*Note*
I hope it's not too slow, I'm just trying to get as much of the background out of the way so that I can write about the more fun stuff. :3

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Haha forgot a Disclaimer....: All Canons etc belong to Steph Meyer. Yea yea, I feel sorry for them too.

The Life and Immortality of Carlisle Cullen

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The Beginning of the Beginning

My earliest memory that I can clearly recall is receiving a present from Father; my very first cross. My exact age escapes me, but I was young enough to anticipate the reception of any present with the utmost joy. It was made of oak and carved rigidly and erect; much like my father's countenance. I recall the hours I spent smoothing the wood with my eager hands, tracing the paths a knife once touched. It was a rare thing, to receive a gift from Father. I was unused to affection; my mother died bringing me into this world and the extent of familial warmth I received were rough shoulder clasps from Father, and sympathetic pats from the church-goers.

My upbringing was firm and unyielding, but I did not know any other. Father was an enthusiast in his profession as the pastor of our church. His raging sermons were the fuel to my childhood night terrors; although regardless I was in awe of his fearlessness with regard to the Devil, and the fires of damnation. He was, for a while, the source of my protection. He was God's chosen, and being his son I would be granted protection. It was my greatest ambition to be like my father, and to follow in his footsteps; an ambition he instigated and supported.

He ran a school next to his Pastor priorities, which I attended with a few other boys. Besides penmanship, reading, and arithmetic, we were well schooled in every aspect of our religion possible. I took relish in my studies, for my world was very small, and I jumped upon any opportunity to fill my mindlessly turning thoughts. My father also took especial joy in lecturing on this world's evils. Top on his list were Roman Catholics, witches, and vampires. They were the fungus, the scourge of the earth, and were spawned by Lucifer himself to tempt and sully the good. It wasn't 'till I was fourteen that I, and a few of my other school mates, was given the privilege of attending a Hunt. Frequently, townspeople flocked to Pastor Cullen with rumors and horror stories of resident witches, concealed heretics, and preying vampires. Not only that, but those of any other religion but Protestant were assailed, as well as those suspected of sodomy or adultery.

My first Hunt was initiated with the complaints of several people from a town a little outside of London who suffered from sudden blight, and sickness. A hermitic old woman who resided at the edge of the town's surrounding woods was secretly accused. Father took care to Hunt upon suspicion. He believed any case brought to him was a divine assignment sent down to him, and as he had no legal judicial power, he would take the power of the Church and his followers to carry out God's wrath. In any case, his actions were never deterred. I suspect now that the Crown turned a blind—but smiling—eye from Father's activities, as it benefited their cause.

The night of the Hunt was taut with anticipation. I gathered with my school mates in our church, with the rest of Father's rallied group. I was sick with eagerness, and could barely hear my Father roar out inciting words, and I barely acknowledged the smug grins on the faces surrounding me. In a flurry of energy, we left the church to our mounts, and sat in our saddles, clutching lit torches in our hands. A few of us were given swords, though I doubted what they could do against a witch's magic. However, whether or not doused in holy water, I had enough education to know where to stick one.

The night was freezing, it being the beginning of winter. I clutched to my torch, shuddering despite the warmth the fire provided upon my face. My father stood erect beside me, keeping his mount at a clip trot. I was honored with a place at his right hand, at the front of the mob which huddled behind me. Needless to say, most of our spirits had been dampened by the cold as we reached the edge of the accursed town. But reminding us of the dour and sickly town we had just crossed, Father excited us once again for justice. I was secretly pleased that my first Hunt was for a witch. They were far rarer than Pagans or sodomizers; though not half as rare as vampires. The magicked, twisted, and malformed idea I held of the vaguely supernatural gave me a sick sense of entertainment. And again, I was fervent in my repulsion of evil, like my father.

I remember how our torchlight flickered ominously as we stood outside the old woman's small cottage. Firelight could be seen peeking through the shuttered windows, and I could spot a tiny garden that was fenced against the cottage wall. Little twiggy shrubs, which I presumed were dead, feebly stuck out of the frost-bitten ground. Father dismounted, and I followed suit, watching as he strode to the door, and kicked it in with the hard heel of his boot. The door swung open easily, not being locked, and he stumbled into the one roomed abode, his face furious and aflame. I averted my eyes at his fumble, and barely caught his agitated beckoning towards myself and two others. We sidled into the small space, and I felt a brief relief at the warmth that enveloped me. However, the following smell was not as comfortable, and I endeavored to covertly breathe through my mouth. My father flicked his fingers, and one of the other men and I stepped forward to haul the old woman from her place by the fire, to stand bent in front of him.

"Mrs. Elizabeth Hourd. By the power invested in me by our Lord God, I find thee guilty of witchcraft, and thus will purge thee of the evil that ye have imposed upon this town." His voice was cold, and rang in the small room. I felt the poor women shiver, and make to speak, but Father gestured once again, and I moved forward to force Mrs. Hourd out into the cold night.

That night, Mrs. Hourd was ruthlessly beaten on the cold ground until she admitted her guilt through broken teeth and in the same hour was staked in her house, where she and it were burned to the ground.

We did not return home 'till early morning, but I could not sleep. I was given leave to my room for however long I wished, but as I rested upon my bed I could not close my eyes but for seeing the blood and fire, and hearing Mrs. Hourd's pained cries. I was ashamed at my pity for the woman, a pity my father would have become angered for. She was a witch, I told myself, responsible for the suffering of others and the corruption of her soul. She was damned, and thus purged. These things I told myself, but nevertheless for many nights I could not sleep without nightmares.

My memory of my human life remains blurry at best in most parts, but I recall that after my first Hunt, many followed that I was privy to. And as the years past, Father was ever more fervent in his goal to expunge the vampire scourge. Any report of a blood drinking citizen was inevitably brought to his attention, and he took to addressing each accusation with religious fervor. As I grew older, I learned most of the rumors and accusations that came to our church were false, and unfounded, and many based on bitter feuds. I slowly learned that my father was not the great man I thought he was, but he was my only family, and I was his.

My father did not discriminate between truth and lies, and once I became enlightened I could not stomach the slaughter of the innocent, though socially spited. Every Hunt, despite my distaste, I made sure to come along. Father soon trusted and depended me to lead them as he body slowly failed him in his endeavors. Using his trust to others advantage, I convinced him many times to remain home for Hunts in order to investigate claims thoroughly. Rarely, if ever, did I find a founded accusation, and found myself having to lie to my father upon the conclusion of my judgments. On Hunts without Father, I made to only bring a few friends who I trusted implicitly to trust my judgment and keep my doings undisclosed. Most events that I led left the accused alive, but we were sure to properly rough them up in order to discredit any rumors of "heretic tolerance" that may have arisen. Of course, with our lack of killing, it was inevitable that Father heard of my lack of purging when his more bloodthirsty associates caught wind of my mercy. His disapproval and following accompaniment on Hunts led to my witness of further blatant murders. However, I made sure that the Hunts we went on were against those with a definite criminal background. It did little to assuage my guilt, and nonetheless I had more blood on my hands.

My fervor to impress my devotion to my father did not dampen, and was inevitably rewarded. It was another rainy day in London when Pastor Cullen received chilling accounts of ravaged throats of abandoned corpses. Stories of screams coming from fresh graves, graves found dug up and empty not three days later. At the time, Father was frequently ill, and when the news came to our attention he was bedridden with a chest cold. Our housekeeper and I unyieldingly prevailed upon him to rest himself so that he may be well for Church, and whatever other God's work he had been charged with. I was already three-and-twenty by then, old enough to take responsibility of the house, and had used my father's illness, though it grieved me, to prevent as many unfounded purgings. He knew of it, and grieved me of it, but could do nothing of it.

Hearing the disturbing accounts, I was fiercely charged by him, in representation of the Church, to immediately apprehend the vampire, and he solicited to me several people of who he greatly suspected being culprit. It was enough for me to hear of the vivid murders to have incentive to conduct my own investigation; however I knew how much it would mean to Father that I solved this case. And, as it was on the way, I was given the opportunity to call on Miss Diana Forster, a young maiden who attended our church, and had caught my acquaintance.

A few days after receiving the news, I set off with but two companions. Little did I know how drastically my life would change the instant I left the parsonage. Little did I know that vampires were, in fact, more real than I would ever have known.

*Note*
I'm not a huge fan of twilight, though I did follow the series when it started. This idea popped in my head, to write Carlisle's story, and I was excited. o: Review and tell me if I should continue?