London, 1690.
A ship from the new world, America, was expected to arrive at any moment. Along the bustling docks of London, a restless crowd gathered of sailors families, merchants, beggars, and slave traders, all jostling and vying for space with little care for civility.
-What if last night's tempest has claimed them ?Cried a woman, her face drawn with worry, likely the wife of a sailor.
Fear clung to her voice like a shadow. It was not an unreasonable fear. The storm could have devoured the ship, dragging it into the abyss, much like an insatiable beast claiming its prey. Carlisle, stepping out of a modest shop, gazed toward the turbulent sea. The frenetic energy of the crowd was alluring; humans, so easily swayed by emotion, stirred something primal within him. Yet, he had long since mastered restraint. He kept his mind occupied to fight his dark nature. For Carlisle, studying was a salvation, the fragile thread that allowed him to endure the unbearable weight of his cursed existence. In books, he sought, perhaps futilely, to understand what he had become. A vampire. He poured over history, immersed himself in foreign languages, dived into the sciences and the arts. These disciplines filled the vast stretches of his time, a time no longer governed by the frailties of humankind, by sleep, by tiredness.
Decades had passed-two full decades of solitude. Carlisle remained untouched by time, his appearance forever sealed as a young man of twenty-three. He lingered in the same city, where those he had once known had long since returned to the dust. The ache of loneliness gnawed at him, almost as deeply as the interminable expanse of eternity that lay before him.
At last, the ship appeared on the horizon, majestic yet savage, as though it had wrestled with the sea itself. The journey had been long, and as the passengers disembarked, the air buzzed with life-tears of reunion, the clamor of voices in a chorus of accents, the smell of brine and sweat, the press of bodies eager to feel the solid earth once more. A little girl was running on the street, her steps too near a carriage whose driver had lost control of the frenzied horse. The beast reared, its eyes wild with panic, and the driver's whip did nothing but fuel its madness. Carlisle, absorbed in watching the ship's cargo being unloaded, did not notice immediately, or perhaps, noticed too late. He stood too far from the child to intervene without drawing suspicion. This eternal question gnawed at him : should he let the world function naturally or should he disrupt the destiny of humanity ? The girl's scream split the air, but before Carlisle could act, a teenager flung herself in front of the horse, snatching the child into her fragile arms, pulling her to safety just as the carriage barreled past. A delicate human, vulnerable by nature, had done what Carlisle himself should have done. The crowd turned, all eyes fixed on the pair.
-You're safe now. Where is your family ?The young lady asked, her voice gentle but firm, as she brushed the child's tears away.
Between gasps, the girl explained she was the butcher's daughter, lost in the chaos of the docks. Carlisle, still concealed, listened intently. The human had risked her life for a stranger. Her voice, laced with an American accent, had a calming effect on the child. Moments later, the girl's parents found her, with infinite gratitude for her savior. The young woman, however, lingered, standing alone amid the milling crowd. Carlisle had observed enough of humanity to know that she was waiting for no one, and no one, save for perhaps the predators that prowled among men, would worry about her fate. Was she an orphan, drawn to England in pursuit of some elusive hope ? Drawn by an impulse he couldn't quite name, Carlisle approached her, a smile on his lips, and inclined his head in greeting.
-May I ask your name ?He inquired, with a soft gaze.
-Katerina Petrova. And yours ?The american replied, her voice edged with a quiet defiance.
-Carlisle Cullen.
He would help her. Though Carlisle did not yet know it, this fleeting moment would ripple through the centuries, and it will be his greatest suffering. After all, isn't love a howl of pain ?