Okay, HUGE delay, as usual, for which I'm very, very sorry! I know some of you were a little confused by the time-jump in the previous chapter, so I guess this chapter explains exactly why I did that! This chapter also isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but I just couldn't prolong the angst -way too much bad vibes for me. Anyhow, I hope you guys enjoy it, and as usual: please review!

Breaking Point

"Esme!" –the anguished cry is echoing all around me in the woods, and I hear each syllable with crystal clarity. The sound of his voice is agonising; I feel gut-wrenching pain as I screw my face in, waiting for the tears that will never come. That look on his face, that horrid, horrible look… I can never forget it. Never.

"Esme, please!"

He is following me.

I run faster than I ever have before in this existence, doing my utmost best to keep out of his reach. I cannot face him after this, how could I?

"Stop!" The distress in his voice is obvious. But I will not, I cannot stop. For his sake, I cannot. And so I increase the pace of my beating legs until it turns so fast that every step is a yard apart and leaves almost no imprint on the snow.

For a whole minute I concentrate on just getting away; on the rhythmic beat of my legs, the whooshing sound of the air, the ever-thickening trees in my path –anything, but him.

Then I finally come to a stop underneath a massive old tree, freezing to a dead, terrified stop at its roots.

"What have I done?" –I whisper softly, my voice crisp and ragged.

Although I try as much as possible to push thoughts of him away, his face is always foremost in my vision, but with the one expression that seems to be seared onto my heart –that expression on his face when he discovered me with my kill. Enforcing that is his steady aroma infiltrating my nostrils, its existence most unwelcome for the first time since I ever smelled it. My gut twists a bit more when I realize that the scent is coming from the shirt I am still wearing, and the odour of the human's blood has mixed with his scent in a very, though I am disgusted at myself to admit it, enticing manner.

With another wordless cry of despair I rip it off my torso, flinging the garment away into the woods. The intense cold on my bare skin unnoticed, I drag my feet to the foot of the tree where I collapse with a soft moan and drop my head into my hands.

How could I? This question is circling incessantly in my head. How could I betray Carlisle like this? How could I face Edward after preaching to him the goodness of our enforced diet? How could I… how could I have become such a monster?

"Esme." He's already here -I am intensely aware of his presence even without looking up. But I remain in that position, frozen still. He is the last person in the world I want to be a witness to my sin.

I hear the snow crunch softly as he steps towards me. Instantly, with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a wail, I get to my feet and cover against the massive tree trunk, imploring him with my eyes to stay away. The expression on my face seems to stun him and he stops short.

Slowly, tentatively, he raises his hand, palm outstretched towards me, his face all kindness, his meaning clear.

I shake my head wildly.

"Esme," he whispers my name again, and my stomach twists painfully again at the sound, "come, my love."

I shake my head more frantically, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Darling, it's alright," he continues, as though talking to a particularly sensitive child. "I don't blame you-"

"I know." The first proper words I have spoken since my kill reveal none of the pain in me. It is still soft, velvety smooth, although the tone is anything but normal.

It seems to surprise him. "Then –then why are you running away from me?"

There is a long pause where I turn away and simply don't answer. Carlisle seems determined to wait for the answer.

"I don't deserve you," I whisper finally, so softly that my words are almost carried away by the wind. But Carlisle's sharp senses capture every word.

His face softens, and both his voice and his expression are oozing tenderness. "Oh Esme, my love. How wrong you are."

He steps forward, which causes me to retreat hastily, still shaking my head. "No," I whisper as he approaches, still retreating, until my bare back hits the rough bark of the tree, "No… no, NO! Carlisle, please!" The last word is wrangled out of me like a sob, and Carlisle halts again.

"Please, Esme, you mustn't," he says, still in a low tone, but with an urgency that was absent in his voice until now, "You cannot torture yourself like this. I –I cannot bear it."

"I have brought this upon myself," I say solemnly. "I must bear it."

A frown on his brow, and running his fingers through his glorious hair frustratedly, he says, with a sigh, "Esme you must understand. I'm no saint."

My voice rises adamantly. Why is he making this harder for me? Why must I convince both myself and him as to the utter goodness of his character? "You are as close to it as can be! How can you not see?" –I cry.

"I'll be damned if I'm anywhere close to a saint!" –he bursts out. "I do not aspire to achieve such high levels of virtue! That is not my intent!"

"Intentional or not, you do inspire us, Carlisle," I say after a moment in a lower tone. I have never heard Carlisle speak so loudly and vehemently before. "You set us standards we always wanted to meet, and… I have failed." The despair within me returns to the fore. "I have failed oh so miserably, Carlisle! I'm a monster!"

He steps forward then, before I can react and holds me just below my shoulders. "Look at me," he orders, his voice suspiciously calm. I have meanwhile bent my head, my hair covering my face, hiding myself from him as well as I can.

"Esme. Look at me," he repeats.

Slowly, reluctantly, I look up. "You are no monster," he says slowly, yet firmly. I open my mouth to argue, but he continues quickly, "Believe me, you are not. I should know. I… I have seen for myself what monsters can be, what they are in this world." His voice hardens as he finishes.

My eyebrows still meeting in a frown, I concentrate my gaze on his perfect nose, knowing that meeting his eyes at this moment will completely undo me.

"Don't berate yourself, my dear," he murmurs, affectionate once more. "Nobody's perfect."

I look into his eyes then, knowing that the conviction in my words wouldn't reach him otherwise. "You are as close to it as can be," I whisper.

He shakes his head and pulls me into a gentle embrace, his hands scraping against my skin. "You have no idea how wrong you are," he mumbles into my hair.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle," I say into his sweet-smelling shirt, my voice quavering madly with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Esme-"

"No –hear me out," I cut in, lifting my head to look at him. "I –I let you down. I ignored all your warnings, flouted all your rules, broke your faith, your trust… I'm sorry. I… I just hope you will somehow find it in yourself to forgive me."

"You were forgiven the moment I smelled the blood."

I look down again. "You are too good for me."

Carlisle lets out a sound that is a cross between an exasperated sigh and an amused chuckle. "This discussion will never end if I keep arguing that statement. A truce for now is acceptable, I presume?" His voice is now modulated into that irresistible British accent of his. The corners of my mouth are tugged up slightly, but I cannot let go of the heavy feeling that is in my heart. He has forgiven me, he trusts me, but now I'm not so sure I can trust myself anymore.

We return home mostly in silence. Carlisle has divined my sombre mood, in response to which he simply holds on to me with reassuring strength. I find myself admiring, for the millionth time, his thoughtfulness and compassion. If I wasn't feeling so wretched, I might have smothered him with kisses.

Presently, we are near the edge of trees bordering our backyard, when Carlisle stops suddenly, making me halt automatically. He quickly unbuttons and takes off his shirt, which he wraps around my now-naked torso. "Here. Edward's home." –he says succinctly. My stomach lurches suddenly, and I feel momentary shock at that reaction. Oh, dear. What would Edward say?

I feel shame and guilt rise in my thoughts again. Dear Edward, who always looked up to me and admired me. I had let him down as well. So, so horribly.

When we enter the kitchen through the backdoor, we find Edward waiting for us, leaning against the counter stiffly, a grim expression on his face. He eyes my disarrayed appearance slowly, and asks, "Well?"

My gut twists again at his expression, and I turn away, focusing on the clean floor. Carlisle speaks for me, "Esme had a little… mishap."

"She slipped." –he says. His tone pains me even more, so I steel myself to look at him.

"I did. I'm sorry, Edward." –I say softly.

Edward's stern countenance softens as I speak. "Don't be. The man had it coming." I'm not surprised at his knowing the particulars. The incident has been foremost in my thoughts ever since it occurred and Edward could have easily learnt the whole story while we were more than a mile away from the house.

Carlisle frowns. "That doesn't matter, Edward."

"Really? How come you approve of Esme doing the deed, then?" –Edward turns to Carlisle, his voice hardening. I suddenly feel awful –something's going to happen, something bad. I somehow know that all the days and months of brooding that Edward has done is going to come to a head now.

Carlisle looks surprised. "Approve? Of course I do not approve her action."

Edward shrugs –an insolent shrug. "Yet you are so equanimous."

His mood permeates Carlisle's general serene humour, and he asks sharply –"What would you have me do?"

Edward shrugs again. "Maybe you should decide exactly which side you are on."

Carlisle raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, a sure sign of preparing for a debate. "I was not aware there were any 'sides' in the matter."

I wonder if I should speak, try and diffuse the situation, but the look on both their faces stops me. And if Edward is finally airing out his troubles, I should be glad. Edward crosses his arms over his chest as well. "Isn't it obvious? 'To kill or not to kill'. That is the question." His voice is light and wry, as ever, but his expression is anything but. My sense of foreboding increases to fever-pitch.

"I thought you were aware of my stand on that subject." –Carlisle says calmly.

"I thought I was, too," Edward snaps. "But it seems I might have been mistaken."

Carlisle is still calm. "What made you change your mind?"

"You –right here, now, in this moment. How can you be so calm, so unconcerned, when Esme has broken the most rigid, fundamental rule you have ever applied to your life?"

My hands twitch as I repress the urge to cover my ears. Despair, utter, uncontrolled despair washes over me. Carlisle draws me closer to him, his arm clutching my waist tightly. "I do not blame Esme. It was not her fault."

Edward looks exasperated. "I'm not blaming Esme. I'm not," he adds more softly, turning reassuring eyes towards me before concentrating on Carlisle again. "I'm just pointing out that while you're extremely insistent and rigorous in following that rule, you don't seem to mind much when it is broken. What does that say about your dedication to it?"

Carlisle's lips are a thin line –I know he's angry. "Are you questioning my integrity, Edward?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

Carlisle doesn't say a word, he only glares at Edward. But I recognise the expressions on their faces –they're having another silent, thought conversation. I stare at them intently for a long moment, impatience warring with the despair within me. "Speak out loud, Carlisle," Edward says suddenly. "Esme is getting impatient. After all," he adds, with malice in his tone, "you share everything with her, do you not?"

I am frozen with shock. What does he mean? Although Carlisle and I are much more intimate than any usual couple in love, I am aware that there is still a lot about Carlisle that I do not know. Nearly three hundred years of existence makes for lots of memories, experiences –and secrets. But it is the way Edward says it –as though it is a secret I should know, but which Carlisle has not shared with me in our six years together. What could it be? My head is in turmoil –fear, uncertainty, despair, curiosity, every sort of emotion is flitting through my conscious thought in an unending train.

Carlisle merely sighs and shakes his head –almost in warning. "I am trying to say, Edward, that what is done is done, and, using your way of modifying quotations, there is no point in crying over spilt blood."

"So what you're saying is that there are no repercussions if we should break your rule. That doesn't make it very effective, does it?" –Edward asks, his voice challenging.

"Avoiding the repercussions that might occur due to a lapse in the rule is not the only reason to stick to it, Edward. What about the essence of the rule, its true meaning in dictating your life, its value? Is that not reason enough to follow it?"

"Perhaps. But then there may be exceptions."

Carlisle shakes his head firmly. "No. No exceptions, no allowances."

"Not even when it is justly deserved by the offending party?" –Edward is suddenly angry.

"Even more so."

Edward leans forward suddenly. Though his voice is still quiet, controlled, his expression is unchanged and his pose is suddenly feral, dangerous. "That man, Carlisle, was a second Charles Evenson. Esme recognised the same rotten core in him. His intentions were clear. If she had been human, defenceless… the worst would have happened."

Carlisle glances at me momentarily to make sure I'm not discomposed, then says, "But she wasn't defenceless, Edward. That's the point."

"So you would have let him be? Let him free to prey on other women, human women much weaker and definitely defenceless than Esme?"

"Certainly not!" –Carlisle snaps. My eyes rest on his grim face. Carlisle is not one to show his unpleasantness, but when it shows, he looks almost… frightening. "A man such as he deserves punishment. Just punishment. But not death. No man has the right to end another man's life."

"We are not men, Carlisle."

"We are not humans, Edward –but we certainly are men."

"That may be, but we still have the right –don't deny it, we do –by the natural order of things. They are our rightful prey."

"They are also prey to several carnivorous animals. How different does that make us from those savage beasts, then?"

"Very different because we have something they don't –a conscience."

"Exactly my point, Edward."

Edward seems irritated. "But not the way you mean. We can discern the innocent from the guilty and thus prey on only those who are undeserving bastards like Esme's first husband."

"Innocence is not always so easy to prove. Nor is guilt, for that matter."

Edward sighs. "Allow me to rephrase: I can discern the guilty from the innocent. I can mete out just punishment."

"Death is never a just punishment."

"Even when it is absolutely certain that he richly deserves it?"

"There are worse punishments than death, Edward, trust me, I know. The person who is really punished by an execution is the executor himself."

"That is what you would feel, had you been the executor. I wouldn't feel anything like –in fact, I'd feel a sense of accomplishment, if anything else."

Carlisle shakes his head. "You're wrong," he says gently.

Edward snarls, "How would you know? How can you know how my mind would react, how my conscience would hold up?" His indignant voice is suddenly so loud that he immediately pauses. With a sigh, Edward continues carefully, in a lower tone, "Just try and see for once that this is what I want to do, Carlisle. Maybe this is what I'm meant to do, why I've been burdened with the incessant thought-transistor in my head!"

"Must everything have such a lofty purpose?"

"Yes! Don't you still understand? There has to be a purpose –there has to. Otherwise this –this wretched existence, everything is meaningless!" Edward sounds so distraught that I step forward to console him, but immediately he flits to the corner farthest from me in the room. "No," he continues, "don't, Esme. I've had enough."

"Edward-" Carlisle begins, but never gets to finish.

"I've had enough!" –Edward roars. "I've had enough of the uncertainty, the confusion, the pressure –enough of it all. I –" he pauses as if to finally decide on something –"I'm done. I'm leaving."

The shock of his statement is profound. Carlisle is stunned into a frozen statue of marble.

"You can't mean it," I whisper softly, speaking for both of us.

"I do," he says grimly. "I can't bear it anymore. The forced idleness, the false complacence, everything. Especially the intense moral pressure of living up to you…" He turns to Carlisle. Carlisle still hasn't moved an inch, he seems physically incapable of moving. But his thoughts are not frozen with him and Edward answers them with chilling calm. "It's true, Carlisle. Having you for a role model is the hardest job in the world –don't be modest, it's irritating –and Esme agrees, don't you, Esme?"

Carlisle finally moves –he only turns his head to look at me. Mortified, I simply nod. His expression changes to one of utmost sorrow. "Oh, Esme," he breathes, remorse plain in his tone.

Before I can answer, Edward cuts in, "For God's sake, Carlisle. We're not blaming you here. Maybe it sounded like I did a minute ago –I'm sorry. But please, please try and understand me –I need to do this. I cannot stagnate like this any longer. I need a purpose, and I believe I've found it."

There is silence for a long minute. At one point, Edward nods slowly, no doubt in reply to some mental question of Carlisle's. What pains me most is that he refuses to look at me. Even though I wish and hope desperately for him to turn to me, he ignores my mental screams for his attention. Don't leave! –I plead. We're so happy together. Carlisle needs you… I need you!

Edward still does not heed me.

Finally, with a sigh that startles me like a gunshot would, Carlisle slowly takes my hand. He squeezes it gently, reassuringly, before saying, "Very well. You have my blessing. Go and make your life." Immediately, Edward flashes a quick smile, a nod of thanks, and he is gone upstairs. I hear him throwing things into a bag.

I am stunned. I cannot believe it. Edward, my first friend, my brother, my son cannot leave! Carlisle glances at me. "I cannot force him, Esme," he says, almost imploringly, at which point Edward returns, already having changed and packed a small overnighter.

There is a split second of uncertain silence as both men wait for my reaction, the look on Edward's face plainly anxious. In that second my brain voices its protest vociferously. But on viewing Edward's worried face, I react impulsively: I stride up to him, pull his face down and kiss him gently on the forehead. "You will always belong with us," I tell him firmly. "Don't hesitate to return should you ever wish to. The duration of your absence does not signify. Do I make myself clear?"

He smiles his lovely crooked grin at that. "Yes ma'am," he says mock-solemnly.

I fuss over him unnecessarily, my placid movements belying the mental flurry in my head. As I straighten his collar and dust miniscule granules off his thick coat, I say calmly, "Take good care of yourself. Feed prudently. Get new clothes often. Should you need money, we are but a telephone call or a wire away."

Edward rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Despite the heady argument and all the emotional turmoil, he looks a little excited. I realize that he has wanted this for quite some time, thus strengthening my belief that I never could have denied him this.

Carlisle steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. "Our plan to move will remain unchanged. If you return and we are gone, our forwarding address will be at the hospital. Like Esme said, don't hesitate to return, or visit or call us."

"I know, Carlisle. I won't," he promises, smiling. He gently breaks apart from us and strides over to the backdoor. As he opens it, he turns around and smiles at us once more.

"Well, I'm off," he says, grinning.

"Don't forget to send me a postcard," I say, struggling to speak light-heartedly.

Edward laughs. "I'll try. I'll certainly be too busy being a vigilante."

"I'll be waiting," I say sternly. He smiles, nods once reassuringly at Carlisle, waves one last time; and he is gone.

And the house suddenly feels empty.

Slowly, I walk up to Carlisle and put my arms around him, even as he clutches at me with the same feeling –we are both feeling utterly bereft.

Yes, I'll be waiting, I think, hoping that he can hear me. I'll be waiting… my son.