Part II: Carlisle
He thinks back to the tense minutes they had spent in the forest before the battle that morning; the way the blue-green mist had concealed her beautiful profile in the darkness, her lashes blinking nervously every so often, her wide eyes darting to and fro, ready and alert.
She had not needed to be so anxious. They hadn't known it then, but nothing would be coming their way. They had been safe then. So safe in that forest together, amidst the incense of regal pines, beneath the hovering sanctuary of trees that were older than both of them combined.
He had reached across and tucked a tendril of silky hair behind her ear, watching over her as her breathing calmed and her eyes lidded, so pleased with his effect on her.
She turned her face up to him, her eyes glassy, her cheeks soft, her lips full. He was convinced that every feature of her face looked more appealing to him in that moment because of his fear. A part of him was just reaching the realization that this could be his last time looking at her face.
Somewhere out there in the maze of trees and shadows, Jasper and Alice were whispering their last hurried words of reassurance to one another. Their sounds grew more distant as they moved further into the woods, heading North where the battle would begin. They were on their waiting stars, wired with energy, by far the most confident pair among them. They were ready.
Rosalie and Emmett had somehow managed to make use of the last several minutes before the fight. The passion was palpable around them as they raced to the forest's edge, side by side, their strong voices speaking promises to outwit and to conquer. They were harsh. They were riled up. And though they may have only fooled themselves into thinking it, they, too, were ready.
Carlisle had secretly thought his wife to be the only one unprepared for what was to come. He had looked into her swollen pupils and seen something he could not place if his life had depended on it. His hand had reached out to clutch hers tightly, and before he could speak, she had leapt from the ground and kissed him with the beautiful roughness and burning intensity of one who felt the horizon chasing her feet.
He had kissed her back just as passionately, his chest thrumming with certainty that this was the moment he would one day remember as his final exaltation. His arms wrapped around her delicate body and held her firmly against him, a whimper shuddering in the depths of his throat as her small hands tore a familiar path through his thick blond hair.
He remembers her words to him in that titillating, climactic moment when their faces parted... just after their kiss had ended and just before the battle began.
"I never knew I could feel so brave."
Her eyes had glowed for the briefest instant, a spark of glorious gold in the darkest of places.
He had wanted to say "I love you." But he never had the chance.
The next thing he knew he was sprinting at bullet speed through the trees, his wife far out of his line of sight. He could feel her there, somewhere, but he could not speak to her or touch her or see her...
The three words he had failed to let free from his tongue were bound to haunt him. This was not the time for such a distraction. He tried to tell himself that it was all right; Esme knew he loved her. She did not need to hear the words to know it.
Since the moment they let go of one another he has been pinned to the ground, tossed through the air, and beaten against a crowd of foreign bodies.
But all he can think about are the words he forgot to say.
-}0{-
He can see her in his mind, at separate moments of their life together – each image of her bleeds into the next, a continuous stream of consciousness. It is a beautiful, incomprehensible reel of film, frustratingly dark and disorderly, but with bright spots that stand out like diamonds in a river of tar.
He sees her in her last moments as a human, inches away from the brink of death... Her lips dripping with the blood of a human child as he cradles her in his arms on a cold, wet floor... Her beautiful face painted with pleasure as he joins their bodies for the first time.
That moment freezes and replays itself agonizingly slowly so that he was forced to remember every detail – the way her lips had parted, the precise shade of black her eyes had been, the thrilling hitch of her breath and the blessed gasp that had filled the silence when she felt him bridge the gap to the most intimate depth imaginable...
He knew that she could feel his love, swirling deep inside of her. With a tender, straining stroke, he filled her, felt her, guiding himself through the passage that led straight to her soul. When he found it, she cried.
He pushed slowly into her soul, testing the depth... and when he found he could go no further, his eyes glossed over and he whimpered with sadness. So he pulled back and dove a second time. This time her soul was ready for him.
Everything she kept hidden rushed into his eyes. He was watching her through it all, measuring every detail of her expression, savoring each reaction before she could grant her permission to show it.
His breaths were ragged and heavy, indecent as he beat his hips against hers – soft then forceful – a tender war of opposites. He was drinking in all that her eyes were showing him, and she could see the reflections of her secrets falling like snowflakes on the coals of his open gaze.
He whispered her name with conviction. It was a word, but he made it a sentence. He made her name a piece of literature when he said it. His lips parted, but no more words came forth. His eyes were struggling to stay focused... all of his concentration was sinking lower, deeper... His focus was entirely inside of her.
She let him focus.
Her head rested back against the pillow as she listened to the deliciously fragile sounds they made together, locking and unlocking, merging and retreating. Her legs felt light around his waist, the flutters of his muscles dancing up her calves and into her thighs. Her voice broke in a shimmery sigh as he mastered the motions at last, finding the balance point and seizing full advantage of his precious discovery.
He pulled back and thrust once, strong and firm and straight, forcing their souls to collide.
Her gaze was gone as she flung her arms up for him, and he melted down into her, purring and crying. His hips settled into stillness as she throbbed around him, and he stopped to feel her, to let her soul entwine with his. It was beautifully frustrating that the miracle could be felt, but not touched.
Carlisle wanted to reach down with his curious hand and touch this burning connection… but it was too deep between them, too dangerous a thing to meddle with. He could see the same wish in Esme's eyes, and her hands were shaking with want. She, too, wanted to reach inside and touch their tangled souls.
"Can you feel me?" he asked, his voice deep but desperate, almost lost.
"Yes," she responded – he knew not how she had such strength left to say the word. 'I feel all of you,' her eyes finished in a much clearer timbre.
His face calmed with her reassurance, but there was a gleam of something still unsatisfied in the darkest corners of his gaze. "What do I feel like?" he made the seductive words sound innocent, needy.
He nuzzled her forehead while he awaited her answer, watching as she struggled to describe the unthinkable sensation with familiar words.
"Strong." She swallowed. "...warm..." She shuddered. "Deep."
She held him tighter. He cried softly.
"Look at me," he breathed.
She looked.
His voice was weaker the second time he asked her.
"What do I feel like?"
"Salvation."
-}0{-
He tries to force it to the back of his mind, tries to bury it away and focus on what is happening now. But these thoughts keep taunting him, nagging him, making him question whether anything so perfect will ever be possible again.
He catches Esme's scent briefly – that sweet, achingly familiar fragrance of passion and lilac, both warm and cool on his skin. He senses her sheer femininity and it stings him like a bullet to his belly. She is fighting on her own out there. All on her own. Her solitude, even if lasts for only a second, is a slap to his face. He cannot stand the thought of his mate alone, without him by her side.
But right now he cannot reach her.
This frustration overwhelms him, chafing away his concentration.
She makes him vulnerable in a time when he should be at his strongest.
-}0{-
He desperately wants to be territorial, to claim everything in sight. The land, his family, his honor. He has never lusted after this kind of power before, and it frightens him.
All because of this unassuming young girl with whom his son has fallen in love.
There is a violent strike of anger for a moment as Carlisle thinks of Bella. She is so naive, so hopeless, so clueless. All of this is her fault. She is a threat to his family and yet he is fighting to keep her alive. It makes no sense for that terrible second he lets the thought slip past his better judgment. Running on pure instinct can do that to a man, no matter how compassionate.
But Bella is his son's other half, and Carlisle would sooner be damned than let her meet any harm.
He must use his misplaced anger for good.
And so he lets the anger surge through his body, propelling him forward like a gust of wind on which he has no choice but to let himself fly. Every figure who crosses his path is sentenced to death despite how much it repulses him to do it.
His hands, which were normally instruments of healing, become deadly weapons on this battlefield. He knows that he will be unable to look at his own hands for days after this… if he makes it through alive. The universe is twisted most unpleasantly, but he must convince himself it is for the greater good that he must become this kind of man – just for this day. Just for a few more hours...
His heart gives a jolt with every neck he breaks; the scorch of guilt consumes him, and an irrational apology nearly spills from his lips every time he looks down and accidentally sees their faces – the face of a woman or man who was once human, just like him.
Then he must remember his family, the danger they are all in because of these men and women. He must try to see them as mere creatures, not as unique faces with a story and a soul.
He must become a ruthless monster like them.
-}0{-
He charges through the masses, tearing through limbs where they block his path. He follows a pounding tempo, like a deep, dreadful heartbeat rising from the ground as he slams into rock-solid bodies all around. It is that disturbing pounding in his ears, in his feet, in his chest – it reminds him of those compressions, his frantic attempts to resuscitate a dying patient on the operating table. It reminds him of sex – the rough, desperate, 'can't feel this ever coming to an end' rhythm that only begs him to move faster, his arms thrusting in all directions, his feet digging up the grass.
There is a brief moment where he longs to be anywhere but here. At the hospital, treating his patients, laughing with his sons as they hunt in the Alaskan mountains together, lying nude on the sands of Isle Esme with only his wife's shadow for shelter.
He wishes.
He wishes he was anywhere but here.
-}0{-
He remembers the time when Alice convinced him to slow dance with her to "Stranger in Paradise" back in 1953. He sees the dance she is doing now, and he hates the violence of it. He misses that day when Alice danced with him, slow and carefree as Tony Bennett's voice crooned in the background, her tiny features lighting up when her new father twirled her under his arm.
He remembers the time when Rosalie would never speak to him, that dreadful period of his life where she resented him so much for changing her that she refused to be caught in the same room with him for months after her transformation. He wishes now that he would have been more open with her, used words to get through to her and not just his never ending, apologetic silence. She had given him the coldest shoulder he had ever known... He shouldn't have waited so long to warm her sooner.
He remembers the day Rosalie came bursting through the doors of their house, dragging Emmett's massive body in her arms. Her hair, soaking wet and dull brown from the rain storm, the droplets running down her cheeks like tears as she begged him to do something for this poor man. She had called him Doctor on that day, as if the use of the distant title would have shocked him enough to spring into action.
"Please, Doctor! I beg you, help him! Change him! Make him like me! I'll take care of him till the end of eternity – I'll be like a mother to him. Just do this one thing for me... Please!" She had known her cries would render her compassionate father figure helpless to follow every order she gave him. Carlisle can still remember the frightening appeal of Emmett's savory blood as he ripped the young man's suspender straps and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.
He remembers those times when Jasper would come to him, needing guidance when he began to doubt their restrictive lifestyle. The young soldier confessed his every weakness, every accident, every thought, and asked for his father's most sincere forgiveness. Jasper had only ever allowed himself to show this vulnerability to his father and no one else. He tried to be strong for the rest of them, most of all his Alice. But with Carlisle he allowed those inner worries to seep through.
Carlisle thanked God every day that Jasper had been so quick to trust in him, so willing to forge a bond with a man whom he could have regarded as a stranger for the rest of his life. He can see the leader his son has become on this battlefield, his soldier's courage infecting them all. For once Carlisle has given up his role as the primary leader in their coven; it is Jasper whose strength has been most important to their family on this day, and Carlisle cannot be more proud of him.
He can see the boy now, a whip of dark blond hair and a streak of pale hands that move like the weapons of a martial arts master. It had always come naturally to Carlisle to call his sons "boys". But watching Jasper on this field, with his hands like lightning and his movements so dizzying and violent, Carlisle can only bear to call him a man in his mind.
Emmett, with his Spartan fierceness and broad, blockade-like body, looks more like an Olympian guard who has fallen from the sky. He, too, can be called nothing but a man.
And if Edward were here...
If Edward were here.
The thought whips at Carlisle's heart like a scorpion tail. The angst has already infected him to the deepest point, and he cannot bear to take on more of the burden. It burns him to wonder where his son will be after this is over. If he is even able to walk the face of the earth without shattering to pieces. What ruins might Edward find if he came back, with the love of his life latching onto his arm, sobbing uncontrollably at the devastation left their wake?
Carlisle cringes.
Bella is so fragile. Edward is so unprepared.
They are counting on their family to save them both.
-}0{-
Carlisle remembers the first time he saw Isabella Swan. In spite of how precariously she sat upon the hospital bed, she'd had a vivacious spark in her eyes – something spirited and defiant – as if she knew she did not belong in the hospital. She had an aura of frustration about her; it was not unlike the impression Carlisle had received from many of his students while teaching – that secret look they wore, like they knew there was more to be heard than what they were being told.
He'd seen a different sort of frustration scrawled all across his son's face when he looked at Bella. That frustration, Carlisle assumed, came from too many directions to pinpoint – it was born of temptation by the scent of her blood, from Edward's unexplained inability to read her thoughts, sexual intimidation, and who knew what else. Bella was an anomaly to all of them, and Carlisle had been just as intrigued by her for as many reasons if not more than his son had.
But the girl attracted mayhem like the strongest of magnets. Few humans could irk the Volturi so effortlessly, and it seemed that just by existing Bella ignited fury in any vampire that crossed her path, nomad or not.
Carlisle had no doubts in his mind that Bella was bound to be a part of their world one day. But they all had to give a good bit of themselves – and sacrifice quite a few lives – to bring her there safely.
-}0{-
He wonders if it is all really worth it. Killing hundreds, sacrificing his entire family and everything he loves for the sake of one couple in love.
He imagines if it had been he and Esme in the place of Edward and Bella. Would he still believe it was all worth it if the love he shared with his wife had been on the line?
He never has to think through his answer. The heart can only reply in honesty.
He does believe it is worth it.
It almost disappoints him that he had to ask himself this question.
He has made so many discoveries on this battlefield; so many questions are being asked and answered in his mind at preposterous speeds, with barely any time left to gauge the logic of his choices. For the very reason that it all makes so little sense, he understands himself more than he ever has before. He has an incredible grasp on everything that makes men fallible and makes the world both destructible and renewable. If he had ever thought it was impossible to continue growing and changing despite his immortality, he has been proven wrong nearly one thousand times on this day alone.
Thirteen minutes, thirty-one seconds. That is how long it has taken him to age another century.
-}0{-
Two more heads break under his hand.
Another pair of scarlet eyes roll back into their skull.
He wishes there was some way to put his life on pause.
He wishes he could stop the world, for just a few minutes. Just enough time to breathe, to stand upright and feel the hallowed sanctity of the earth beneath his feet.
If he had that precious minute or two he would run to each of them and look into their eyes, and tell them that it was going to be all right. He would find Rosalie first; he feels as thought he has not seen her all day. She seems to have disappeared out here, fallen into some other dimension without leaving a trace behind. If she were here he would take her aside and brush the bits of long blond hair out of her severe eyes. He would probably not say much to her, but he would let her know with his gaze just how strong he knew she was.
He would find Emmett next, seeking strength from his strongest son. He would take comfort in the robust sureness of Emmett's burly voice, then he would soothe himself with Jasper's calming drawl.
He would find Alice after that; take her tiny hands and hold them to his heart, and kiss her forehead. She would smile for him, and her eyes would sparkle, silently assuring him that they would all last till the end.
Then he would find his wife.
He would not find her trembling in fear, rooted to her spot with shallow eyes and an empty face. He would find her standing straight and tall, her eyes dark but proud. Esme knew her own capabilities; she had come a long way from where she had started out so many years ago. Her newfound independence was bittersweet to him – it had been new to him for so long, and a part of him would always regret that she did not really need him for those reasons she used to need him.
Perhaps she did not need a shoulder to cry on anymore. Perhaps she was not looking to be consoled or sheltered away from the horrors she had witnessed. Perhaps she was just fine on her own.
But he would still go to her in the lull of his wistful fantasy, and he would hold her beautiful face between his hands and stare into her eyes with the kind of depth only one who knew her soul could handle.
He would probably kiss her. Quite hard.
And she would act like she still needed him.
And maybe she would really need him.
But when he wakes in reality he realizes that his speculations have made no impact on reality.
Another head breaks.
-}0{-
At eighteen years of age, Carlisle resembled his father uncannily. He looked most like him while studying, a severe expression of deepest concentration wearing down upon his youthful features, giving the illusion that he was years past his true age. He sat with the Gospel open on his knees, his head bowed low and his fair blond hair pulled back behind his shoulders, not by fine ribbon, but by a twine made from briar. His skin, having lost its tan from the winter season now shone like snow beneath the soot that stained his hands.
No matter how enthralled he became, he stood up straight when he was approached by another, never lazy, always obedient.
He was now no less tall than his father, but to the surprise of many, nowhere near as headstrong as his elder, who was widely known for his hot temper.
Often they could be heard through the poorly insulated walls of their quarters in the evenings, quarrelling over the Scriptures and other philosophical texts. Tonight it had been the purging of impure souls that sparked an unsettling disagreement between the two.
"Justice shall always prevail in war, my son," the cold voice had strong contrast with the one whose followed.
"Doth not the thought of fighting make thee ill, father?"
"Nay," he replied curtly. "We are called to fight the good fight, in His Holy Name. The devil feedeth on our fear; if we fear the devil, we give him power."
Carlisle furrowed his brow. "I wish not for conflict. I wish for peace."
"Thou must please the Lord with a noble crusade," the pastor warned his soft-spoken son. "We must be in constant battle with our enemies. We must put the lesser man in his place, lest his soul be fruit for demons!"
"I see no sense in it," he stated strongly, lifting his head to stare at his father with bewildered blue eyes. "What right have I to expel a man whose heart has fallen into the devil's hand?"
"What right doth a wicked man have to keep his life?" the priest argued hotly. "Doth the Lord wish His earth to be a land of bitter filth, His men no better than swine?" His lips twisted into a sneer as he spoke, as if it soiled his tongue to even say the words.
But his son was calm as he replied, "The Lord must have the power to rid the world of such men Himself."
"Then what duty belongeth to thee, boy?" the man in black spat. "To retreat into shadow as a pretender of peace?" His face was seized by worry for a short moment before he shook his head with a stubborn sigh. "To bear the name of my son, thou must seek out and destroyeth all suspicious folk."
The father then turned his back on his son, intending to brook no more discussion on the matter as he headed for the door.
"It stingeth like vinegar," Carlisle seethed beneath his breath, eyes sharp upon his father's cloak.
The pastor's icy glare turned back on his son as he lifted a single, accusatory finger in a threatening point.
"The Lord's gavel shall sting thee more!"
And he left the room with a slam of the door, never looking back.
-}0{-
He sees Esme being strangled and it does something to him.
He can feel the anger rising in the pit of his stomach, a demonic orgy of emotions chafing away all reason. The drive to kill becomes twice as violent, his body feels twice as virile. His feet feel like feathers and his fists feel like lead.
He has never dared to imagine how Esme must have been beaten in her human years. She never spoke about it, and he never wanted her to. But when he sees her being assaulted so directly, handled so violently, he is reminded of the man who truly damned his wife to this life.
Before Carlisle can make the conscious decision to attack, the head of the vile man is a pile of glittery white ash beneath his shoe.
He never saw the man's face, and he doesn't care.
He may care tomorrow, but right now he leaves the scene with his wife's hand in his and a sensation of frightening power coursing through his veins, and he is satisfied.
-}0{-
Esme looks beautiful out here.
He cannot help but think it, as inappropriate as it is. Such a thought should not even cross his mind when both their lives are at stake. But as her mate, he is forever cursed to find her beauty impairing no matter where he is.
Her hair has come undone from its tightly twisted knot; it now ripples out behind her as she runs, like flames of caramel whipping the wind. Her face is pale and livid, her lips swollen, the color of cold wine. Her eyes do not stare at him, and he is relieved for that, because they would surely light fire to his soul if they did.
He admires the strike of her hand when he can, and as the attacks slowly diminish in frequency, it becomes easier to watch her without putting himself in danger.
He does not recall how the fight passed so peacefully over its climax. One moment it seemed dragons were breathing down his back at every corner, and the next the field was nearly empty, sparing only a few rogue newborns from the shadows.
It rains for a while, pours on them while they beat one another, and then it lets up.
The clouds still hang low overhead, like a thick blanket trying to cover the shameful sight below from the sun.
Nothing bothers him now. He is numb. His movements are mechanical, and he notices the same is true for all of his family.
They are winning, and they know it. The clearer it becomes, the more strength they gain. They will be exhausted when this is over – not physically, but emotionally, spiritually. Carlisle both dreads and yearns for that time.
Now he beats one more body to the ground, crushes it with the heel of his hand and dives for another. Seconds tick by and necks crack open, but it is all just a wonderful song now.
One of his daughters helps him destroy a man. He cannot help but smirk at how well they work together. He only realizes it is Rosalie when he sees her blond hair shivering in the wind beside him. She stares at him with fiery eyes, a silent but loving "you owe me," flung out to him before she flees the scene, ready to help her sister next.
He will think of some way to repay her when this is over.
Right now he just wishes he could tell his wife how beautiful she looks.
-}0{-
He first spots the suspicious movement behind a tree on the edge of the field. A flash of long, dark, wavy hair fluttering before a small, pale face disappears from his sight.
Esme has seen it, too.
As his wife begins to narrow in on the hiding place, Carlisle comes from the other direction, ensuring that their victim is trapped with no way out.
The mysterious figure stumbles into sight, with the awkward balance of one who has not yet grown accustomed to a vampire's natural grace. The face beneath the dark hair is blanched, clearly female, and frightfully young.
He knows right away that something is wrong, unnatural about this newborn. She does not move to attack in any way, hardly makes a sound effort to even defend herself. She looks pitiful and scared and utterly innocent; her eyes may be red but they have no fire in them. She looks frantically from him to his wife, her eyes darting back and forth like a caged animal looking for escape.
He can already sense the trepidation coming from Esme, and he glances at her, knowing what he will find in her eyes. That precious, maternal protectiveness inside of his wife has snapped at the sight of this confused, helpless young girl. Carlisle's heart gives at the silent "Can we keep her?" written in his wife's gaze. It is the look many children give their parents when they happen across a lost puppy, and it is all but impossible to refuse.
But Carlisle realizes he would have spared this girl's life without his wife's encouragement.
There is something incredibly haunting in her face.