain with me, a friend to ease the solitude of this strange life. Or she, I admitted silently, remembering a smiling girl in Columbus with caramel-colored hair and a restless vitality. But I swept that familiar memory away; now was not the time. And I should not let myself get carried away with what might be, or what might have been; now was the time to decide.
My hand flinched away as Edward's face grew suddenly paler. The skin around his mouth took on a blue tinge and he struggled to cough again, but he could only manage a gasp. Was I too late already?! I rolled him on his side, fearfully unsure whether percussion at this late stage would be helpful or harmful. My eyes darted to the soft skin of his throat, and my venom finally began to flow as I briefly considered the horrible possibility of biting him here- but that would be most unwise. What if he should cry out? What if I should lose control, here in a hospital of all places? The crisis passed a moment later, but his vital signs were deteriorating quickly now. I laid my hand on his ribs, noting their pitifully small expansion as his breaths leaked through where they could. How many did he have left? I could no longer delay. But if I was to act, how would I actually go about it? How would I get him out? The prospect suddenly seemed more difficult than I had originally thought. I stepped out into the hallway briefly, dismayed to find the night staff bustling about. One nurse brushed right past me, wheeling a gurney. The sheet, pulled over the face of her patient, was enough to tell me her destination.
The morgue… yes. I had a much better chance of escaping detection if I took that route. I ducked back into the room and wheeled Mrs. Masen out, casting a fearful glance back at Edward and sending up a prayer that he would not die before I could return.. before I could decide. I followed the other gurney down to the morgue, my agitation growing as the moments passed. The possibility of having already failed grew my conviction to the breaking point. Was I really going to do this?
Finally the nurse deposited her charge, filled out the first portion of the death certificate, and left it, pen ready for the attending physician, right on her patient's sheet-covered abdomen.
"Doctor," she said distractedly as she brushed past me on her way out. I nodded, silently praying she would not call me to any new duty. Not tonight. As soon as she closed the door, I grabbed a death certificate off the waiting stack and filled it out for Elizabeth Masen while my eyes darted around the room. I was alone, with only the dead for witnesses to the crime I was about to commit. The window at the far end of the room, which opened to the street level in the alley behind the hospital, seemed to be calling to me. As if in confirmation of the decision I was finally daring to make, there was a flash of lightning outside the window to remind me that it was the middle of the night, and storming as well. The streets would be a mess of sleet and slush, and there was still plenty of darkness left. The chances of being seen were practically non-existent. And yet, there was One who would See.
God, am I really going to do this? Is it time?
I signed the death certificate with an absent-minded flourish, slapping it onto the overflowing tray on my way back out the door. I rushed back to Edward's room with all the speed I dared, relieved to hear his struggling heartbeat as I neared the door. I spared one last glance over to the now unoccupied side of the room, and Elizabeth Masen's words seemed to echo in the empty space. In my head.
This is what you must do.
It was enough.
In one fluid motion, I turned and flicked Edward's top sheet over his head, careful to leave room for ventilation. I pushed the gurney out into the hallway, keeping my head down as the journey to the morgue stretched out before me. Edward's breathing hitched to a stop as he was jolted over the rough transition to the cement floor of the east wing. I panicked for a moment, but did not dare to lift the sheet or even stop; a nurse was walking the opposite way. Breathe, I screamed inside my head, nodding and smiling tiredly to the nurse as I passed her. Please, not now! Breathe, Edward! His pulse went on, though, and before another two seconds had passed he was breathing again, even weaker than before.
I reached the morgue at last, after what felt like an eternity. I closed the door behind me, my hand drifting toward the fresh stack of death certificates. But there was no time; I already heard footsteps on the cement floor of the hall behind me, their warning growing quickly closer. I scooped Edward up and leapt over the row of corpses that laid between the door and the window. By the time the door opened behind me, I was already in the alley with Edward safely clutched to my chest. I realized too late that I should have brought a blanket; the sleet and wind were merciless against his thin hospital gown and bare legs and feet. He was too far gone to even shiver at the cold. I adjusted my hold to cover more of his skin with my lab coat.
I ran as long as I dared, and then I took to the rooftops. It was a risk, jolting him again with even the gentlest of landings, but this would be much faster. I felt his heart, weak as it was, pounding against my chest as I ran. Hurry. Hurry, it seemed to say. I ran faster, all at once realizing that the decision had been the easy part. One of the reasons I had delayed so many years was that I feared the ultimate failure: to end the very life I intended to save. But time for fear was mercifully short. My house, lonely on a densely forested hill outside the city, loomed ahead. In an instant I was in the parlor, gently laying Edward down on the couch and kneeling on the rug beside him. My hands trembled as I tilted his chin up and away. For the slightest portion of a second, I froze as I recalled my own torment; all my years of mental preparation had not lessened the horror of what I was about to inflict.
"Forgive me," I breathed, even as the venom began to flow and I bared my teeth. Was it a prayer, or a plea to Edward himself? My eyes trained on his external carotid artery, but that was too dangerous; he was weak enough without the blood loss that would cause. But it would taste better, a dark voice whispered from deep inside me. I recoiled in horror again, this time at the reawakening of a temptation I had long since defeated. But further delay would only increase the danger. I leaned in and bit, gently incising the external jugular vein. And for the first time, after two hundred and fifty five years of denying myself, human blood crossed my lips.
It was glorious.
I failed the test even as I passed it. My jaws opened wider of their own accord and my reason began to evaporate as I bit deeper. I had no idea how much I drank; only that a moment later I was crouched with my back against the far wall, shivering in delight and horror all at once and scraping the sleeve of my lab coat across my mouth, lest I swallow even more. What have I done?! Edward lay unmoved where I had left him, but now a pulsing trickle of blood was running down the side of his neck onto the couch. I crawled back to his side, trembling as I held back a terrible desire to grab his throat to my teeth again. Had any venom entered his bloodstream at all? I peered closer, relieved to see the telltale glimmer of silver dotted across the wound. Was it enough? Would it work? Had I taken too much blood? His arrhythmia didn't seem to have worsened… Oh, why hadn't I taken Aro up on his offer to observe a transformation when I had the chance?!
My hand crept up to my own throat, tracing the invisible scar there. I decided it would be best to imitate, exactly, the bites I myself had received; it was an unspeakable torture, but the only example I had. At least Edward didn't appear to feel any of it; that was a mercy. I bit again and again, finding the temptation less each time, though only slightly. I did not drink again, though I lingered over each bite to pass on more venom.
Edward never moved.
I finally sat back on my heels, watching him intently for any sign, and refusing to even acknowledge the blaring thirst that threatened to drown my reason again. It had been not been this difficult since the beginning… but it would not do to dwell on that memory, or anything like that, just now. I forced all my attention on the wound at his neck, ashamed to see its extent, but determined to focus on the medical aspects of what I observed. The blood flow was certainly less than a few moments ago; whether that was due to the healing properties of my venom at the site itself, or the depletion of Edward's blood supply, I could not tell. Since the flow continued to lessen without further detriment to his rhythm, I thought it must be the former.
The grandfather clock in the hall seemed to grow louder as I waited. I found solace in its unwavering, inorganic tick-tock, and let its rhythm anchor me, instead of that of Edward's beckoning pulse. I waited some more; the other wounds were now closed, sealed as if they had been cauterized. The wound at his neck was the only one that was bleeding now. I watched in fascination as it, too, slowly narrowed and finally sealed. I estimated that he had lost nearly half a liter of blood to the now-soaked cushions of my couch; I shuddered to think how much more was in me. I certainly felt the burning change in my eyes, but I would not stand up to look in the mirror now; Edward needed me. Or rather, I needed him. I need him to move, or speak, or even scream- anything that would give me a sign of my success. His heart seemed no stronger or weaker than before; his breathing, so sensitive to the rough journey over the rooftops of Chicago, hadn't missed a beat even when my teeth had torn into his throat.
Come on, Edward, I pleaded silently. Give me a sign.
Another ten minutes passed. And then I heard, or thought I heard, the subtlest shift in his arrhythmia: inching toward normalcy, I thought hopefully. A minute later, it slowed again; was that good or bad? Despite my effort to think in clinical terms, my eyes were fixed on Edward's face now. All my medical training faded away and I simply stared, full of hope and fear. Had I done it right? Had I drunk too much? Had I given him enough venom? Too much? And, as my hope for his survival began to grow: what would he say when he awoke? Would he be violent? What would he think of my unorthodox rescue? Would he agree to stay with me? Would he be happy?
The clock in the hall chimed the hour: eight o'clock. The sun was rising, and my hope rose with it. Edward's breathing was beginning to slow, and his pulse soon settled, to my immense relief, into sinus rhythm. He was going to make it.
He's going to live!
I finally smiled in wonder, still watching Edward's face. His brow, long since slack, twitched slightly. The furrow reappeared. But before I could reach over to smooth it away, everything went wrong.
He shivered once, then again, and then his mouth opened as he suddenly exploded into a massive coughing fit. Blood and sputum and venom welled up out of his mouth, and his heart rate doubled instantly. I cried out in alarm and wrenched him onto his side just as be began to retch and cough everything out onto the rug. He gasped and coughed and vomited in such quick succession, I was certain he would drown; even venom could not save him from that. If anything, the venom would be the very thing that killed him, healing his breathing passages just enough to occlude completely as they attempted to empty themselves.
NO! Not now!
Edward's eyes flew open, wide in terror. He stiffened in my arms, his face growing suddenly purple as he retched again, coughing even further past the end of his breath. He gasped, but just in time for it to start again. I held him as tightly as I dared, afraid to intervene and destroy the rhythm that his body seemed to have latched onto in its frantic attempt to regain control of its functions. "It's all right," I soothed, falling back on the lies that we physicians are so skilled at speaking. "It'll feel better in a moment. It'll stop, in just a minute, and you'll be able to breathe more easily…" I smeared his hair, now soaked with new sweat, back away from his face. He went suddenly limp in my arms again and I feared the worst; but it seemed his body's strange attempt at healing had worked. His breathing was much deeper now, his chest rising and falling with a reassuring strength. There was still a significant wheeze, but it quickly began to diminish. I gently laid him back up on the couch, darting out to the powder room to grab a towel to clean him with.
Should I give him some water? I took the new sweat as a good sign, but surely his body was struggling to produce even that much; he had already been dehydrated before I had taken him. I found a cup in my kitchen, dusty from never having been used. I sat him up slightly and succeeded in getting him to reflexively swallow some water, though not as much as I would have liked. Was his body already beginning to reject it? I didn't want to risk setting off another round of coughing or choking. Should I try some kind of broth instead, to build his strength against what he was about to endure? But my kitchen was poorly stocked, really only some dry goods for show in the rare case of a neighbor or coworker stopping by. I had no meat or vegetables with which to make anything useful.
In the end, I laid him back down and let him be; the venom would have to do its work alone. He was beginning to twitch again. His brow was furrowed with what looked like pain, though all his other muscles were slack. If all went well, he would unfortunately soon be well enough to fully experience the pain of his transformation; I decided to make use of this quieter time to telephone the hospital.
"I'll be back in just a moment, Edward," I promised him, rising to go use the telephone in the hall. I suddenly felt awkward, wondering if he could understand me at this point; there was really no way to tell what degree of brain damage the fever had caused, or if any of it had yet been repaired. Surely it would be repaired? I knew so little of these matters. Doubt assailed me again, but I supposed it was of little use now. I reached out and patted him on the head, unsure what sort of comfort would be best if he was already hurting now. "Just a moment," I murmured absently, darting out into the hall.
My fingers paused on the receiver. What would I say to explain my absence, and Edward's? I would not be able to return to work for the foreseeable future. It seemed best to use the excuse that was most readily available: the very influenza that had brought Edward into my life. But what about Edward himself? The fact that I would be unable to produce his body was most problematic. The easiest solution was for his case to be lost in the mayhem, but I should not count on that. Perhaps… a new plan formed and I finally picked up the receiver.
"Chicago 9277M, please."
I glanced back toward the parlor as the operator made the connection. I could not see into the room, no matter how I taut stretched the telephone line. Edward's heart rate was beginning to rise again, as were his respirations. A response to the pain he was more able to feel, as his mind healed? Or a new danger? He was so frail, whereas I had been strong and healthy during my torment. Success was still not guaranteed. I should not leave him alone, not this early… but the hospital operator came on, and I was soon connected to my boss. I turned my attention back to the telephone and to the new role I would need to play.
"Donald?" I began, peppering my voice with fatigue and a slight rasp. "It's Carlisle. I'm terribly sorry about this, but…" I added a delicate cough, muffled against my shoulder. "I'm not going to make my shift tonight."
"Carlisle? You don't sound well at all. Do you have a fever?"
"Only a slight one," I sighed. "I'm sure it'll pass… I think I just overdid it this week with the double shifts."
"I told you to take it easy," Donald said, sounding genuinely concerned. "Listen, I'm getting off at seven, I'll stop by your place and-"
"That won't be necessary," I interrupted, instantly realizing my mistake. The past few weeks had been difficult at the hospital; long hours and heartbreaking cases had brought our team together in a way that was unusual. Donald would be concerned about me, as a friend would, if he thought I had come down with the illness that had killed so many of our patients. I could not risk his interference, not now. "You know how it is," I continued anxiously, attempting to sound tired, but not terribly ill. "We doctors make poor patients."
"At least come in and let us have a look at you. You of all people should know-"
"I know," I interrupted again. "But I truly don't think that's what it is. The symptoms aren't the same, and I really think I just overdid it. I-" My head turned as a weak moan came from the parlor. I clenched the receiver harder, casting about for an excuse that would keep him away from the house. "I promise that if things do begin to look that way, I'll have someone take a look at me. Anyway, I'm heading out of town for the weekend."
"I thought you were going to get some rest!"
"I am," I assured him, looking anxiously toward the parlor again. "But my mother telephoned and she's not feeling well herself. Her doctor doesn't think she has it either, but I'd feel better if I had a look myself."
"Oh. I'm sorry, Carlisle… I hope she pulls through."
"I'm sure she will. She'll probably be up and making me a pot of her famous chicken soup when I arrive. In fact, I suspect it may be a plot just to force me into taking a holiday."
"Take it, then," Donald said gruffly. "Take all the time you need, and I mean that, Carlisle. You're the finest young physician that's come through here in a long time."
"Thank you," I said warmly, my gratitude genuine. I was ashamed of the lies, for even with my double shifts, we had already been stretched too thin. Patient care was going to suffer in my absence, and more lives would almost certainly be lost. But Edward had to come first- from now on, he would always come first. I felt uneasy at the compromise, but I consoled myself with the thought that other physicians would do the same if their child was ill and needed care at home. "And, Donald… I really am sorry about this. I know the timing is terrible."
"Don't give it another thought," he replied kindly. "Just give me a call in a couple days and let me know how you're doing."
"I will."
"Oh, and one other matter. One of your patients, Edward Masen…"
I sighed, pressing my lips together in frustration; of course it would not be as simple as I hoped. "Yes?"
"Did he pass on last night? The nurses assumed so, considering how he was doing yesterday, but it looks like you never checked him into the morgue."
I drew a calming breath, ready to try my plan. "Oh, I'm sorry about that- I was so tired when I wrapped up this morning I must not have submitted the paperwork for his discharge."
"Discharge?!" Donald echoed in surprise. "I've heard that you can work miracles, Carlisle, but-"
"If only that were true," I sighed, hoping my anxiety was not as obvious as it sounded to my own ears. "He did show some surprising improvement early this morning, though it's still touch and go. No, his uncle came to collect him; he'll be taking over the boy's custody until his eighteenth birthday next June. If he makes it, God willing."
"Well, that was unwise," Donald harrumphed. "Improved or not, I hardly think moving him is going to do anything except expose him to the elements unnecessarily. Strange, I don't remember an uncle being mentioned… where are they headed?"
"I think it was the hospital in Springfield, near the uncle's home… though I can't recall the details at the moment. I'm sorry again about the paperwork, I'll get right to it when I come back in."
"That'll be fine. Lord knows keeping up with the paperwork is the last thing on our minds just now. What a mess…"
"I know. And again-"
"If you apologize one more time, Carlisle, I'm going to come over there and give you a sedative myself!"
"Point taken," I laughed, remembering at the last moment to add another cough. "I'll give you a call over the weekend, Donald." We hung up and I dashed back into the parlor, to find Edward's head hanging uncomfortably off the edge of the couch cushion. I tugged him gently back up and looked over him again; not much change other than the moan I had heard earlier, and the sealed wound on his neck looked to be fading slightly. I sat and stared, barely noticing as the sun rose further into the sky.
Edward's pain seemed to finally worsen around noon. He began to moan again, stirring weakly against the cushioned back of the couch.
"I'm sorry about this," I told him, laying my hand on his. It was already beginning to cool; still a bit feverish, but that would soon change. I touched my hand to his forehead to confirm the extent of the fever, but let my hand linger, gently smoothing his tangled hair again. The motion seemed to soothe him.
"Mother," he said weakly, and my whole world suddenly shifted. A new ache arose in my chest unexpectedly: it seemed that my dead heart stirred and grew to envelop young Edward, binding him to me forever. But it also felt painful, as if a part of me had been torn away and now lay, feverish and weak, on the couch. I had once had a woman tell me, as her son lay ill in my care, that I would never know the feeling of my heart being outside my body until I had a child of my own. It seemed she was right. This ache was foreign to me; I wanted to sweep the boy up in my arms and protect him from his grief, his pain, from everything. But his pain was only beginning, and I was the one who had inflicted it. I would bear it for him, if I could.
I thought, with a tightening of my throat, of other kinds of suffering I was condemning him to. A life of relative isolation- though he would never be alone the way that I was. The pain of thirst, especially in his first years. His grief at his parents' loss, I hoped, would be muted. But he had been on his way to join them- what would he think of my interference in that? I had the consolation of having answered his mother's plea, and of saving a life that was being unfairly cut short; but would he see it that way? What of his other losses? Did he have a sweetheart? What had his family's plans been for Christmas this year? What of his friends… his plans for the future? Had he been planning to attend college next fall, or perhaps serve his country in the War? This young man was not just his mother's son; Edward Masen was a person, with hopes and dreams of his own. Edward Cullen, I thought cautiously. My son, Edward Cullen. I peered at his beautiful face again, memorizing every detail, wishing I knew more about him. What did I know of being a father?
I should not let myself hope. There was every possibility that Edward would despise me for what I had done. I would need to prepare myself to let him go, in that case, as soon as it was safe. But could I hope, at the very least, that he would stay, as a friend? Or perhaps that he would go his own way, but agree to part on kind terms, possibly to meet occasionally or travel together at times. Perhaps I was being too optimistic, but when I remembered the generosity and goodness I had seen on his face- that I still saw- I could not imagine this young man turning against me with true enmity. I supposed it was possible, considering the volatility of the nature my venom was grafting onto him. But I hoped not, and my heart ached with a new love as I dared hope for even more. There was so much I could teach him... give him. But even as I hoped and watched , I felt a new strength grow with that new love: the same strength I had seen in Edward and his mother in their final hours. Though I had first begun to allow myself the possibility of creating one such as Edward out of a place of selfish loneliness, I now found I had the courage for more than that.
Love does not seek its own.
Edward would need my guidance, but I would let him choose, in this. Whatever place in his life he offered me- even if it be one of distance, enforced by his hatred- I would be content.
But God, please, let it be more. Let him see me as a friend… let him trust me, if nothing else.
I drifted into prayer for a time, seeking wisdom for myself and comfort for Edward in his torment. His twitching had turned to restless stirring now. His face was frozen in a permanent grimace. His breath soon began to come in short, pain-filled gasps between his clenched teeth. He seemed to be trying not to scream. My heart ached for him anew, and with a sense of kinship this time, as I recalled my own transformation. I, too, had remained silent, fearing that I would give myself away. There were those, my own father included, that would destroy such an abomination were they to find me in my weakness during the transition.
"It's all right," I assured Edward. "I know it hurts, and I'm so sorry. You don't need to be silent- you're safe here. I'll keep you safe." I will always keep you safe.
He continued to suffer in silence, holding himself rigid now. My pity aside, I admired his self-control, unnecessary as it was; that boded well for the future. But finally his youth betrayed him, and he cried out, suddenly thrashing against the cushions. His grimace turned into an expression of confused terror. He screamed again, writhing so hard that I had to catch him from falling. I was surprised at the strength in his arms as he fought me, but I easily subdued him. He struggled for another moment, his eyes opened now but darting blankly around.
"Father! Help!" he shrieked this time, and began to cry, burying his face in my shoulder. I thought my heart would break.
"I'm sorry, Edward," I moaned. "I'm so, so sorry. It will end, I promise. The pain will not last forever. Edward?"
I had thought, for just a moment, that he understood me. His weeping suddenly stalled, only to turn to screaming again. I soon lost count of how many times the clock chimed, or the course of the sun as the day passed. Soon it was night again, but Edward's torment only grew worse. He was growing stronger, though his movements were random and uncoordinated. He gave me another scare in the early morning hours, enduring what seemed to be a series of seizures. I had no memory of such a thing being part of my own transformation, and I had no idea what I should do to help; I could only look on in pity as his body jerked and spasmed. I heard a bone snap during the worst of the seizures, but despite my careful search, I could not locate the injury.
The second day was worse, far worse. Edward's eyes were open and wide with terror nearly the whole time, and twice I was sure he was looking straight at me. You did this to me! his eyes seemed to say just before the screaming took him again. My hope for his friendship began to falter, as did my composure. I could hardly bear to watch him suffer. I spoke what comfort I could, I apologized, I made promises, I tried to explain what was happening to him- nothing seemed to help. At one point I felt such despair that I could only weep with him.
"I'm sorry, Edward, I'm so very sorry… please forgive me…"
He was strong by the time the sun set again, nearly as strong as I was. I could barely keep him on the couch now- though it hardly mattered, for his thrashing was now so strong that he had broken clean through the wooded frame in several places. His fingers had already torn parts of the cushions to shreds.
"Soon," I promised him. "It will begin to go away soon, I promise. A little longer, and it will begin to go away." His answer was a spasm that send his hand crashing into my face, knocking me off the edge of the couch. I scrambled back to his side just in time to catch him from falling again.
He grew hoarse and exhausted in the late afternoon, simply trembling and whimpering as he lay still. I was grateful for the respite. I dared to leave him alone for a few moments, rushing upstairs to gather a change of clothes for each of us. I also stopped by the powder room on my way back to the parlor, grateful that I had kept the shaving kit given to me as a Christmas gift at work a few years back. I had thought it a nice touch in case a guest should see it someday; now I finally had a use for it. As I turned to exit the powder room, I finally braced myself to look in the mirror, afraid of what my eyes might look like.
Still golden.
They were dark, certainly; I still felt a burning level of thirst that I had not known in over a century. And there was just a hint of red hue deepening the gold, but I was flooded with relief; I had not drunk nearly as much as I feared. And the test was passed; I need never face it again. A quiet protest threatened to pull at my heart, bringing with it the familiar memory of the girl in Columbus. I forced myself to let it go, yet again, focusing on my reflection in the mirror. Edward needed me. If all went as I hoped, I would no longer have the luxury of getting lost in thought like this for hours or even days at a time, at least not at home. I would no longer need to, because I would have someone to talk to. I wondered again what interests Edward might have. Perhaps a particular sport? Did he enjoy building models? I wondered if he liked to read…
You're doing it again, I told my reflection sternly. No more getting lost in your head. I finally saw the dried trickle of blood that lay upon the corner of my lips; now that was a sight I hadn't seen in quite a while. I cleaned it away, ashamed at how the sight of Edward's blood stirred my thirst again. For one fraction of a second I recalled the exquisite taste with longing, but dashed the thought angrily away as I stepped back into the parlor. I was disappointed to see that my self-control was not quite what I had thought, but I supposed this was an extreme circumstance. In any case, Edward was safe now, at least in that way. His scent had already changed; though the stench of his illness still clung to his gown and skin, he himself now smelled of lilac and honey and sunshine. The lilac and sunshine reminded me of his mother somewhat, but it had all been muddled before, what with their illness. The element of honey was certainly new.
I set the clothes aside for later and fetched a bowl of warm water and soap. It was surprisingly difficult to cut through the youthful stubble on his upper lip and chin; it was good I had not waited until the end for this. I myself had been cleanshaven upon my demise, and had never thought to alter my own hair in any way, or considered what change the venom must have wrought to keep it looking healthy for this many years.
I was not quite finished when Edward began to thrash again, though his voice was still too spent to resume screaming. My hand slipped and I uttered another apology for cutting him, but it was the razor that had been damaged, not his skin. I was unsure whether he would prefer to keep the sideburns, so I left them. I quickly toweled off his face, deciding to worry about the clothes later. I hated leaving him in the hospital gown, for it was stained and torn and foul-smelling, but I remembered my own paralysis near the end and decided that would be a better time.
Edward's screams were picking up in volume again, but they sounded different now. His voice was growing in power, tinged with an inhuman quality that bordered on an unsettling screeching sound. His skin was growing paler and his eyes were beginning to change color. I looked closer with interest, surprised to see the emerald green of his irises streaked with red; I had expected the change to be more diffuse. It was sad to see him begin to lose the green; I had never seen him healthy, but I thought he must have been a very handsome lad, particularly with such a unique eye color. I wondered what his smile looked like. His beauty was more ethereal now, the pallor first brought on by illness and now deepend as his body changed.
I stood back in wonder, taking in all the miniscule changes that I had been missing while I had lost myself in thought or in comforting him. It was astonishing to observe the restorative effects of the venom, as well as the other changes. Even beneath the crumpled fabric of the gown, I could see that his muscular definition had already begun to alter. The boyish softness of his features was disappearing, giving way to a chiseled perfection that made him look slightly older. There were two old scars, besides my own bites, that I had noticed earlier, that were now gone. The bites on his arms and ankles had vanished completely, and the one on his throat was smaller and fainter. I watched in wonder as the miracles continued- and to think that my venom was the invisible artist! It was a humbling thought, that the very essence of my darkest nature was the medium through which such healing and beauty were achieved.
Amazing!
Edward was growing weaker now; the end was approaching. I tried to recall every detail of my own last hours, and every anecdote that Aro had shared as well; this was the time where Edward would begin to feel a coolness in his extremities. And while I had had no sense of time during my own torment, I remembered being more aware of sounds at this later point.
"Do you feel that, Edward?" I said hopefully. "Do you feel your fingers growing colder? The fire is beginning to die. It will not be long now. Your body will feel weak for a few hours, but then you will awake and be strong again." He gave no sign of comprehension; his face was buried against the mangled cushion now, his screams muffled but no longer hoarse. I picked up his hand, rubbing his fingers. "Can you feel this? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." A moment later, I felt the slightest pressure on my own fingertips. A surge of joy flushed through me: his mind was certainly healed! But now that I was sure I had his attention, I didn't know what to say. Was this the time to tell him what he was becoming? I decided against it; now was not the time to frighten him with fangs and bats and dungeons and whatever other nightmarish images his mind would associate with the word vampire. Better for him to see, first, that he was still very much himself, and then I could explain.
"It'll be all right," I promised again. "Your hands will feel better and your feet, and it will work its way toward the center-" I cut off as Edward shrieked again, jerking his hand out of mine and thrashing so hard the battered back of the couch finally crumbled way. Perhaps he was not as lucid as I had thought. Better to keep it simple. "It will feel better soon," I finished lamely, looking out the window. The sun was setting again; shouldn't he be further along by now? I no longer feared for his survival, but why was this taking so long? Had I done something wrong?
By the time the first star appeared, Edward's arms were paralyzed. He seemed to reach a new level of panic, and didn't seem to hear any of my assurances. In less than two hours his legs ceased to move. His back arched instead, and his screams finally shifted into roars that shook the walls, his teeth bared and gleaming like knives. His eyes were fully red now, though they were mostly closed. The transformation was nearly complete. Edward was no longer the human boy I had brought from the hospital; he was a vampire now. And despite his pitiful weakness at the moment, I knew that in reality he had become one of the deadliest predators to walk the earth. By all accounts, a soulless, heartless monster.
I felt the weight of responsibility settle like a stone in my stomach; if he should not choose to follow my example, the blood of countless human lives would soon be on my hands, as his creator. I frowned as dark images arose in my imagination; Edward hunting men in dark alleys… hunting women in their homes. But it was not difficult to lay those fears to rest. I simply could not believe that Edward- still, at his core, the same person whose goodness had drawn me to him- would choose that path. I knew the risk; I had certainly wrestled with it for long enough. But my hope far outweighed my fear. And even if it should fail, if Edward should choose to go down that road, I knew that the change in my heart was final: I would love him forever. He was a part of me now.
But that did not preclude my solemn responsibility. I would need to be careful in how I taught him; in such a young man, it was likely that the temptation would be even more difficult to bear. I would need to be strong for his sake, and uncompromising in my instruction. I would need to establish my authority from the first moment, so that he would not feel the burden of choice or a freedom he was not ready for. How was I to temper that with the unconditional love I already felt? My task was growing more daunting every moment, and he wasn't even awake yet.
The night wore on. Edward finally, mercifully, was silent- though I knew the pain had not ceased, only his ability to produce sound. His pulse was rapid now.
"You're almost there," I said in relief. I finally changed Edward into the clothes I had brought downstairs, though I ended up leaving his feet bare. None of my shoes fit him, and it seemed odd to think of him running out for his first hunt in a pair of dress socks. The blue shirt I had selected was a passable fit, though the shoulders were loose and the sleeves a little short. The slacks were at least two inches too short. I gently combed the tangles out of his hair and washed away the last traces of blood from the places I had bitten him.
I changed my own clothes and decided to get rid of the couch, as well. I didn't think the stale blood all over the cushions would smell appealing- it certainly didn't to me, but I thought it best to avoid anything that might tempt him, even in his imagination. I had a frustrating lack of furniture, though. In the end I tore up the rug, which still had stains and smells in it from when he had vomited. I swept the hardwood floor clean and gently laid him out on it, and then took everything outside to burn. But at the last moment I decided this was no time for a fire; Edward's heart was racing now. I simply buried it all. While I worked, I caught the scent of a passing deer and felt my throat burn hotter with longing- and with memory at the taste of Edward's blood. But there was no time for that either.
I dashed back into the house just in time. Edward was no longer breathing, and his heart was beating so hard and fast that even my ears could barely distinguish the contractions from one another. I felt a new anxiety race through me as I realized it was moments away. What should I say first? What should I say now? I supposed the most important thing was to keep him here until I had a chance to explain things. I picked up his hand.
"It'll be over in just a moment, Edward. You'll wake up and feel very strong, and you may feel confused, but please, stay here with me. I'll take care of you. Stay with me."
Remembering my own panic upon awakening, I decided to give him some space. I stood and backed away, moving the other furniture farther away from where Edward lay on the floor. And then I waited, unbreathing and unsure... and ready for my life to change forever.