Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.
Another oneshot. Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!
In which the Spanish Influenza hits Chicago 1918…
The clock chimed it dull bells; naming the hour.
The nearby corridor was lined with a carefully placed hand-embroidered crimson rug that draped gracefully over the darkly polished wooden floors and led down the hall to the small family sitting around a polished table over untouched food and unexpected silence. The woman sat abruptly straight in her chair, fingers clenched tight around her cutlery, her eyes forward and distant in her lost thoughts as she stared at her son seated across from her. Her husband dropped his newspaper and followed her gaze with the same horrified expression.
Their son stared back, a firm glint overcome his features, hiding the shock of his action. "It was just a cough, Mother."
That it had been – a simple, bodily reflex to release air from the lungs. And yet the misery shone clearly on her face as her fork fell with a loud clutter onto her plate and she let out a small, involuntary groan of despair. Her hand clamped firmly over her lace bodice where her heart thumped in panic. She turned to her husband, her breath came in pants.
"Edward," she moaned to him, her mouth pulled unpleasantly, "its how they all started."
"Mother," the young man whispered. "I'm fine, truly I am."
Elisabeth Masen shook her head, bronze curls bouncing. She stood and ambled quickly to his side, pressing her palm to his clammy, warm forehead, ignoring his objections. He remained seated; she twisted her waist to meet his level, her arms shook as she embraced him with a dry, heaving sob.
His father was already standing at his other side, coats in his grasp. "We are going to the hospital."
"Don't be absurd," the son argued soothingly. "There is nothing wrong with me. We wear our masks outside, I couldn't possibly–"
"Oh darling," she sighed, clenching his arm as they led him to the door. "They are mere precautions."
The streets of Chicago were damp and smelt strongly of the disease that passed through in the month of May, lingering through June in 1918. Mr. and Mrs. Masen securely clamped the face-mask around their son, Edward, and themselves as they walked swiftly through the threshold and waved down a horse-trotting coach. Journeying to the nearest medical facility was long and blurred; the carriage driver had insisted they not pay him for his services once he assumed they had been infected by the dreaded decay that suddenly plagued the city, hearing the grunts of suppressed pain as the fever conquered the young man before him.
"Edward," Elisabeth cooed softly to her child, sweeping his hair from his sweat-drenching brow. "Don't worry darling, I'm here."
"Mother…" he murmured, his voice raw. She hushed him gently.
The hospital was smothered with bustling people, shouting and moving, coughing and spluttering. Mr. Masen marched to the front of the temporary ward and demanded to see a doctor. The nurse was offended by his aggressive tone and, despite her impacient reasoning with their many priorities, was sent scampering off to find the first practitioner she could pry away from their work. Edward was sent into a spasm of violent gasping, retching until he fell limp to the ground at the arrival of the doctor. Elisabeth was in tears as her son was hurled about like a common mongrel, then transported to the corner of a crowded chamber. Her husband's wealthy income meant little, near nothing in the overbooked public resource. Her throat was sore and she felt incredibly faint despite her spouses comforting arm. A handsome man in a flowing white coat approached them.
"Mr. Masen," the doctor addressed him anxiously. "Do you feel well?"
It was only then Elisabeth noticed her husbands exhausted appearance and ghostly pale complexion, his quivering arms. "Edward?" she questioned him distraughtly. "Edward, are you going to be ill? What's the matter?" Any blood lingering in her face drained at her realisation; she turned to him, forcing his unwilling eyes to look at her. "Edward… are you ill?"
He shuddered. The doctor – with reflexes that far surpassed her own – supported him before he wilted to the ground. She heard more shouts, orders for another bed in the room and the screeching protest of rusted wheels as another cot was placed beside the one that held her son.
Nurses fretted about the two of the new arrivals as she leaned against the wall in disbelief. Mouth agape behind her mask and breath too quiet. Elisabeth didn't know how long she stood with her arms wrapped around herself to replace those where her husbands should be, listening to the ragged breathing of child and unconscious love. She was only vaguely aware of her body slowly slipping down the wall, sitting against the hospitals cold floor and hugging her knees to her chest.
She was also only dimly mindful of someone coming to sit beside her.
"Mrs. Masen?" the person asked, the sound was mellowed and distant, but she distantly recalled it as the voice of the doctor. When she didn't respond, he hesitated. "Elisabeth?" Her name caught her attention, she glanced at him with hard, green eyes. "Mrs. Masen, please. It is very, very important for you hear me and answer my questions. The life of your husband and son may depend upon it."
She swallowed difficultly. "Doctor…?"
"Doctor Carlisle Cullen," he replied quickly.
"Doctor Cullen," Elisabeth whispered, the name rolled off her tongue. "What is it you want to know?"
This Carlisle Cullen made no motion to remove her from her unladylike position; instead, he too remained how he was, kneeling beside her. "How long have you and your family been subjected to the epidemic?" The query was professional and innocent enough, but Elisabeth wavered, her brow creased as she looked to the floor.
"What is the date?" she enquired simply.
Carlisle froze in confusion, his lips moving. "It is past midnight, Madam. The third of June."
He was startled as his answer released a tear down her cheek; she stared at her child in his thrashing, uncomfortable sleep. "My son..." Elisabeth murmured, snapping her attention back to the doctor. "I do not remember how long this crossing was, but we stood by him in the carriage for how ever many weeks or seconds it took. Please, heed me no attention for I want naught but to stay here and watch you save him. Please save him. He is almost eighteen, a man. I want him to live to know that." she moaned, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "I am so worried about them, I cannot think."
"With all due respect, Mrs. Masen," Carlisle spoke carefully. "You should be concerned about your own well-being."
She gritted her teeth with a fierce appearance. "How do you mean?"
"I do not wish to alarm you," he said in a soft defence. "However, it is quite likely that you yourself have inherited this plague, with both your closest of relatives infected. Please allow me to examine you and perhaps reach a somewhat comforting verdict. How are you feeling?"
Her back stiffened against the wall, glare piercing. "With all due respect, Doctor Cullen," she said coldly. "My husband and only child are lying in hospital with an incurable disease that is slaughtering hundreds of people nation-wide. So please do me the great honour of a diagnosis, good sir," she hissed the words darkly. "Tell me, how should I be feeling at this very moment?"
"I understand your gravely distressed," the kindness of his tone only fuelled her anger. "This may not seem significant at this point in time, but I assure you, it is of importance." He was silent, attempting a comforting smile that somehow swallowed her misdirected rage with the unnatural beauty of his features that struck her awareness. His smile twitched in amusement as she stared. "Please allow me to rephrase. How are you feeling physically?"
"Is that what your son said?"
Elisabeth faltered at the unexpected reply and frowned sadly. "My throat hurts and I am tired. Symptoms of misery, I imagine."
"That," Carlisle agreed dejectedly, "and the Influenza."
She did not react as others had with furious fits on denial, instead she accepted the statement with as much dignity she could gather, observing her weakness as she was unable to rise from her crouch and Carlisle lifted her as if she were nothing but a delicate pillow and lowered her into another cot he had placed beside her son. Nurses tittering to each other unhappily at the inappropriate gesture.
He confirmed all three of their cases as the Spanish disease after another careful inspection of Elisabeth's high temperature that she was never aware of in her scrambled state of mind, only noticing that his skin felt especially cold against hers.
Unaware of the instants that passed, Elisabeth witnessed in her heated delusion of fever her son's struggling battle and her husband still in quiet unconsciousness. Passing in and out of perception, she was woken into one of her dazes and vaguely remembers one of the nurses informing her of her husbands untimely death. She drifted away, awaking again with Doctor Cullen standing beside her as she often found him doing. Reality lashed the wind from her. The empty bed, the flowing tears. "Carlisle," she murmured. "Tell me, please."
He understood her request. "It was bleeding in the lungs that was his demise. He did not regain from his slumber."
Elisabeth forced her body to push up against the bed frame, despite the doctor's protest; she looked to her son, sleeping more manically than before, his eyes darting wildly under their lids. "And my Edward?" she asked, he dwindled mindlessly of the young mans brief awakenings, but ignored the question she wished to know. "Will he live to raise a family?" she demanded desperately.
Carlisle didn't respond and bid her a temporary farewell.
Even in her current state, Elisabeth knew the truth. People with the disease rarely lived to see the third day of torment. All hours of time she heard the dreary paces of nurses wheeling away bodies to the morgue, trying to consol the families of the dead and, more likely, attempting to squeeze in more coming patients of the sweeping infirmity. She knew the many things she overheard the practitioner's muttering over her sickbed – how lucky both she and her son were to have survived so long, and how they feared Edward would be next to slip into the abyss of Heaven.
She also overheard a gentlemanly dispute between Doctor Cullen and another unfamiliar man just outside the ward, the unknown voice demanding Carlisle leave for home and take rest despite the doctor's calm, persuading assurance of his perfect health. More often than not, Elisabeth was scolded by nurses for attending to Edward when no one else could. Treasuring the moments he was conscious enough for them to talk, the skip of her too-fast beating heart when his eyes would flicker open to meet hers.
"Mother…" He had said, her eyes prickled as she heard him speak for the first time since arriving at the hospital over a week ago. "Mother," he whispered again, their cots pressed close enough together for them both to stretch out their weakened arms and grasp each others hands. "They said father is feasting with God at His mighty table," he spoke past his exposed, pale throat, shining with a layer of sweat. "Will he save us a place beside him?"
She didn't know what to say, tears blurred her vision. "Of course, darling," she soothed, smiling past her tears. "Of course."
"You must not obsess over him so."
Elisabeth was startled by the presense of Doctor Cullen as he stood watching her dab at Edward's forehead with a damp cloth, his mouth still unnaturally perfect though it was straightened into a thin, grim line. His honey-coloured hair swept back behind his face and the purple circles under his eyes more dominant than ever. He was in her line of vision, and yet still managed to approach unnoticed. She blamed her deteriorating senses.
Ignoring his comment she continued her task. "You're back already." she commented.
He advanced slowly. "I felt useless sitting at home with nothing to do."
"Perhaps a well-deserved rest, or a whole-nights sleep with a wife by your side." Elisabeth suggested, dunking the cloth in the basin beside her and wringing out the excess ice water with a burning protest from her aching muscles, rubbing the cool fabric against Edward's straining neck that held its tendons taut even in sleep. "You work too hard, Carlisle."
He laughed and lightly took the material from her grasp and sustained her task. "I have no need for rest, or a wife."
Elisabeth sighed, wryly adding. "You're only human." As he often did, he didn't respond in a way she thought ordinary, instead he placed down the cloth and led her back to her bed, making sure she stayed there as a nurse arrived to give both she and Edward their doses of pain medication. Elisabeth always figured it was because of this man and his attractive manifestation that the nurses would pay that little extra special attention to them since Carlisle was almost always visiting their ward. She was secretly thankful.
In one of her illusions, a place where she was unaware if it was a dream or reality, she had asked him why it was he spent so much time with her and her son, whether they were conscious or unconscious. His expression, she recalled, was of someone who could very well cover their own personal tortures. "I have no family," he admitted quietly, a rare time he would abandoned his doctor-professional-voice with her. He hesitated, adding in a softer voice. "It is wrong of me to grow attached to you and Edward."
"Because we are dying." She had stated with her delusional confidence.
He nodded grimly. "Yes, that is exactly why…" Elisabeth was sure to never bring it up again, still uncertain of whether is was a vivid hallucination.
Another week slowly passed and Elisabeth gradually felt herself losing control of her limbs until she was resulted unable to leave her cot. Both she and Edward had developed violent coughing fits that often led to blood pooling from their mouths and ears, or red spots in her vision where a blood vessel had burst. It aggrieved her to see the blue tinges to Edward's features; the grey shadow that loomed over him that she knew mirrored her own body, causing him the same unhappiness. A horrific sight.
And yet, almost every evening, Carlisle would sit beside Elisabeth and listen to her talk about her son.
"He wanted to join the army, and fight in the Great War," Elisabeth barely recognising her own voice, sounding like that of an elderly woman. "Of course, I would never allow it, no matter how much he begged for my approval. Another year or so and he would have snuck away if it wouldn't hurt me. I always knew he was destined for so much more than to die young on a battlefield in some distant country." Her hardened expression softened somewhat as she limply turned her head towards him. "He was to fall in love, and raise a family in a charming home with a good income, strong sons and beautiful daughters. That is the life I wanted for him, the life he deserves. The life he will never get."
Carlisle sat too-still in his chair. "It must pain you greatly."
Elisabeth closed her eyes and relished in the slightly-restful feeling. "Yes," she agreed, wavering at her question. "Can he speak?"
"I am sorry, Mrs. Masen. He is passed the capability."
She looked at him with weary features. "Can he hear me?" Carlisle smiled with a small contentment.
"I like to think so."
Elisabeth nodded and gazed at her son tenderly. "Edward," she spoke to him, her hoarse tone lathered in affection. "Oh Edward, how I love you. How I wish I could hear your voice once more," tears streaked her gaunt cheeks, dripping into her withering hair. "You are so strong, and I am so proud of you, my darling. You've made me so proud…"
Slightly uncomfortable with intruding in such an intimate moment, Carlisle drifted his gaze to the ceiling, however was quickly aware when Elisabeth brushed his skin with her hot palm to gain his attention, her eyes ablaze with a new light.
"Save him!" she ordered, husky tone firm and definite.
"I will do everything in my power." Carlisle answered, clasping her blistering hand in his in a comforting, slightly eager gesture.
"You must," she insisted, clenching back tight. "You must do everything in your power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward." He stared at her, terror in his eyes, his thoughts branching as she continued in a quieter manner. "You are my friend, Carlisle, whether you wished to be or not. Do this as a final favour to me. No matter of how, and ignore that doubt I see in your eyes! Just save him. Give him that family I told you about. People to love and who love him. I trust you."
"Look at yourself," he said intensely. "The force in your arm, your steady mind. You're pulling through, don't give up hope."
She chuckled, turning the laugh into a spitting heave. "You are too confident in me. I know when it is my time. Carlisle, please. Promise me…"
"I promise, Elisabeth."
It was after he spoke those words she lost consciousness, her hands grip loosening in his as he placed it back by her side and waited patiently for her to regain her strong composure. So likely she was going to make it. Her vigour was remarkable, unlike any he had seen in a human. Carlisle shook his head at his thoughts, knowing well the dangerous situation he had sworn into. He stared at the boy that lay dying, so young and innocent. The conversations they had shared ringing in his ears, the undeniable knowledge that he was companion that he craved.
The friend he wished he had. Edward.
"Doctor Cullen?" the uncertain voice of Beatrice, a nurse, flowed through the room. "Doctor, you are needed in ward seven."
The guilt washed through in powerful waves as he once again became aware of the other lives that were fading while he quenched this thirst for company with the woman and her son that had captured so much of his interest. "I will be right there." he informed the nurse, who blushed and scurried away to relay the message. Carlisle sighed and stood from his seat. How he could allow himself to care so deeply for two fragile humans that were but a breath away from death was beyond his understanding whilst they both continued to impress him with their goodness and strength of being.
No matter the numbers Carlisle would tell Elisabeth that she was strong, that if she allowed her body time to heal she could recover, he would still find her again and again by her son's side, fussing over him though she was all too-aware that this very worrying was ruining her own chances. However, it was Edward that surprised him indefinitely, since the death of his father in the first wave most suspected him to shortly follow, and though he didn't share equally with his mother's strength, he certainly had endurance to cling to the last beat of his life.
Such perfect endurance for the Transformation…
No! He shouted to himself. He couldn't possibly. Did he have the right to take away a human life, even at its very end? Carlisle pondered over the question for two hundred plus years, and in the half-hour he stood in ward seven, discussing various new techniques his colleagues had conjured in their exhausted human minds. It was only once he had stated his opinions he was allowed to wonder back to his previous tasks, in which he returned to the Masen's ward. His findings greatly troubled him, Elisabeth's heartbeat rapidly disintegrating. He walked quickly to her side and took her by the shoulders.
For the first time in years, Carlisle felt close to weeping. "Elisabeth?" he called in vain as she gave one last shaking breath and passed into the void. He only had seconds to think, though his superior senses helped the matter. There Elisabeth Masen laid, dead, and he himself gravely distressed. There Edward Masen laid, by the frantic hammering of his heart he only had hours to live. Now was his time to decide. To act.
Carefully, gingerly, Carlisle placed Elisabeth's body onto the gurney, solemnly disheartened at her unrestful appearance, even in death, covering her with a clean, white sheet so that others may not be as troubled as he. With brisk steps he moved, veering the trolley-like stretcher through the halls, ignoring the scattered, distraught calls of his name growing ever more desperate as he, a prestigious doctor, was wheeling the dead.
It didn't feel right to allow anyone else to move her.
Mulling on his thoughts on the way to the morgue, reflecting on his – dare he say? – love for the woman that he could have saved.
Could have, but didn't. His heart was an unwelcomed weight in his chest.
He quickened his pace, throwing open the doors of the morgue, icy-cold air and the stench of rotting flesh hit his senses. Many flat surfaces were disfigured by that of remains; whether they were new or aged, jointly or disassembled, he was disgusted to know from the way they smelled to him and the tamed beast within. Some of the corpses were not covered, their stone-white faces twisted in anguish through unseeing eyes. The mortician was standing over the body of a small child, hearing Carlisle's approach he looked up from his work and stared at him, eyed the gurney with distaste and held the same bored expression. "Name?" he asked dryly, holding a metal-nibbed pen to his clipboard. Carlisle held his breath.
"Elisabeth Masen." Carlisle informed him. There was a silence that was filled by the scratching of the pen.
The mortician waved his hand in dismissal. "Just leave it there." he gestured lazily to Elisabeth's structure.
Carlisle felt his rage rise, the beast snarled. With blinding speed and overrun by his sorrow, he stood beside the undertaker between him and Elisabeth's slowly-cooling body. "She," he motioned towards her rigidly, "is a person! A good person! With a husband and a son who she loved dearly!" his tone grew into a dangerous growl. "Do not refer to her as if she were nothing."
He left the morgue, sinking into the frightening aspect of his outburst and what could occur if it happened again. His resolution made – he could not bare Edward to die, he could not bare the thought of him leaving this world. He couldn't let Elisabeth's last desire go unfulfilled, to let the last of her lineage follow her fate for all eternity. That young man would be his light in this never-ending spin of forever. He chose to shortly discount his own selfish reasons, hastening his stride back to the Masen's small ward before he became anymore distracted from his goal and the two separate voices shouting opposite demands.
The bed was empty.
Bitter dread struck him as Carlisle froze at the foot of Edwards's vacant cot. He was too late. He was gone. Standing unnaturally immobile in the middle of the room, Carlisle felt numb. It was now he drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scents of his surroundings. No, he realised, not dead. Moved. He tugged off his charade face-mask and took in another gulp of the faint scent of Edward; it led him back out the doorway and into the hall. With a fierce, indomitable stride he followed the trail, focusing completely on the familiar aroma to not get it confused with the many others that sent his senses flying in all directions. The track ceased at the ward of the terminally dying, the chamber closest to the morgue.
As Carlisle entered, the overwhelming stench of thinning blood swept over him.
He did not waver, walking swiftly to the far left side of the aligned beds.
Edward was awake. Or as awake as someone is his condition could possibly accomplish. He was gazing distantly at the cot beside his own, where his mothers would have been, wheezing heavily through his mouth, blinkingly slowly past the blood smeared on his chin. As Carlisle advanced, Edward didn't respond to the movements around him, instead, closed his eyes and slowly drew himself inward. "No, Edward," Carlisle whispered, transporting him carefully from his cot to another gurney. "Don't give up yet, my friend."
Hastily covering him with another white cloth, his hands would have been shaking if he had been human, Carlisle heard the footsteps of a fast-approaching nurse. "I beg your pardon, Doctor Cullen," he did not know this woman; however, his reputation preceded him. She did not seem to find it odd he did not wear a visor against his mouth in a quarter full of the deathly infected. "I heard you were off duty as of an hour ago. Have you not left for home yet?"
He lied smoothly. "This boy passed only a moment ago. I was making him more comfortable, taking him to the morgue on my way out."
"That isn't necessary," she said pleasantly. "You can go, I will take him." As she reached for the gurney handle Carlisle, foolishly, pushed the stretcher ahead, away from her grasp with one swift action. She blinked and turned her head to face him with a curious gaze, her smile had fallen behind her mask and her hand dropped back to fidgeting on the cords of her apron.
"Please," Carlisle said promptly. There was no time. "I will take him. He was a patient of mine, I felt close to him."
Not waiting for a response, he effortlessly made his way out of the ward. Despite the much shorter distance back to the morgue, it seemed longer than the first; even though he was sure he was moving faster than any human should. Every second that ticked by could mean this boy's downfall.
By his ashes, he could not let that happen.
Obliviously distracted, Carlisle did not dare stop moving at risk someone might notice Edward stirring under the sheet. Re-entering the room full of the recently deceased made him uncomfortable, forcing himself not to look at the counter in which he knew Elisabeth laid, for her smell, even in death, was so much more overpowering and familiar to him than the others. He met no one in his escape out the alleyway, leaving behind the stretcher and pulling Edward's limp form over his back so he rested as comfortably as possible on his shoulder.
To Carlisle's thankful contentment, the glow of the sun had disappeared in the distance some hours ago.
A startling hiss rose from his chest as he crouched his knees and leapt upon a nearby rooftop, careful not the jolt Edward. It was a race against nature, Carlisle would have been nothing but a blur to humans who saw him hurdling effortlessly from house to house until, at last, he reached the safety of his small manor. He positioned Edward against the bedstead in which he would lay awake during the long day, cowering from the sunlight, until he could rejoin the hospital. Hesitantly, he eyed the young man's failing body, his theories rushing into his head. Many times Carlisle thought of how the creation of a vampire occurred, only to have his presumptions confirmed by Aro of the Volturi some decades ago. Vampire venom, he had said, was one of the strangest yet wondrous things about our world.
He loathed putting someone through that pain, that twisted anguish. But there was no time. Edward opened his eyes to stare at him; the uncomprehending fear made Carlisle cringed. "I'm sorry, Edward." He whispered, leaning against the boys pale, exposed neck, sinking his bared teeth into the flesh. The blood surged into his mouth, even in his immunity to human blood, he struggled not to swallow. Edward groaned with vigour protest, his back arched as he thrashed. At the instinct, Carlisle ran his tongue over the wound, sealing it from further exposure.
Three days passed, and Carlisles eyes turned black from the effort. Three days of endless screams of torment. Three days, and Carlisle did not move an inch from his position standing protectively over Edward, apologising every time the young man shrieked at the burning he knew was consuming him. He watched, the experience new and terrifying. The first day he wondered if he had been too late – if the venom hadn't been enough to save him. It was now, the slowing of Edwards failing heart, that he knew the transformation was almost complete. That Edward would be waking soon and Carlisle prayed that he would not hate him for creating what he has now become.
He heard the last faltering beat of Edwards's heart.
Edward opened his eyes slowly. At least, he thought it was slowly, not shying away from the should-have-been-painful movement.
Those green eyes lost… such a pity.
A voice that was not his own startled him as he leapt to his feet and soaked in the unfamiliarity of the room. Disoriented at his vision, a low hiss rumbled in this throat, surprising him by the bizarre, involuntary response. He had been in torment for so long, thinking of what he could have possibly done in his life that would send him to the fiery pits of the darkest hell at his death after such prolonged suffering of the epidemic.
As he thought back, attempting to distinguish the current moment, he found it vague and unresponsive – a veil placed over his memories. Panic heaved through him, his abrupt senses prickled; aware that time was passing slowly, yet swiftly. As if everything was happening at once, without him realising it. His thoughts seemed almost alien, like they weren't his own. The same instant he bounded into his stance, crouching defensively against a wall, he noticed the prickling was alerting him of the presence of another. Of how his eyes – the newly foreign sight – swept the room not out of confusion, but instinct. Searching for a threat.
He wondered vaguely if the fever had driven him mad.
Yet across the room was a man, watching him with carefully, caringly. Carlisle Cullen. His memories of the doctor were unusually clear, with himself marvelling the handsome man's face as the last he'd seen on earth, the rest a horrid nightmare, impossible to wake from the scorching liquid fire…
"Doctor Cullen?" Edward froze, dazed as he flinched at the sound that escaped his lips.
The doctor breathed a long sigh of relief, appearing bemused, taking a hesitant step forward. Edward slowly eased out of his crouch, muscles tensed. As his thoughts calmed, he noticed a faint hum echoing through the many new layers of his mind, increasing in tempo and growing louder.
"Edward," Carlisle breathed, lingering three feet from where he stood against the wall. "Forgive me." Please, please forgive me.
"Excuse me?" Edward asked stiffly, slightly awed, his brow creased at the distant hums.
Is he alright? Could something… gone wrong? Does… feel the thirst… overbearing…?
By his pained, confused expression, Carlisle inhaled swiftly.
Perhaps I should… taken him a few more… further west away from humans… I recall a small community somewhere past the…
He cringed, nevertheless let the appearance collapse, redeeming a blank stare that the doctor returned, leading to minutes of still, undisturbed silence. Edward was listening intently to the hum that was growing all the more legible with each passing moment as the doctor scrutinized each movement with an empty gaze until something different overcame him, and the hum warned him in advance when Carlisle determinably plunged the last three steps and gently grasped him into a fond embrace.
He did not try to stop him, responding by lightly wrapping his arms to counter to the paternal grip.
"Edward," Carlisle muttered. "My equal, my brother…" his thoughts rang through his head, loving and content. My son…
This is what I figured Edward's story would have been. I added a few twists to make it interesting and somewhat different from the book - such as Carlisle's love for Elisabeth. However, I've actually planned a story like this for each of the Cullens, and I wanted to ask: should I upload them as extra chapters to this or make them completely separate files? Either way, please tell me who's story you'd like to read next (Alice, Emmett, Esme, Rosalie, Jasper or Carlisle?)! Does anyone have any suggestions they would like me to consider?
Please read and review!