The Chess Players – Midgame*

Foreword: As with the previous chapters, there's no Beta, so I'm solely responsible for any lingering mistakes. ;)

After much wandering and arguing in the previous installment, we return to a relative calm with good old Dr. Cullen… Here's the first part of a chapter devoted to Carlisle (a character I'm very fond of but find quite challenging to characterize). Enjoy your reading!*

And Emmett had no doubt that Carlisle was going to be furious. He harbored no illusions that his adoptive father would react far more harshly to this whole mess with Jasper than to the various property destructions he'd been guilty of over the years. [...] It would take the diplomacy of a saint to convince Rosalie to forgive and forget the "incident." Edward nodded somberly at this last thought. But there was no point in dwelling on it now; for the moment, they needed to relax and try to enjoy a pleasant late afternoon between brothers. Life was good. [1]

« I believe that the theater is a place of truth. [...] The error of all men is not believing enough in theater. »
Albert Camus – Introduction to the play Caligula

Dr. Cullen was worried.

For over twenty minutes now, one of the young women managing incoming calls at the hospital had been trying to track him down. She had caught him as he left the operating room to inform him that one of his sons had called earlier in the afternoon—roughly thirty minutes prior, to be precise, which now made nearly an hour since the event—and requested that he call back as soon as he was free. The girl, barely out of adolescence, had stammered an apology, her cheeks flushing crimson, when Carlisle had asked for more details about the nature of the call.

Miss Dorothy was only in her second week on the job, and though eager and well-meaning, she clearly lacked judgment. She had failed to ask any pertinent questions of his son and thus had no useful information to provide—not even the identity of the caller.

Carlisle sighed internally but offered the young woman a reassuring smile, silently deciding he would gather more details as soon as he reached his office and could use the telephone installed there upon his arrival as the town's new surgeon. The English vampire had few material demands regarding his salary—if left to his own preferences and without the risk of unwanted attention, he would gladly treat humans without any compensation at all—but he had been insistent during his hiring negotiations about having access to this convenience, still relatively novel.

The telephone was a marvelous invention. He never tired of its practicality and the possibilities it opened up. A mere handful of years earlier, he would have had no way of knowing about an issue requiring his attention until he returned home or until someone physically came to find him to deliver the news.

A marvelous innovation—but unfortunately utterly useless when one couldn't make use of it. The moment the receptionist had left, an unforeseen obligation had caught the old doctor off guard, forcing him to handle the unexpected before he was able to return to his office. More than an hour since the mysterious call from one of his sons... If he was honest with himself, it alarmed him, and he had to resist the urge to quicken his pace, to race at an immortal's speed toward the room where the telephone stood waiting. In moments like these, maintaining the human façade was a costly exercise, even for someone with as much practice as Carlisle.

He hastened his steps as much as he could without drawing unwanted attention, darting through empty corridors in fractions of a second whenever he was certain there were no potential observers nearby. He berated himself for anticipating catastrophe without a shred of evidence to support such fears, but life with multiple vampires had taught him that the reasons behind unexpected calls were rarely trivial or positive.

The last time he had received a call from his family while on duty at the hospital had been in 1946. Through the receiver, Rosalie's terse voice had flatly informed him that he needed to resign immediately and come home to help organize the logistics of a hasty move. And a crime cover-up.

Emmett had encountered a teenager whose blood had been irresistibly alluring to him. He had killed the boy less than two kilometers from their home and, deeply shaken, had returned to Esme's embrace, sobbing and begging for her forgiveness. There had been no option of remaining in the area after that. They had made the body disappear, fabricated false evidence to mislead the authorities—leaving a trail of clues suggesting a simple runaway—and packed their bags one by one under the guise of Carlisle's urgent departure for a prestigious job abroad.

In truth, the Cullen family had retreated to a remote village in northern England, opting to put the greatest possible distance between themselves and the scene of the crime by spending two years in Europe. [2]

That incident had raised the number of human deaths resulting from Carlisle's sins to 365: 352 from Edward's "vigilante" carnage, 1 accidental death by Esme, 5 premeditated murders and 2 intentional "collateral damage" by Rosalie, 5 lapses by Emmett.

The deaths caused—and perhaps yet to be caused—by those he had created were an indelible stain on his soul. The guilt always lingered in some corner of his mind. It would never fully disappear, even if his family refrained from killing until the end of time.

It would remain, lurking in the shadows, stirring whenever he met Edward's disillusioned and remorseful gaze as his son dwelled on the dark period of his self-imposed vigilante justice. Stirring whenever he remembered Emmett's loud, tearless sobs—the usually vibrant and joyous man devastated by the five instances in which he had "failed." Stirring at Rosalie's hollow stare and fractured smile upon returning from her vendetta. Stirring when he thought of gentle Esme—who would never have harmed anyone if fully in control—her crimson eyes filled with anguish and shame the one time she had succumbed to her worst instincts.

Esme, whose self-loathing and despair could have consumed him as she endlessly apologized for a transgression he had, in truth, committed.

Carlisle held himself accountable for every human death caused by those he had created. He bore them no resentment—not for a second. He had made terrible choices on their behalf, choices for which they were left to pay the price for eternity.

If he had possessed a true sense of Right and Wrong, he would – to begin with – probably never have turned Edward into a vampire to escape his solitude. And even if he could excuse himself for that initial lapse in judgment, what about the others? If he hadn't been so desperate to build a family, he wouldn't have repeated his mistake by transforming Esme, that beautiful dying woman for whom he had felt tender affection in a moment of madness. If he had felt sufficient guilt for the many lives Edward had taken in his parody of justice, and for the one Esme had taken by accident, he would have stopped there: he wouldn't have condemned Rosalie Hale to a life she hated. And if he hadn't felt so guilty about the eternal torment of his adopted daughter, he certainly wouldn't have obeyed her demand to 'save' Emmett, creating a newborn he knew he was physically incapable of controlling. Every time he transformed an innocent human and heard them writhing in pain for days – consumed by the fire of the change – he had promised himself it would be the very last time. Yet, he had failed, again and again: errare humanum est, perseverare diabolicum.

And most of the time, Carlisle wasn't honorable enough to genuinely regret playing God: the truth was, he adored the 'patched-together' family he had built over the decades. To be honest, he wouldn't have given them up for anything in the world. He had spent nearly three centuries walking the earth aimlessly, merely trying to do as little harm as possible to others and to make some small amends for the lives his damned kindred took by serving as a doctor. Not that he didn't genuinely love the role he had chosen for himself: resisting the lure of blood seemed a small price to pay if it allowed him to alleviate human suffering. And to save them, sometimes. This calling, however, hadn't stopped the weight of isolation from pressing heavily on him. Immortality had, for years, left him with a bitter sense of unfulfilled being. A feeling of existential emptiness that had pursued him until his encounter with Edward Masen.

No matter what had followed, Carlisle had never regretted that day in October 1918 [3]. Nor had he regretted 'saving' Esme and giving her back a glimmer of hope when she had lost everything. And despite all the sincere remorse he might feel for the condition to which he had, against her will, condemned Rosalie, he could not always bring himself to repent for having pulled her back from darkness. Not when he saw her smile at Esme, and certainly not when her eyes lit up with happiness and her entire face softened at the sight of Emmett. Emmett, whose boisterous joy for life was a balm for them all and whose creation he could not regret for a single moment, despite his struggles with control.

Despite the love and indulgence he felt for his family, 365 remained a grim tally that he had no desire to see grow longer: every death caused by those he had transformed was further proof of his moral failure and selfishness. Of his failures. Of the devastation he wrought by playing God. He had promised himself he was offering them an alternative, a future. Yet, he knew full well he was condemning them to an eternity of struggling against their own nature and confronting an endless array of insoluble dilemmas.

Most of the time, he managed to put on a good face and stifle the shame he felt for the unjust choices he had knowingly made. For the four people he had saved and loved with all his heart. For the people he had saved by turning them into monsters, covering their hands in blood in the process. Most of the time. At other times, he collapsed in the solitude of his office. Sometimes, Esme would stay by his side for hours, silently comforting him through the unbearable sleepless nights when guilt tore at him.

A tally of 365 victims in 32 years, a family of vampires, and a mysterious phone call.

No, Carlisle was not particularly optimistic about the underlying reasons for a disruption to his work routine. The lack of details about the call only deepened his doubts and heightened his wariness. The former pastor could only pray that, this time, there hadn't been a loss of life and that his imagination was merely running wild with worst-case scenarios. Which son had disturbed him at the hospital? Emmett usually preferred to handle things on his own; his adoptive father found it hard to imagine him considering reaching out, even in a major crisis. The prospect of Jasper using a phone to contact him and introducing himself as his son was, at best, absurd – the man was still not very adept with technology, and Carlisle wasn't even sure he knew how to use such a device – and, barring absolute necessity, the former soldier would certainly not have identified himself as the son of someone he had met less than a month ago.

That left Edward as the most plausible possibility. But this raised other questions: if there had been a problem, it would normally have been his wife who contacted him. Had Esme been delayed by something that prevented her from being the one to call? By the time Carlisle finally reached his office, he was far from calm. He was consumed with worry, though he desired to let none of it show. He sat in the high-backed chair behind his desk, pushing aside the medical file lying there, and hastily grabbed the miraculous device that would – at last – provide him with answers. He exhaled to regain his composure, glancing at the clock on the far wall. More than fifty minutes had passed since the call. Whatever the reasons behind the communication, Carlisle could only hope it wasn't a true emergency. As he carefully rotated the numbers on the phone's dial, he held a superfluous breath. The doctor was needlessly tense, silently impatient until the connection was established.

After three rings, there was the usual static on the line as the call was patched through, and then the voice of his 'eldest' son [4] – the first he had condemned to this life – sounded.

'Cullen residence, speaking.'

Edward's voice didn't sound particularly agitated, not a hint of urgency to be detected. Reassuring.

"Edward, you tried to reach me? I couldn't call back sooner; I just got out of surgery."

There was a faint sigh on the other end of the line before Edward resumed the conversation in a tone that was deceptively light. Carlisle could almost visualize, from afar, his son running a nervous hand through his hair and staring into space with a frown.

"It's nothing serious, and you didn't need to rush. I'm sorry if I worried you by calling the hospital."

After living for decades with someone—and having vampiric abilities in his pocket—you came to know them by heart and could easily discern their state of mind from the slightest inflection of their voice. Carlisle's instincts told him Edward was genuinely upset—more than his usual brooding—and concerned. Concerned, not frightened or angry. That was a good thing: whatever had happened, there was a strong chance it wasn't excessively tragic. No loss of life, then.

"You don't need to apologize. What can I do for you?"

The hesitation on the line lasted less than a fraction of a second. Edward was the type to get straight to the point.

"Esme, Rose, and Alice have gone shopping outside of town. They shouldn't be back for a while. Jasper, Emmett, and I are at home. If you don't have anything too urgent at work, it would be good for you to come home now. If your obligations prevent it, of course, don't worry about my request and come back at your usual time."

It was cryptic, to say the least. Carlisle was momentarily taken aback by this paradoxical injunction, carefully dissecting the terms Edward had used. Several interesting points stood out in the phrasing: Edward hadn't offered even a semblance of justification for his strange request; his son had specified—without being asked—the whereabouts of Esme and his adoptive daughters. Even without knowing the situation requiring his presence, knowing his wife wasn't involved in the mysterious issue at hand was a relief. The fact that his sons were at home and "waiting" for him there was unusual. Lastly, if there was nothing "too urgent" to deal with, there was no valid reason for Carlisle to leave work in the middle of the day. God knew there were already enough days he was forced to miss work because of the weather conditions… even in the depths of Minnesota, the sun occasionally made an appearance! No valid reason: yet it was clear that this was exactly what Edward wanted him to do, even while claiming otherwise. Giving him the illusion of choice to suggest the matter wasn't dire…

The various members of the family were safe, evidently, but perhaps there had been a loss of life, after all. That was, at any rate, the most solid hypothesis forming in his mind at that moment. Another misstep by Emmett? It had been more than four years since his son had taken a life, much to Carlisle's great relief—and even greater relief for Emmett himself. Or, more likely, an incident involving Jasper and a human? Unfortunately, that wouldn't be surprising: the former soldier was still a novice in their way of life. For now, the integration of the two nomads was proceeding under surprisingly good auspices—thank God!—but Carlisle harbored few illusions about the setbacks bound to occur. Despite the empath's apparent goodwill, his ability to resist the call of human blood was—by his own admission—still very weak after nearly a century of indulging in it freely.

Carlisle was still worried. His conjectures did little to reassure him—quite the opposite—but he didn't bother pressing Edward for more details: if his son had wanted to provide more information, he would have. All he could do was continue speculating. If he wanted answers, he needed to get home quickly and see for himself what was going on.

"Very well. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes meant leaving his post in a decidedly cavalier manner and flouting the most basic traffic laws of the state of Minnesota. As soon as he hung up, Carlisle made another call, informing the hospital that he had to leave immediately due to a personal emergency requiring his immediate attention. The director excused him graciously: despite the occasional impromptu daytime absences, Carlisle was the seasoned surgeon most willing to take night shifts, making him an irreplaceable member of the staff in the administrator's eyes.

A few minutes later, Carlisle was behind the wheel of his sedan, disregarding every speed limit. He kept a wary eye out to ensure that no patrolling officers on the sidewalks could witness his driving infractions. Lost in thought, he skillfully weaved between cars, hoping that the other drivers wouldn't have time to identify the vehicle of the reckless driver as belonging to one of the town's doctors. He disliked drawing attention—the family's supernatural beauty was already enough fodder for gossip without giving the neighbors additional reasons for slander—and felt uneasy about his choice to push the car to its limits. Unlike Rosalie and Edward, he wasn't fond of this kind of sporty driving: he hated weaving, much preferring to adhere to human laws. He only made exceptions when necessary, like now, when he was still relatively tense and eager to get home after his brief conversation with Edward. Less than ten minutes later, he was approaching the entrance to the property, the house already in sight.

Carlisle turned off the engine and parked his car in the central driveway. He sniffed the air, checking instinctively that his clothes weren't carrying any residual scent of human blood. He had, after all, left in a hurry. Of course, when operating, he wore full surgical attire and adhered to all the protocols in place, but when consulting, he simply wore a white coat over his regular clothes. If he examined patients with open wounds, faint traces of scent could linger on him. While Rosalie and Edward's control over their thirst was nearly on par with his own, he didn't want to unnecessarily challenge Emmett and Esme, for whom the scent of human blood could still be slightly tempting. Ordinarily, he was always careful not to bring back any scents for the comfort of the rest of his family, but the recent presence of Alice and—especially—Jasper required him to be even more vigilant: he didn't want to do anything that could jeopardize their recent guests. This was no longer just a precaution but a necessity. He stepped out of the car, taking a few seconds to breathe and focus on regaining his inner calm. If a tense situation awaited him, he needed to be in the best frame of mind to handle it.

At this distance, his vampiric hearing easily picked up the sounds coming from inside the manor. Similarly, the occupants of the house couldn't have missed his approach; he caught snippets of conversation that revealed his imminent arrival was causing a stir.

"Try to relax, man! If you keep projecting your emotions like that, you'll have him anxious the moment he walks through the door."

Emmett's loud, amused voice carried a generous dose of concern. Projecting emotions... As Carlisle had suspected, it was indeed the newest addition to their family who had a problem—or had caused one. With a sense of resignation, the doctor imagined the man, pale, tense, red-eyed, and steeped in guilt.

The thought turned his stomach. An empathic vampire was an aberration. Carlisle would never have thought such a creature could exist, much less survive decades in war zones without losing his mind entirely. Poor boy. Jasper would probably hate being pitied—he seemed to carry a hefty mix of pride and self-loathing, an explosive combination that reminded Carlisle of Edward in some ways—but the doctor couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Truly sorry. Regardless of how many murders he had committed—or how many he might commit in the future—the fact that he had experienced visceral suffering with each one was chilling. A peculiar kind of fate.

"I thought I'd found an opponent almost worthy of me. If you're not more careful, you might as well forfeit now."

Edward's tone was light, carrying a hefty dose of irony. Carlisle could picture his crooked smile.

"Are ya sure it's me who's inattentive? The game is still on. Unless, of course, y'all ready to concede."

Jasper's slow drawl resonated. Though his words were delivered with apparent calm, the emotion behind them felt contrived. Beneath the nonchalance lingered a discomfort that was hard to ignore.

A game? By heaven, what are they talking about?

Carlisle climbed the steps to the manor at a human pace, curiosity mingled with apprehension over what he might find inside. He didn't want to betray his unease by rushing. His measured steps exuded an air of calm—or at least the appearance of it.

He pushed open the door firmly, stepped through, and crossed the hall. Raising a puzzled eyebrow, he entered the living room.

Edward was seated behind the heavy wooden dining table, hunched over a chessboard with a sardonic smile playing on his lips. He was in the middle of a game with Jasper, under Emmett's amused gaze. Whatever Carlisle had imagined on the drive home, it certainly hadn't been this scene.

Casting a sidelong glance at Jasper, Carlisle was relieved to see that his eyes remained the same ocher hue as his hair. No unfortunate human victim, no urgent need to pack up and relocate. That, at least, was a comfort.

However, it shed no light on why Edward—who was neither prone to whims nor eccentricities—had dragged him away from work so urgently. Clearly, something was amiss, but what? The doctor remained frozen in the doorway, studying Jasper's profile.

Jasper sat rigidly, almost militarily straight, in front of the chessboard, barely moving. It was as if he'd been petrified in place. Yet he was the first to acknowledge Carlisle's presence, his voice barely rising above a murmur.

"Sir."

Well, that was frosty. Jasper's tone was as soft as usual, but something about his demeanor set Carlisle's instincts on edge in the worst way. The atmosphere felt heavier than it appeared, with a tension so thick it seemed to vibrate in the air.

"Jasper."

Carlisle inclined his head automatically in response to the curt greeting, though the man still hadn't looked up from the chessboard. He received the faintest, stiffest of nods in return.

"You got back quickly!"

The enthusiastic exclamation came from Emmett, who sprang to his feet in a sudden burst of energy to greet him, as if only just noticing his arrival. Edward, who had summoned him in the first place, hadn't so much as glanced in his direction. What game were they all playing?

Carlisle forced a slightly strained smile at his most boisterous child, then let his gaze drift back to the two chess players. There was clearly a subtext to the scene that eluded him, some hidden stakes behind the seemingly mundane game.

A deception was unfolding before his eyes.

Notes:

The chapter title references the novel The Royal Game by Stefan Zweig and Samuel Beckett's play Endgame.

[1] The events revisit portions of Chapter 9, focusing on a hunting incident that escalated due to Emmett's misstep.

[2] The Cullen family's brief stay in Europe, though undated, is mentioned in canon. It's plausible that Carlisle, after various incidents—such as Edward's spree (1928–1931), Rosalie's actions in Rochester (1933), and mishaps involving Esme and Emmett—decided to leave the U.S. temporarily, especially after encountering the Quileutes and agreeing to a treaty prohibiting human killings.

[3] Canon information about Edward's death is inconsistent. While Meyer places his death in September, it's also stated that his father died "a month prior" of the "same illness," yet the first fatal Spanish flu cases in Boston were recorded mid-September. It makes more sense for his death to have occurred in late October during the second wave.

[4] The Cullen children's birth order remains ambiguous. Edward, as Carlisle's "first son," is transformed first but is chronologically the youngest (17 compared to Emmett and Jasper's 20). Given vampires' stunted maturity, this remains debatable.

[5] Alice's arrival largely solves this logistical problem since she can reliably predict the weather, but before that, I don't quite know how the Cullens managed. Their daytime interactions with humans were a huge risk; an unexpected and violent burst of sunlight could expose their "sparkly vampire" appearance at any moment. To minimize the risks and be reasonably diligent about his work, I think Carlisle must have been "very happy" to handle as many night shifts as possible at the hospital. ;)

I look forward to the next chapter, which is already written – no kidding, I just need to write the end notes – and will be published very soon. For your information, the next chapter will be the "direct" continuation of this one: it was originally a long chapter that I split into two so it would be a bit more digestible (I really wrote a lot in the last chapter about Rosalie, and I didn't want to repeat that with this one) ''