Waking after the fire is one of the most peculiar things Esme has ever experienced. It becomes even more so when she opens her eyes to find her childhood fantasy, Doctor Cullen, hovering over her with worry. Though one thing stands out as the oddest of all—
"Vampire?" she says and even her voice sounds strange. It's light and tinkling and like a music that has no tune, but is beautiful despite itself. She touches her throat, like she might be able to feel it, but the only thing she finds is a terrible burning and suddenly it's like she's swallowed sand. But wait, had he said vampire? Well that's utterly ridiculous.
"She's thirsty," the boy says with an understanding smile. He's lovely really. Tall and handsome and his smile still holds the eagerness of youth. Perhaps this is what her son might have grown up to become.
But he'd died. And she fell.
There's a crushing sadness that overwhelmes her and she takes in a shuddering breath. She grabs her throat as the burning suddenly intensifies. This could prove to be quite irksome, she thinks.
Edward snickers and the sound draws Doctor Cullen's attention.
He grins at her and a swell of warmth fills Esme's chest. He also has a lovely smile. Lovely and kind and . . . her heart must be beating out of her chest by now. And her cheeks, oh, they're probably on fire.
She pauses then, a hand drifting to her chest where she can find no heartbeat and to her cheeks where there is no heat. No tell-tale fire.
But there's fire in her throat.
Oh, bother. That burning again. She frowns to herself and the boy laughs again.
"I'd forgotten how wild the newborn emotions could be," he says.
"Newborn," she says, clawing at her throat. "Doctor Cullen, what has happened to me?"
"Esme, you've been changed," he says, his smile pained, yet kind. "I've changed you."
"Changed me? Changed me how?"
"I have made you like me."
"Like you," Esme repeats considering his preternatural beauty and grace. Vampire? No, it's not possible. Certainly not this man. This lovely, kind . . . perhaps she is dreaming. "Doctor Cullen—"
"Carlisle," he says suddenly and the boy looks over with a raised brow of his own. "Please, call me Carlisle."
She nods gently at his request and blinks once, but only really because she feels she should. Because Doctor Cullen—Carlisle—does. She smiles at the sound of his name, even inside her own head, though that thought is shifted to the back as the fire returns to the forefront of her mind and with a frown she asks him: "What exactly have I been changed to?"
"Esme, you, like Edward and I, we're . . . well, I know it sounds utterly preposterous and you doubt it, even now, standing before you—"
The fire licks up her throat, until she finds it almost unbearable and a whine escapes her as she clutches at her neck. "What am I?" she whispers.
"You're thirsty, Esme, because you're a vampire."
Oh bother, that again.
The boy shakes his head at her. "You are as he says, Esme. You are an immortal. A creature of myth and fantasy."
Even the fire dies for the moment as she registers the shock. Immortal? "Pardon me?"
"Think, Esme. About how you feel," the boy says. "You'll never sleep or crave human food again. You'll be stronger than anything you could ever imagine. You can hear and see and smell the world in ways you never could before. It feels like there are expansive areas of space in your mind which you'll fill up and never forget."
"And aside from a tragic few things," Carlisle says, "you are indeed immortal."
"That's quite a story to wrap my head around, Doctor Cull—Carlisle, and though I'm quite loathe to believe you and this young boy are . . . are vampires . . . I feel an urgent need to satisfy this . . . " she paws at her neck, "this feeling in my throat before I decide to consider the fact that I may have survived the cliff and gone insane instead."
The boy—Edward—laughs aloud and it startles Carlisle.
"Her mind is quite something," he says. "I'm thoroughly entertained."
"Edward—" Carlisle admonishes.
"My mind?"
"Yes, Esme, I can read your mind," Edward explains. "Every thought that flickers through the forefront of your mind I can hear."
Esme sighs, a little frown on her lips. This story just keeps getting better and better. "Of course you can, dear. Now, about this thirst business?"
Esme stands over the carcass of the deer and runs her arm along the corners of her mouth, pulling away with a red stain smeared across her dress. So apparently she was a vampire, seeing as vampires drink blood, and she had wasted no time sinking her teeth into the pulsing artery on the deer's neck. She had not even needed to think about it as her teeth bit through flesh and muscle with a practiced grace.
"This is all quite strange," she says, to no one in particular, though Carlisle and Edward have gathered in her peripheries, where they wait, watching her, Carlisle with vapid concern and Edward with growing amusement.
She feels much better than before, the burn dulling to an ache. Something her impressive mind seems to be able to push to the back. She turns then, to face the two men behind her.
"So what's your consensus," Edward wonders, his smile wide and buoyant.
"Well there's really no way to deny it now," she says. "I suppose I would have woken from a dream by now. And this is far too real to be the product of some insane hallucination."
Edward turns to Carlisle. "I like her."
Carlisle smiles wide, relief etched into his features, and it's the most glorious thing Esme has ever seen. For a second she's stunned into silence, feeling as though the world around her has halted on some distant axis, but then Edward coughs discreetly into his hand and looks away into the forest, attempting to hide a smirk.
Esme runs her hands down the front of her dress, a terrible mess now that she thinks of it. Between the fall from the cliff and the hunt, it's more rags than anything, and she's suddenly feeling very under-dressed, especially in present company.
She looks at Carlisle then, her mouth opening like she might inquire as to a bath and a change of clothes, but gazing at him again leaves her speechless and floundering, much the way he seems to be doing. The best they can do is stare at each other, and though it should unnerve her, all she feels is a heavy sense of wonder. And questions. Lots of burning questions about vampirism. Daylight? Sunlight? Are there coffins? Is she dead? Or undead? Why do they seem to only feed from animals? How long has Carlisle been immortal? Carlisle—with his lovely gold eyes and his hair windswept from hunting. With his square jaw pressed delicately into his hand as he seems to contemplate—
"You can bathe," Edward says, cutting off her thoughts. There's amusement written into his cheeks. "If you wish. And we seem to have been able to acquire some women's clothing . . . though the women at the tailor shop in town think me quite odd now."
"Yes," Carlisle says then, breaking out of some sort of spell. "Yes, of course." He offers her his hand and she steps forward, letting him tuck it into the crook of his elbow.
"And then—" Esme begins.
"You can ask your questions," Edward says, jogging ahead at no more than a human pace.
"Yes," Carlisle says. "We'll answer anything you wish to know."