Foreword: I hope you'll be able to read this chapter soon… The site is seriously bugging out right now. Feel free to check out the next part on AO3 if the issues persist (the story is published there under the same title). Alright, this time, it really is the end of Esme's POV and the infamous "hunting" incident. The beginning of the chapter is quite heavy, tackling difficult themes in a rather abrupt manner: mention of the death of an infant (from a pulmonary fever, two days after birth), maternal grief, and suicide. The rest of the chapter takes a much lighter turn. And the next two chapters will be significantly less melodramatic. I promise ;)
Happy reading!
To show bravery… to achieve one's dreams… to live a wonderful life.
Perhaps it wasn't too late.
« Oh, light! That is the cry of every character in ancient drama when faced with their destiny. This last resort was ours as well, and now I knew it. In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer. »*
Albert Camus – Return to Tipasa, Summer.
Esme had found the remnants of a recklessly she had long thought extinguished: she left.
July 1920 - March 1921, Wisconsin
Suppressing her shame and fear of being rejected once more by a family member, she used the little money she had managed to save to take a bus, then a train. She left her native Ohio and sought refuge with an elderly cousin, one who lived in a state far enough away that Charles wouldn't immediately think to look for her there. The man was utterly shocked by her story and willingly agreed to help her.
Esme was able to breathe a little easier upon realizing that there were people who did not consider her husband's cruelty "normal." Her cousin gave her a substantial sum and—fearing that Charles might eventually search for her in Milwaukee [1], after exhausting other possibilities—he sent her to stay with an elderly couple of antique dealers in Ashland, for whom he had once worked as an apprentice in his youth. The shopkeepers agreed to shelter her in exchange for small services, and before her figure could begin to round, she started passing herself off as a war widow.
A twist of fate allowed her, after many detours, to secure a position as a schoolteacher in Ashland less than a month after her arrival. At last, she was able to teach, and she did so with immense joy. Those were beautiful months—almost too good to be true—where Esme felt herself come back to life, her mind filling with hopeful prospects as she eagerly awaited the birth of her child.
Even though the memories were vague in her vampire mind, she recalled those moments with a gentle nostalgia.
The next memories were the sharpest ones remaining from her human life. Even if she had wanted to erase them completely, she would have been unable to, so deeply were they ingrained in her very being. In both incredible happiness and horror alike.
She remembered, with terrifying clarity, the day she gave birth. The debilitating pain merging with exhilaration, the long hours spent gasping, feeling as though her body might split in two. The rush of the final contractions, then the strange first encounter with the baby. The feeling of being struck by lightning. She realized that she had never truly understood what love was—of course, she had sincerely loved certain family members and friends, but nothing had ever come close to this level of intensity—until she gazed, stunned, at the infant in her arms.
It felt as if the earth had stopped turning, and she was overcome by an indescribable, dreamlike sensation as she beheld the tiny creature who had miraculously emerged from her. He was there: small, warm, alive. Her son. And he was beautiful. Esme vaguely wondered how something so pure and innocent could have come from all the terror of her relationship with Charles. She kissed his chubby cheeks and felt tears of joy rolling freely down her face. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her battered body, she was consumed by an overwhelming and inexplicable happiness.
Her emotions swirled chaotically—was it normal to feel this way? So utterly drained yet completely fulfilled at once? She couldn't tell. Tears welled in her chest even as a wild smile never left her lips. She cradled the baby against her for what felt like hours, marveling at the way his tiny mouth curled into an unexpected little grin. He was adorable. For half a day, she lived the happiest moments of her life.
Then, mere hours after he was born, a sudden fever took hold of the infant, and everything unraveled. The baby grew too silent, the smiles disappeared; his once soft, warm skin became feverishly hot, coated in an unhealthy sheen, while his breaths turned shallow and raspy. Alarmed, Esme called for a nurse to examine him. After a brief assessment, the woman abruptly took the baby from her arms and, despite murmuring a string of reassuring words—words that would have held more weight had they not been accompanied by frantic gestures—she disappeared with him behind heavy doors that the young mother was not allowed to cross.
The waiting was endless. More than a day passed, with Esme constantly pleading for news from every nurse she could stop in the hallway. But they had only empty words to offer in response to her growing desperation, gently urging her to rest, to be patient. During that long, agonizing wait, she prayed. She prayed with a desperate fervor, begging for her child's recovery, pleading for him to be healthy. The alternative was unthinkable—it stole the breath from her lungs.
But as always, her prayers went unanswered. If someone in Heaven had heard her cries, they remained deaf to them.
At dawn, less than two days after she had brought him into the world, the midwife—the very same woman who had helped deliver him just hours earlier—came to place her child's lifeless body into her arms. The old woman's face was ashen, her gaze burning with pity. Her child was dead.
He was fine just a few hours ago.
It was absurd.
He had just been born.
And now, he was dead.
It made no sense.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't move. She didn't even know if she was still breathing. It was as if all her nerve endings had been severed at the root. The only tangible sensation was the minuscule weight in her arms, the solid presence of this—an empty shell—of an infant against her chest. She remained frozen for an infinite stretch of time, the tiny swaddled burden pressed close to her. She couldn't let go, and she couldn't comprehend the words thrown at her by the various professionals who passed through the room. Midwives, nurses, doctors… all of them understanding, showering her with their pitying compassion.
After countless hours of stillness, the caregivers could bear it no longer: they offered her sedatives and urged her to release her child. When she repeatedly refused in silence, their proposal turned into an ultimatum; someone tried to pry the frail little body from her grasp.
Something collapsed. A silent cataclysm, an internal collapse. The sensation of being dragged into the depths of an abyss. There was nothing to be done to fight the devastation. Nothing but struggle uselessly, surrendering to a burst of wild rage. So she screamed. She screamed and fought back, struggling to keep her son against her. They restrained her, injected her with something. The drug pulled her into a dull, throbbing torpor. The world seemed to dissolve around her. She was left sprawled on a stretcher for half a day.
When she opened her eyes, everything was blurred. The thick, unfamiliar drug still coursed through her veins, shrouding her mind in a haze. Her head felt trapped in a vice, and a sickening nausea twisted her stomach. She stared at the ceiling as the effects of the medication gradually faded. A doctor came to check on her, offering a soothing speech meant to comfort her. As if anything in the world could still provide comfort. Condolences and empty wishes for future happiness slid past her. She managed to string together words that made enough sense and pleaded to be allowed to leave. After some hesitation, her request was granted: they invited her to go home. Home? Her skin was a prison she no longer wanted to inhabit. There was nowhere to go.
Finally released from the hospital, Esmée felt an overwhelming emptiness. The indistinct, seething desolation within her was indescribable. Dizzying. There was nothing to be done. It was over. Wrenching herself away from the caregivers' pity-filled gazes, she forced her heavy body to stagger mechanically away from the place where her child had been born—and died—in the span of just two days.
If it was cold, she couldn't feel it. If her limbs still ached from the aftermath of childbirth, she refused to acknowledge it. She felt nothing: neither the crisp March breeze coiling around her neck nor the searing pain that should have radiated from the sutured flesh between her thighs registered in her mind. Her entire body felt as insubstantial as strips of cotton. Everything around her seemed unreal.
She wandered for a long time, walking aimlessly through the streets, ignoring the chatter of passersby and the city's restless energy. At some point, her legs had carried her of their own accord to the outskirts of town, away from the suburbs and bustling avenues, under the fading light of late afternoon. She kept walking, weaving through winding paths, her mind elsewhere but her feet determined to keep moving. The erratic march stretched on for several miles.
When she finally stopped at the edge of a cliff, she felt dazed, vaguely realizing that night had almost fallen. Esme sank to the ground and—without really thinking—began observing the nature around her for the next few hours, soaking in the tranquility of the place and the beauty of the landscape. Her contemplation lasted until the night grew so thick that the once-green foliage and the churning sea below merged into a single dark, indistinct mass. The moon was hidden behind clouds, but scattered between them, handfuls of stars glowed against the inky sky. Esme marveled at the beauty of those rare celestial bodies shining in the firmament. It was a beautiful night. A peaceful night.
She heard the faint sound of waves crashing against the base of the cliff. The strong wind lifted the heavy strands escaping her undone chignon; they tangled and lashed against her skin. Droplets of rain dampened her cheeks. Or were they tears? It would have made sense for her to cry, after all… What kind of monstrous mother wouldn't weep for her infant? But she didn't feel sad. Not really. Not even devastated. Just numb. The torpor that had seized her upon leaving the hospital descended again, even more intense. The stars forgotten, Esme felt herself fading into the night. She felt dead. As if it were her own corpse resting in the morgue of the nearby town.
Suddenly, it was too much. The unbearable seized her. She had to go. She stood up, her legs trembling from exhaustion, her chest tightening. A terrible feeling of solitude pierced her. She didn't know what she was feeling, but she never wanted to feel it again. If it was pain, she had no strength to understand it. If it was grief, she couldn't name it. If it was emptiness, she wanted to dissolve into it.
Her action was not the result of conscious thought.
She didn't jump. She simply took a few steps forward and let herself fall, tipping into the void.
There was a moment of suspension, a deafening silence. And then, the fall. An instant of weightlessness. Her body almost floated, just for a fraction of a second, offered to the night wind. Then gravity reclaimed its hold: the air howled around her, a strange weight pressed against her stomach, and her heart pounded violently. A primal panic seized her as she realized what she had done—just seconds before her body crashed into the frigid water.
The impact wrenched a strangled cry from her throat. From that height, it was like slamming full speed into a wall of bricks. Most of her bones shattered on impact. Her breath was already gone, stolen by searing pain, when a rush of briny water flooded her lungs. She was sinking, drowning. The sea wrapped around her, dragging her deeper. It was both terrifying and soothing. Soon, she would no longer feel anything…
She was no longer sure she believed in Heaven, and until the very last moment, she had been a very poor Christian. If paradise existed, she did not hope to go there; nor did she pray to be reunited with her son—only for the pain to stop. No matter her potential sins, she felt she had endured enough in life for everything to simply cease with her death. If there was a Hell, she was almost certain she had already lived through it on Earth. Everything had to end, even suffering; so she waited for it to be over.
That was what she believed. And yet, the pain did not stop.
By some miracle, a wave carried her onto the shore. By some cruel coincidence, two nighttime wanderers spotted her and managed to drag her away from the water before the tide could pull her back out to sea. They managed to make her cough up the seawater she had swallowed. Another miracle. By the time they brought her to the hospital, her shattered body had succumbed to hypothermia, and she had slipped into unconsciousness. Her breathing and pulse had grown so faint that the doctor examining her upon arrival failed to detect them.
Esme Platt was declared dead [2].
The day after her son's death. Her still-living body was mistakenly wrapped in a shroud just a few feet away from his. And only minutes later, she was found—by a very old English doctor who, thanks to his vampiric hearing, caught the erratic rhythm of a dying heart resonating through the morgue. The deceptively young doctor, angelic in appearance, who—ten years earlier—had encouraged her to chase her dreams and live "a wonderful life" when she was still a reckless, impressionable teenager.
He had not aged a day. And with the same impulsive boldness she once possessed when climbing trees at sixteen, he decided to save her. A reckless decision or an act of faith? Perhaps that was the most improbable miracle of all.
When she opened her eyes after three days of searing agony, Esmée was drowning in a maelstrom of unfamiliar sensations. The world around her seemed entirely different, its colors more vibrant and beautiful than ever, and she was overwhelmed by a flood of untamed feelings, as if she had been thrust into another universe. And he was there, watching her.
After everything she had endured, Esme found it hard to believe in divine intervention—and if there was a God, she doubted He was merciful. Yet she could not deny the miracle unfolding before her, incarnated in the form of a man from her past—one whose name she did not even know—and who was more beautiful than any dream.
He told her he had transformed her into a vampire to "save" her. The idea did not disturb her. If this was a dream, she found it both grotesque and beautiful. The only thing that truly mattered to her—once she had grasped the essentials of her new condition—was whether her son could join her in this incredible waking dream. Of course, it was impossible. She had known as much before she even voiced the question. The deeply sorrowful look in Dr. Carlisle Cullen's eyes—whose name she finally learned, years after their first meeting [3]—confirmed her suspicions. It was simply not meant to be.
The pain she had felt at his death had been so abrupt, so unspeakable, that part of her knew it was an immutable state. Even in this absurd world where demons looked like angels and saved lost human souls, there had to be rules. Limits. Her son was gone. Esme felt it in the depths of her being and accepted the truth—because if that was not real, then nothing else was.
Once the searing grief had dulled slightly, she accepted that her child would never be part of the strange world Carlisle had given her. She gradually found a sense of peace, then lost herself in the whirlwind of sensations brought on by her transformation: the pain of loss still cut deep, but the torrent of new emotions and instincts from her vampiric nature made her despair more volatile. The sadness was just light enough to be bearable.
Beyond the remnants of her sorrow, the discovery of her new abilities—and the realities of being a newborn vampire—demanded her full attention. She had to relearn everything.
With the gifts of immortality came challenges: absolute control over every movement was necessary to avoid accidentally reducing her surroundings to dust. Furniture, delicate human-made objects, even buildings—none could withstand a vampire's careless touch. Carlisle and Edward had to teach her to control her strength, then her speed—and finally, they faced the daunting task of helping her resist the unrelenting thirst burning in her throat. A persistent, irritating scratch that never fully faded. Fortunately, an immortal mind seemed capable of absorbing vast amounts of knowledge quickly and efficiently. And Carlisle was a patient, compassionate teacher, endlessly understanding.
As for Edward, beneath his brooding exterior, he was a kind boy—highly perceptive, of course, given the nature of his gift—who instinctively answered all the unspoken questions she did not dare to ask aloud. Esme learned quickly. And she took pleasure in learning, surprising herself by smiling more and more often as the weeks passed. The two vampires made her adaptation to this new world easy, working quietly to make her existence pleasant without ever seeming to expect anything in return. When you no longer expected anything from anyone, encountering such kindness from strangers was profoundly moving.
Esme was deeply touched by their generosity. She grew accustomed to it.
The seasons passed.
And one day, as she sat listening to Edward's latest composition while Carlisle, seated in the corner of the room, methodically read through a stack of medical articles, a faint, distracted smile playing on his lips—the late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, flooding the room with golden light. The rays made the two immortals shimmer like living diamonds. Magnificent and utterly incongruous. She suddenly had the urge to draw and paint the scene in all its exquisite detail. Perhaps she could? Once she learned to hold a paintbrush delicately enough not to shatter it, she would have decades ahead of her to become a skilled artist [4]… Esme burst into laughter at the strange thoughts crossing her mind. And then, in that moment, she realized— She was happy. Truly happy. And grateful to be alive.
The thought surfaced with astonishment: she had not truly wanted to die; yet, upon awakening as a vampire—realizing that her child would not be part of her eternity—the prospect of ever feeling anything akin to happiness again had never crossed her mind.
And yet, it had happened. Without even seeing it coming, over the weeks and months that passed, something within her had changed. A dull pain remained, one that would never fully heal, but it no longer crushed her to the point of preventing her from appreciating the small wonders to come. In the span of a year—a mere blink of an eye in an immortal life—her winter had passed [5].
Hearing her laughter, Carlisle had looked up, startled but delighted, observing her closely, his gaze overflowing with an emotion she did not yet allow herself to fully recognize for what it was.
Her life had been far from wonderful, but the long twilight ahead seemed full of promise.
As the sun shone down upon them, Esme felt certain that a marvelous summer awaited them.
July 29, 1950, Kasota, Minnesota
That certainty had not been contradicted by the years that followed: Carlisle, Edward, Rosalie, Emmett… They had nestled deep within her silent heart.
Esme was happier and more grateful to know them than she had words to express. In her eyes, the moments of happiness they shared far outweighed the difficulties of immortality.
She loved them, and they loved her; that was enough for her, and it gave her all the reason in the world to be optimistic about the future. Every reason to hope.
Hope.
Now, there was Alice and Jasper. And for the past three weeks, whenever she thought of hope, Esme couldn't help but think of Jasper. The feeling the former soldier had flooded them with at the end of his terrible tale—of eighty-seven years of war—had left a lasting impression on her.
Esme did not like soldiers very much. She knew it was probably foolish—almost every man and boy she had ever known had been one at some point in their lives or had wished to be. She shuddered at the memory of Edward's eagerness to enlist, just before death had claimed him as a human. Not all soldiers were monsters, far from it. Many were good men… Yet, a part of her could not help but think that war had crushed the most honorable and idealistic among them—either killing them or breaking them—and had only let the worst return unscathed. Those who knew how to trample others without remorse. Those who, like her first husband, exulted in the midst of battle, unleashing their darkest instincts.
Their recent guest had survived nearly a century of conflict. And yet, Esme could not bring herself to fear him, despite all the savagery that had marked his history. Likely because of the vibrant hope he had shared with them on that first day. A brilliant hope, interwoven with a budding love—it was terribly similar to what she herself had felt on that sunny afternoon in 1922. Even after an endless winter, or in the very heart of a storm, light could always find a crack through which to seep.
Her new children had endured so much before finding their way to them. They needed a family, and Esme could only rejoice in the curious providence that had guided them to their doorstep. She, who had tasted fatality more than once, believed in destiny. And she longed for the joyful future glimpsed through the seer's premonitions. Esme desired, with all her heart, to see it come to life.
And so, she was still waiting, with slight apprehension, for Rosalie's reaction to her plea. The latter seemed unwilling to answer her. Silent, her eyes were once again fixed on the road—they were only a few hundred meters from the estate. Less than two minutes.
Esme pressed her daughter's arm again to capture her gaze. And insisted on obtaining a formal non-aggression pact.
"Please."
Rosalie abruptly turned her beautiful face toward her. Her hands remained firmly on the wheel, but she studied her intently. After a few seconds of hesitation, her eldest daughter finally inclined her head with a sigh.
At this sign of agreement, Esme released the unnecessary breath she had been holding. It wasn't exactly an olive branch, but by Rosalie's standards, it meant a great deal. Esme knew her well enough to understand that, through this simple gesture, she was committing to being magnanimous when hearing Emmett's and Jasper's explanations.
Despite this encouraging truce, Esme couldn't help but notice that Alice—who had been smiling just a moment ago—no longer appeared entirely at ease. On the contrary, the moment the house came into view, she seemed overwhelmed by a resurgence of anxiety. Rosalie parked the car, casting a wary glance at the girl, who was visibly nervous. The seer was trembling slightly, causing the vehicle to shake with the force of her involuntary movements. She met their gazes in the rearview mirror with an expression close to panic, before muttering under her breath, as if speaking to no one in particular:
"This isn't good… I can't calm down… He can feel that I'm upset… and everyone is so nervous."
Alice shook her head and suddenly straightened, as if propelled by a spring. She yanked open the car door with a sharp movement, leaping out and moving so swiftly that Esme and Rosalie had no time—nor the chance—to exchange bewildered looks. A low growl had echoed from inside the house just before Alice rushed inside.
Well, so much for efforts to soothe Rosalie. Esme could feel her eldest daughter's worry and irritation spike in response to this series of unsettling reactions. She sighed. She despised conflicts, but one had been simmering for too long, and it required her intervention if she hoped to see it resolved peacefully.
She, too, swiftly exited the vehicle, using her supernatural speed to follow the little seer into the manor. On her way in, she noticed that, in her haste, Alice had accidentally unhinged the front door… Esme sighed inwardly with amusement—young vampires! Alice was two heads shorter than Emmett, yet she could be just as destructive.
At present, she was hanging onto her mate's neck, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, her face buried in the hollow of his throat. She was trembling. From this position, Esme couldn't properly make out the small vampire's expression, but the empath's was indescribable: as he held Alice protectively against him, his usually composed face flickered between anger, worry, astonishment, relief, and sorrow—shifting through every shade of the spectrum from one second to the next.
The couple stood planted at the center of the room. A few feet away, seated at the living room table, Edward's brows were deeply furrowed, his expression dark and stormy. Emmett—who was, quite clearly, in one piece—stood three steps away from the telepath, an oddly sheepish look on his face, rocking absently from foot to foot. Carlisle, motionless, leaned against a wall in the far corner of the room, observing the scene with a dubious expression. Catching Esme's eye, he offered a small, apologetic smile and a shrug. Even her husband seemed slightly overwhelmed by the situation. What a sight!
Esme didn't have time to further analyze the moment before a loud noise sounded behind her—Rosalie had entered, visibly displeased, shutting what remained of the door with a sharp gesture before crossing the hall in a few furious strides. She stopped at the threshold of the living area, her cold gaze sweeping across the room's occupants, assessing them. Esme didn't miss the brief flicker of relief her eldest daughter felt upon confirming that Emmett was indeed unharmed. Her evaluation complete, Rosalie locked eyes with Jasper and began to glare at him with silent, murderous intent.
The empath, his mate still nestled in his arms—though her feet were once again on solid ground, and her trembling had ceased—had regained enough composure to present an almost impassive expression. But his darkened irises gleamed with restrained fury. He held Rosalie's gaze, mirroring her disdain with a similar air of aloofness. Their silent exchange was chillingly intense. A heavy, cathedral-like silence stretched between them. Just as Esme was about to break it, she felt her brows furrow further of their own accord, an odd wave of apprehension and irritation washing over her.
Irritation? Of course, the situation was tense, but it was rare for her to feel this aggravated… She immediately realized the source of this uncharacteristic emotion—Jasper. Affected by the thick atmosphere, the young man was unintentionally projecting some of his inner turmoil onto the room. His nerves must have been raw for him to influence them this way by mistake. This realization instantly restored Esme's calm.
Naturally, the only person in the house managing to maintain a relative composure was Carlisle; the emotions of the others had to be anything but pleasant to experience. With Alice visibly distressed and agitated, Emmett radiating guilt, Rosalie once again spoiling for a fight, Edward—knowing him—especially on edge, judging by his brooding demeanor, and herself feeling a faint but constant anxiety… Jasper must have been struggling to sort through and endure the toxic whirlwind of emotions without resorting to his gift to soothe them all [6]. This must have been unbearable for the empath.
He had admitted to struggling with hostile environments; there was no doubt he was being deeply affected in this moment. A surge of compassion welled up in Esme.
Taking a steadying breath and wanting to ease his distress, she focused on positive things. She brought to the forefront of her mind the warmth she had felt three days ago when the entire family was gathered in a moment of peace. Then, she recalled the incredible feeling when Carlisle had asked her to marry him. The indescribable joy when Edward had suggested she pose as his mother in 1923; the brilliant happiness that had flooded her the first time Rosalie and Emmett had called her "Mom," years apart. The gratitude for this second chance at life, for the quiet hope that carried her when she thought of the small joys still to come. The happy optimism that had sprung from Jasper and Alice's unexpected arrival.
Esme didn't know how powerfully she had managed to convey her emotions, but Jasper's reaction was immediate. A curious sound, like a stifled purr, escaped his throat, and he turned his head so fast that his neck gave a faint crack. His gaze—instantly breaking away from Rosalie's hostile one—locked onto hers, incredulous yet filled with a strange contentment. Well, that was an easy way to get his attention—he seemed almost captivated. Esme couldn't help but smile at the vaguely awestruck expression that momentarily lit up the young man's features, as he offered her a fleeting but genuine look of gratitude.
Alice, who must have, in some way, absorbed part of what her mate was feeling due to their closeness, let out a relieved sigh. Still nestled against Jasper, her face still hidden, she slowly murmured a few words in a soft, low voice, her tone remorseful.
"I'm sorry for bolting out of the car like that. I know my reaction must have worried you. When we arrived, I panicked at the thought that Jasper might be feeling, from a distance, just how… I just wanted to reach him right away to calm him, but I was so unsettled that I suppose it had the opposite effect."
Alice let out an odd laugh, tinged with self-mockery. Her unusually slow phrasing led Esme to believe that Jasper was focusing a good portion of his gift on her, trying to help her regain some semblance of serenity. Esme seized the lull in conversation to speak calmly and request an explanation.
"Alice had a partial vision of the incident during your hunting trip. Emmett, Jasper, could you simply tell us what happened?"
She accompanied her words with brief but encouraging glances toward the two young men, urging them to speak before Rosalie lost patience and broke the uneasy silence with a temper flare. From the corner of her eye, Esme saw her eldest daughter cross her arms and turn toward Emmett expectantly, her gaze slightly less hard than a moment ago.
Her boisterous, joyful child spoke up in an unusually serious tone, his eyes fixed on his wife, his expression both repentant and grave.
"I wanted to catch Jasper off guard to win the hunting competition… I jumped on him, and he reacted instinctively. He bit me, thinking he was being attacked. It was completely stupid and entirely my fault. My Rose, I'm sorry, but I promise it wasn't serious!"
Jasper gave a slow, brief nod, adding in a soft voice.
"I'm sorry for hurtin' him. I was only tryin' to restrain him."
Rosalie's lips pressed into a thin line at their explanations. In a lively movement, she crossed the room and planted herself in front of her husband, demanding in an icy, level voice:
"Show me."
Emmett gave a brief grimace that was halfway between a wince and a contrite smile. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing part of his right arm, exposing the characteristic mark left by fangs. Esme exhaled softly: she had expected it to look worse. Although the wound had just been inflicted, it seemed nearly healed already. Curious, but after all, she remembered that Alice had mentioned Jasper had helped Emmett with the healing. Esme had no idea how one sped up the healing of a bite, but there were evidently techniques for it.
Rosalie examined the marks intently, her gaze burning as if she could will them away with her sheer force of will. Emmett pleaded with her in a soft breath.
"It was my fault. Please, babe…"
Rosalie shook her head with a vague gesture and straightened, her gaze shifting back to Jasper. Esme held her breath. The young man briefly closed his eyes, then opened them again, fixing his gaze on her daughter with an odd emotion. He bowed almost solemnly, lowering his head slowly, before speaking in a grave voice.
"I am truly sorry, Rosalie. That ain't ever gonna happen again."
Rosalie watched him silently for a long moment. She gave him the slightest nod before abruptly turning away, beginning to leave the room, Emmett in tow, pulling him by the wrist. She stopped in the doorway and declared without turning around.
"He is the one who gives my life true meaning. If something were to happen to him…"
Her voice trembled with contained emotion, and she stopped abruptly, leaving the sentence hanging. She didn't need to say more anyway. The confession floated in the air. Behind her, Emmett wore a half-shocked, half-ecstatic expression that passed across his face, his usually smiling dimples still pinched into a guilty pout. He slowly placed his left hand on her shoulder and drew her into a half-embrace.
Jasper lowered his eyes briefly. His amber gaze immediately shifted to Alice, who had turned to rest against his chest; her face now visible, the seer was watching Emmett and Rosalie with a distant look.
The empath gave a faint nod and whispered, almost a breath:
"I understand that."
Rosalie turned toward him with an oddly calm expression, letting her gaze linger on Alice before sighing.
"I'm sorry for hurting you, Alice. I was upset. I don't think you had any bad intentions."
Alice flashed a bright smile, her face suddenly lighting up with relief.
And just like that, it was over. The storm had passed, and the sun could shine once more.
Esme smiled.
Notes:
*I still enjoy using Camus quotes as chapter openings, but this one seemed particularly fitting for what I wanted to convey about Esme.
[1] Canonically, Charles Evenson finds Esme at her cousin's house and tries to force her to return with him before she manages to escape to Ashland. But I thought she had suffered enough, so I gave her a slight shortcut and spared her yet another painful confrontation after leaving Ohio.
[2] I think Esme probably didn't use her married name and was most likely using her maiden name when she died.
[3] For context, the Cullens often use "false names" to avoid being detected as immortals. I made it so that Carlisle didn't give Esme his pseudonym in 1911 so that, when they first met, he wouldn't have to introduce himself to her under a false identity. It's a romantic choice, I suppose.
[4] It's said that Esme greatly enjoys art, and apart from architecture and cooking, the hobbies she pursues most are creative: painting, sculpture, photography, etc. It seems there is a desire to capture the beauty of the world and create things that evoke that beauty.
[5] Besides the clear connection to Camus' quote at the beginning, some may have recognized here a reference to Tolkien: "Then the heart of Eowyn changed, or else at last she understood it. And suddenly her winter passed, and the sun shone on her. "
[6] I think Jasper is much more cautious with his use of his power here than when he was in a war situation during his time in the South. If not long after his arrival, he has to deliberately stop himself from intervening with the emotions of the Cullens—especially Rosalie—to avoid giving them the (real) impression that he is manipulating them, this must make the management of his power much more erratic than when he was controlling newborn armies. We'll revisit this point in a future chapter.
That's all for this chapter dedicated to Esme (the part about 'grief' was especially tough to write, I hope it felt 'right'), which I struggled with for a long time, but in the end, I'm really happy with it: don't believe it, but the harder I initially struggle to write something, the more satisfied I generally am with the result! :p
The next two chapters will be lighter and transitional, and we'll be making a little time jump… then we'll calmly move toward the last part of the story (with Calgary… and Maria). Teaser, teaser ^^
See you soon for the next part! :)