AN: So of course I need to begin my thanking you all yet again for your reviews, I feel incredibly fortunate to have such lovely readers/reviewers! I went back and forth about posting this (I didn't want to disappoint you with a short chapter) but the next few chapters are going to be pretty pivotal to the story and I want to do them justice. Which means I may be a bit longer posting between chapters. BUT- I wanted to at least give you something. And I have had this bit written up for a little while now and am fairly content with it! Hopefully it will be enough to tide you over until I can post the next part! Also, the songs I had on repeat while writing this next section was Sunday Drive by Asgeir and The Night We Met by Amber Run (a cover of the Lord Huron song), give them a listen!
Carlisle's POV
In the almost hundred years that I had known him, I had never raised my voice at Edward in anger. My family believed it was my own "gift". Endless compassion and patience. Perfect self-control. I wasn't sure the reason was so noble as that.
As far as I could remember I had been a meek child. Always deferential to my father's imposing rank in our family and our community. The way I saw it now, I had learned early on to lead an unassuming life. Everything went more smoothly when I remained subdued in my father's shadow of piety. In some ways, my compassion was my form of revolt. My subtle way of renouncing everything my father embodied. Where he sought wickedness, I sought understanding. Where he sought punishment, I sought care. He gave no second chances while my forgiveness was limitless.
The first time Edward left Esme and I, we were devastated. Both by his absence and by what we suspected he was doing. But I was never angry. Disappointed, yes, but never angry. Though even then I was disappointed more in myself than in him. I considered myself a failure for having lost him to our most basic instincts. In the years that followed I replayed every conversation, every debate, every argument we had ever had, trying to figure out where I had led him astray. Trying to think of the words I should have spoken. What I could have done differently to help him.
When he returned to us after several years away, black irises encircled in rings of crimson, I welcomed him back into our home, no questions asked. I was overjoyed to have my son back. But heartbroken to see the toll the previous years had taken on him. In some ways, my compassionate reaction to his return had made things harder for him. He would have preferred I berate him, that I unleash the fury he felt he deserved. That I yell and punish and douse our reunion in anger. Even if he knew as well as I did that I was incapable of such a reaction. He could see in my thoughts that I was anything but irate. No, I had allowed my mind to flood with the adoration I felt for him and the relief at having him home. A stream of my most beloved memories of him played out to welcome him home. When he walked forward and threw his arms around me in a rare gesture of affection and asked for my forgiveness, I gave it readily.
But now, listening to Bella speak aloud his words from last September, my benevolence was being tested as never before. I was mortified. And above all, I was enraged.