Pen name: vanilladoubleshot
Pairing: Carlisle/implied!Esme, Carlisle/Edward (Friendship)
Just a blarg. I am uneasy writing Carlisle; did I succeed?
Dr. Cullen, he asked me; so formal still despite a year's passing since we were strangers, despite constant reinforcement in my actions, words, even my thoughts, that he was my beloved son: Who is the girl who see whenever we pass by a yew tree? You so rarely think of any human's face for more than a moment, but hers is a countenance you conjure like clockwork whenever you see lanced leaves.
Were he to be human, the breadth of perception and depth of regret he carried with him in every knowing flick of his eyes might well reduce even me to tears. He never voiced his own thoughts with me, but asked markedly of mine, choosing to spear my immobile heart with names and faces designed most efficaciously to wound me.
She wears almost modern attire, he pressed, tousling his blood-matted hair, still attempting to master the hunt but able to control his movements, sated by four wolves. He glut himself still in vain effort to quell the burn in his throat, knowing now, after a full year, that relief could never be true.
His red-rimmed eyes narrowed as he followed my careless thought, and his next words cut me to the bone.
She's surely still alive.
I tried to explain the seismic shift, the meteoric hold over me had by that the little girl in Ohio, and how when I saw her shy smile as I splinted her broken leg, and how mischievous her eyes became when she told me that she'd fallen from the large yew tree on the edge of her family's property, and that she had climbed to the very top of the tree trying to see Columbus because she heard that it shone with lights like a fallen constellation.
I love her, I said simply, hoping that he in all of his intellectual observance and righteous anger, forgetful of his mere eighteen years of wisdom, would understand. I belong to her, forever.
Then why don't you? he asked. His hands were bloody. His gaze was calculating, yet not cruel, and I let hope fill me for a moment that one day he might learn to call me Carlisle.
She is only a child, I explained. To change a child is to perform a monstrous deed.
Edward's eyes darkened to black and I resisted my immediate urge to fall into a run away from the volatile youth before me:
Esme Platt was nearly seventeen when she fell from her yew tree.
You're wrong, Edward said coolly, wiping the wolves' blood across his starched white shirt. To change a child is merely to create a monster.