Sola Fide

by Mackenzie L.

By request from a reader, I was asked to write the moment when Edward first realizes that Carlisle regards him as a son. This is how I envision that moment, as told from Edward's point of view.

This story contains many historical references, none of which will be directly cited as every one of them came from a private lecture from one of my professors, who shall remain nameless. During her lecture on the Protestant Reformation, I feverishly took note of things that I wanted to use specifically in this story. Without her help, this one-shot would be severely lacking in enriching details. God knows I am in no way an expert scholar of the Early Modern English period!

The title of this story, "Sola Fide," is Latin for "Only Faith"; it was a common saying in the Protestant Church during the Reformation to remind the people that salvation from God was a freely given gift only if a man had proper faith.

*The Twilight Saga and all its characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer.

I always believed there was a reason why a grandfather clock was referred to as such. It was proud, stately, usually quiet in a corner of a room… But when one listened carefully, one could hear the soft ticking sound it made, second by second. Like a grandfather, a grandfather clock was a reminder of passing time. If one listened closely enough to a beloved old man, it was likely that one might hear an even softer ticking of his heartbeat – each bolt of the rhythm of life leading toward one inevitable toll…

And when the end to one such life was reached, a bell would sound. A melodious and somber gong, alarming to those who are not aware of time's passing, a crude jolt to men who idly prattle in their foolish ignorance.

I was not such a man. I was a keen listener to the sounds of time. Even when time no longer chiseled away at my youth, I still kept my ears out for the somber bell that would toll every hour, waiting on the grandfather in the quiet corner of the room.

"It's five o'clock," I whispered after five chimes had sung their song.

"The sun rises at 7:19," my sire answered in the darkness, his voice adopting my hushed tone.

I turned my wary gaze to the window behind us where timid tendrils of deep blue light were already leaking through the frost. "We have a few more hours."

"We'll be fine," Carlisle soothed.

I turned back to watch him as he continued packing his belongings for our move out of Chicago. Though we resided in rural area, I still felt awfully close to that city, having grown up there as a boy, and passed on there as a young man. Carlisle rarely forbade me from visiting the city when I desired it, though he was always cautious of my thirst. I was aggravated by his attentions at first, but ever since we had prepared to move out, something had begun to change inside of me. I was no longer so reluctant to accept Carlisle's concern and care. I would always be stubbornly independent, but only lately did I realize that giving Carlisle a hard time for it was not a necessity.

It took not several seconds of being in his presence for one to gather that he was a good man with only the most honorable intentions in all that he did. Like stale bread I felt in comparison to his overwhelming warmth and compassion. I tried in vain to make a guilty man out of him – this was my crime. I had given up this fruitless quest in return for something I could truly cherish. Dropping my pride, I agreed to live with my doctor as his sole companion. Only after I had opened my eyes to the gifts I had been given did I realize my mistake in being ill toward him in my early days.

I behaved myself now. Granted, it was rather difficult to harbor animosity for a man like Carlisle.

Even his mind was tranquil as he patiently stacked his collection of self-made sculptures into an empty crate. He had folded a banner of royal purple silk and laid it at the bottom of the box to provide luxurious insulation for the long trip. I thought it odd that he treated his artworks like living creatures, but I would not dream of saying this aloud. It was not that I feared humiliating him, but rather that I would be likely to lose a humorous scene if I did.

Carlisle liked to keep an assortment of "maquettes" throughout the house, claiming they had once been his only company before I came along. The small white statues he had created were beautiful, but I found them unsettling as they stared at me from unexpected perches in the hallway or parlor. Animals and faces and abstract entities – silent, reaching, and watching...

Carlisle insisted on keeping them in every room of the house, and even when I confessed that I considered him eccentric because of it, he still refused to hide them away. I had grown used to the extra company after some time, but it was a small relief to see them finally being packed into storage.

"Are you really going to take all of these?" I asked him with a dubious gesture to the piles of unfinished statuettes on the desk.

Carlisle paused, holding out a white plaster cast of his own hand before the firelight. He considered it with a tilt of his head, his thoughts flowing about how he most likely would not need them that he had my company.

"I suppose they can stay here," he sighed, setting the plaster piece back up on the mantel.

"Brilliant. Whoever moves in will have a family included," I joked amiably.

Carlisle did not look entirely pleased.

"You don't have to leave them behind if you don't want to," I told him. "I'm just saying the less belongings we have to take with us, the better."

He bit down on his lip, considering my precaution as he gave the remaining maquettes a once-over. "No you're right. I'll take the ones that mean the most to me. The rest can stay."

Carlisle looked disturbingly sad with every crafted piece of plaster he reluctantly pulled from the crate, his eyes furrowing intensely with each goodbye he murmured in his mind. After a minute of hasty decisions, the length of the fireplace mantle was fully decorated again, boasting an impressive display of plaster and wooden characters.

"You're very...attached to them, aren't you?" I pried tentatively.

Carlisle smiled sadly as he reached up to caress the tiny face of a woman sitting on a stone. "One can never part with one's artwork quite so easily."

"Hmph. Michelangelo seemed to be just fine with leaving his on the ceiling of a cathedral," I remarked.

"He had many upstanding patrons to please," Carlisle pointed out. "I have only myself," he added with a gentle smirk.

I scoffed before I could censor myself. Carlisle must have heard me, for his next statement was utterly defensive despite its soft tone.

"Imagine having to abandon your compositions forever. Would you be willing to pick and choose which songs to keep and which to never play again?"

I humbly considered his question. Pick and choose from my most treasured masterpieces? Even I had to admit that was unlikely to be an easy task. Perhaps Carlisle did share the same feelings for those sculptures as I did with my musical compositions.

"I guess not," I reasoned.

His eyes retreated from the room for a moment, revisiting past memories of the academy in Florence, of museums in Vienna, of parks in Paris, of studios right here in Chicago. "Art comes in so many different forms, Edward. Images, gestures, sounds, words... even speech."

The wisdom in his voice clotted a bit as he returned to his senses, regarding the sculptures on the mantle as we listened to the hopeful crackle of the fire.

"Are you going to miss it here?" I boldly interrupted the silence.

His thoughts heaved a sigh.

I miss a little bit of everywhere I've been, Edward. Though this time I imagine it will be easier for me. I won't feel like I'm leaving so very much behind as I have in the past... This time, you're coming with me.

"Yes," I consented agreeably, touched that he placed such value on my mere presence. "I'm coming with you."

He locked our eyes by a slight turn of his face, and I never recalled feeling so needed before in my terribly short life. I'd had dreams of feeling needed before – not by one person, but by an entire country. I'd had lofty dreams of being a hero as a boy; not for the sake of popularity, but of having the world on my shoulders and knowing I had significance. Never before did I feel so close to fulfilling my dream as I did when Carlisle looked at me this way. In that moment I forgot being needed by the world and accepted being needed just by him.

Carlisle patted me on the shoulder, never as rough as I wished he would be. He seemed tentative to use force with me, though I was as unbreakable as he. He held back, consciously, uncomfortable with touch after so many years of never experiencing those brief nudges and casual taps. He was coming to understand the subtleties of the art of interaction a little better with every week that went by. I hoped I was helping him rather than discouraging him. I found it put him at ease if I smiled. So I did it more often now.

More often than not, he seemed unable to suppress a smile of his own.


I could hear in his tone that he was hesitant to say what he had in mind. Trying to appear as approachable as I could, I leaned toward him slightly. "Hm?"

Carlisle took in a deep breath and spoke. "I want to visit the church one last time before we depart this morning. Is that all right with you?"

There was an underlying message that he was keeping purposefully cryptic. I tried to uncover it, but his thoughts retreated out of pure instinct.

"Of course," I said easily.

"But Edward... I would very much like it if you indulged me with your company on this visit."

Ah, I suspected enough.


Like a child who had just been refused by his best friend, Carlisle's eyes turned pleading. "I wouldn't be long. Service does not start until half past eight; no one would be around. Just stand by me for a few minutes. We will leave straight after."

If only to quell his insufferable lack of contractions, I nodded in agreement. "As long as we're quick."

Carlisle smiled in relief, closing the lid of the crate that housed his chosen sculptures. He ran a hand of tremulous fingers through his hair as he turned to take one last look at the empty room he had once called his study. It was strange to see it so bare, the bookshelves filled with nothing but dust, the velvet armchairs cradling nothing but ghosts, the wicks of candles left black and naked; like everything else in this house, this room was being abandoned.

We're moving on, Edward. Carlisle's thoughts murmured, filling my ears like lukewarm water. We're moving on.

Lifting the last crate over his shoulder, he walked out the door, bidding me to follow him into winter's welcoming embrace.


It was no secret that since my transformation, churches had made me uncomfortable. I'd blame it on the ironic disposition that comes with being a vampire, but I knew it went far deeper than that. I was not one to commit to the standard stereotypes; I liked to believe I harbored an instinct more profound than just that of a slightly more elegant breed of cannibal.

Carlisle made it look so easy. He was graceful as he walked – even proud – a regular 20th Century gentleman on the cold winter streets of Chicago in his waistcoat and gloves. He wore no hat upon his head, and I followed in his charade. We let the snowflakes gather in our hair, an absent form of charity as we walked.

I breathed in the crisp morning air, thankful that the streets were deserted before sunrise on this Wednesday morning, and oh what a fine morning it was. The scents of soot and snow and auto exhaust were far stronger than the scent of blood.

Carlisle's boots scraped the stone steps of the modest cathedral as he picked up his pace, several strides ahead of me. I lingered on the bottom of the steps as he knew I would, and he kindly turned around to look back at me once he had reached the top. His eyes were redeeming, slightly pleading for a moment, but the look of uncertainty was swept away with a brisk winter wind.

He turned his head up, and from my angle his face fit against a backdrop of congregating concrete cherubim on the façade of the cathedral behind him. I gulped in spite of myself, imagining my face must have looked rather twisted, to put it lightly. Carlisle looked anything but intimidated from where he stood now. The humble pride had returned to embolden his stance, his eyes gleaming a rich, honest ochre in the dim blue morning mist. A breeze fluttered his light blond hair, and for a moment I was a slave to wonder at his magnificence. It surprised me that the humans with whom he interacted by day did not mark him for his surreal appearance more often.

I read their minds. I knew how they regarded him.

Odd young Cullen with his golden eyes.

They were beginning to use the mocking title for me.

I was loathe to admit that it somehow felt like a compliment... if only to be compared to him.

Carlisle smiled amiably at me, and I worried for a fleeting instant that he had heard my thoughts. It was easy to forget sometimes that the gift worked only one way. There were times when I swore my sire had limited but productive access to my mind as I did his.

"You are coming, aren't you, dear boy?"

I felt an awkward warmth when he referred to me as such. The endearment sounded simply awful in such a young voice, but it brought me comfort to be addressed so affectionately, regardless if Carlisle was only six years my senior. It disturbed me as much as it pleased me.

The strangest things were pleasing to me of late.

I nodded curtly and took the steps two at a time, thinking we may as well get this visit over with.

I held my breath as Carlisle reached out with one gloved hand to draw open the heavy door to the vestibule. Inside it was quiet, dark, and still. Peaceful.

I could feel the burning tickle of incense in my nostrils as he welcomed me inside. The scent was familiar as it so often clung to Carlisle's clothing when he returned from church in the mornings. I'd never gone with him to a single service though he claimed my control was impressive enough. I hadn't the heart to admit to him that it was not my control keeping me out of that church...

The door shut behind us, shunning the cold. Carlisle peeled his gloves from his hands and held his palms up to the candles at the offering. Warily I approached him and copied his curious actions, stuffing my gloves into my coat pocket and lifting my hands to the warm flames.

From the corner of my eye I saw Carlisle presenting me with a single wooden splinter used for lighting the candles. "I know you have prayers to offer for your parents."

I swallowed hard, my face growing solemn. "Do you really think I ought to?"

But I had already taken the splinter from his hand.

His hand was on my shoulder again, this time a fair bit stronger than it had been back at the house. He was learning. I was letting him learn.

I bit my lip once I was out of his view and touched the end of the slender wooden stick to the highest flame. It did an irritated little dance at the disruption and stilled again as I withdrew. My mind drifted to vague, holy thoughts as I pondered unique memories of my mother and father. Two candles were lit by their glory; two flames born by my hand. I bowed my head as I surrendered to the moment of silence, fearing for a moment that Carlisle had departed. He was so quiet as he watched me.

As I turned around to face him, he looked pleased. And I no longer felt the need to be aggravated by this.

"Come inside," he commanded, his voice tainted with awe, as if this were his first time exploring the place.

"Argh! Carlisle." I groaned as he ignored me and walked on into the heart of the church.

There was something exceptionally eerie about dead silence in a holy space. It was as if I could feel the spirits pulling me from all angles, gentle but significant, their breath warring between hot and cold on my skin. Holiness was an entity that could be felt. I could not deny this, and it seemed with every step I took down the aisle, the feeling only became stronger. It was exquisite. And most certainly scary.

"Ah... A nave like the grave," I joked irreverently, hoping to relieve the awkward tension.

Carlisle glared at me over his shoulder, and I felt just a twinge of guilt. I knew he would appreciate an apology, so I gave him one as a gift. His expression eased with just one uttered word; he was so flawlessly forgiving.

He was quiet as he led me through the right aisle, passing along a wall of shining stained glass scenery. He had never looked more like the son of a pastor than he did under the shy shards of light cast by those windows. Each muted color that passed over his face brought a new curve of his character to life. The blues of gentleness and integrity, green of peace, red of sacrifice, violet of mystery.

I wondered secretly how these colors might look upon my face as I passed beneath them.

As he reached the last window of the aisle, Carlisle paused and held his hand out to the saints depicted in colorful puzzle pieces and twists of iron. His finger extended to touch the glass, and I felt the chilled glossy surface through his thoughts.

"Do you recognize this saint, Edward?"

Knowing it was useless to look, I cocked my head anyway, pretending to think it over. Unsurprisingly, no name came to mind. I shook my head.

"This is St. Jerome – the patron saint of scholars," he told me.

"Sounds like a character I could relate to," I said with a grin, entirely sincere.

"I'm pleased you think so." Carlisle smiled proudly. "I have an icon which depicts him in my study. It would bring me great joy to make it a gift for you."

My grin melted as he said this, and despite my glum expression, I managed to force the words forth.

"Thank you."

Carlisle rubbed his chin absently, furrowing his eyes in confusion. "Why so hesitant?"

I sighed deeply and shrugged. "I was just…thinking of how difficult it is to refuse you." I winced slightly as I met his eyes. "You give a lot of things away for no reason. Do you realize that?"

He lifted his face again to the stained glass window, a mosaic of flimsy light cascading over his face and chest. "I have so many possessions, very few of which are at all useful to me," he said quietly. "It seems right to give them to people who will appreciate them, don't you agree?"

Lacking a better response, I shrugged. "I still feel guilty taking things from you all of the time."

Carlisle was silent for a good while before he whispered, tragic and wistful, "Strange is it not? How a man's first instinct seems to be to refuse a gift rather than accept it." His eyes flickered to the image of Christ in the massive round window above the altar. "We do the same with regard to God's gifts."

I narrowed my eyes, allowing him full view of my puzzled expression. I found myself wanting to push this conversation further. I was intrigued by where he would take this point, and I made it clear in my gaze.

Ever observant, Carlisle responded to my silent inquiry with renewed passion. "In the Protestant Church, salvation is considered to be a freely given gift from God. No matter how damned we believe ourselves to be, God shall always have the power and the will to save us. Yet for years people denied this," he said as if it were the most grievous thing to do, "You do not need to purchase indulgences, or build vast cathedrals, or impress countless charities – you cannot earn salvation by any mortal means."

I pursed my lips critically. "What does this have to do with me refusing a simple gift?"

Carlisle smiled knowingly. "You believe you must do something to earn the gift before you receive it, yes?"

I blinked, slightly alarmed by the thickness of his accent as he spoke. "Of course. It's only natural."

"Is it?" he challenged, a frustrating twinkle in his eye.

"Carlisle, you can't tell me there's nothing you need to do to earn salvation."

He stared at me intensely, and not a single thought broke free from his mind before he whispered a single Latin phrase. "Sola Fide."


"Sola Fide. Only faith," he explained. "That is all one needs to enter the kingdom of heaven. Nothing more. Trust in God and he shall guide you on the path to life eternal."

"I have life eternal," I laughed bitterly.

"There were times when I would have made the same argument you make," Carlisle said, his patient voice laced with sympathy. "But things changed for me, Edward. It has taken me many years of doubting and searching to reach this point. But now that I have found it, I know that I will never lose sight of it."

It was a profound moment for him, and what he had just confessed could not have been more serious in nature. And yet... I found myself chuckling in spite of myself. I had never been the best at responding to such intensity. More often than not I used humor to comfort myself when I felt intimidated by the direction of a conversation.

Carlisle, however, was a man of more traditional response.

"Dear Lord, Edward. I fail to see any humor in this."

I struggled a bit to steady my voice. "No, it's not that. It's just... thinking that you used to believe in witchcraft and all that nonsense, and now you're a first class theologian. It's just ironic is all."

Now he looked amused. "Ah, so you claim witchcraft to be a foolish belief? You may be surprised to know that many great men were partial to the art of wizardry and the like. Why, Da Vinci himself believed in sorcery; Issac Newton was an alchemist in his later years..." Carlisle regarded me with an approving gaze as he gave a swift nod in my direction. "You, young Edward, would make a fascinating subject for the next great necromancer, if I do say so."

"Hah." I shook my head with a sour grin. Inspired by one elaborate mural of Moses on the wall behind him, I added, "I'd sooner jump head-first off the peak of Mt. Sinai."

As usual, Carlisle took one of my jokes and used it as a segue into more personal contexts.

"Perhaps we'll visit there one day. You and I," he said softly.

For a second or two I was speechless. I had never been off the continent before, and Carlisle and I only ever traveled as far as Canada to hunt.

"Do you mean that?" I asked.

"Mt. Sinai is a fine choice," he confirmed with a smile. "Though I would appreciate it if you did not jump head-first from the peak. It could cause quite an uproar."

I allowed myself to laugh with more sincerity, enjoying the echoes I made in the great empty room.

Carlisle appraised my joy with fond eyes, his thoughts making abstract remarks about how youthful I looked – something he so often seemed to notice about me.

"There are so many places in this world I've yet to see," he said wistfully. "I've explored too many countries in my own company. It would be... incredible to have a companion who traveled at my side."

The ache in his heart was crippling, and I would have given anything to mend it.

"Well, in that case I'd gladly pay for my own train ticket," I said, thrilled by the fire of jubilation that filled his thoughts. "But if I know you, you'd likely start with some preposterous pilgrimage and make me pray along the way."

As I suspected, Carlisle was not at all offended by my guess.

"Pilgrimages were quite popular when I was a young man," he said conversationally, dragging his knuckles across the smooth stone as he began to walk in the opposite direction. "My father took me to Canterbury when I was twelve. I don't recall it as vividly as I would like to. But I do hope to one day visit Jerusalem."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you haven't already been there."

His face twisted in delicate discomfort. "Well, I spent much time elsewhere."

"Yes, but knowing you I'd have assumed the Holy Land would be your first choice."

Carlisle's discomfort heightened as he strode several steps ahead of me, his thoughts giving vague revelations for why this upset him. He had been worried about how a vampire would be received in such a place; worried not only about suspicions from others for his odd behavior and reactions to sunlight, but more that his "unholiness" would somehow be confirmed if he were to travel on sacred ground.

I was unsure of what I could say to reassure him at first, but after a moment of consideration I settled for an honest approach. "Somehow I doubt suspicions for warlocks and vampires in those areas of the world are as strong as they were several hundred years ago."

Carlisle shifted to show me his grateful smile, but as the colored lights played over his features, there was something surprisingly sadistic in his gaze. "I daresay you know only the better half of just how ruthless men were to suspicious folk back then."

It was rather rare to hear Carlisle speaking in such a way, especially in a church, and my interest was piqued. "Won't you enlighten me?"

He casually slipped both hands into his pockets as he stepped back, leaning against a stone pillar. "Do you know the ways in which a secular court used to justify the killing of a person who was accused of witchcraft during my time?" he asked.

Slightly stunned by the unexpected question, but intrigued nonetheless, I shook my head dumbly, urging him to go on.

"They called it 'swimming the witch'. Puritan townspeople would have relied on God for something called a 'miracle on cue'," he explained, gesturing to the narrative window we now stood beside. "They would have the river water blessed by a priest and throw the accused into the river. If the person floated, they were declared guilty, for the blessed water had rejected his body. And if he sank, it meant that he was innocent, because the holy water was accepting his body."

I cringed upon realizing the problematic nature of such a practice. "But that would mean..."

"Yes," he confirmed smoothly, a brusque glint to his eye. "Move quickly if you wish to rescue an innocent man."

Swallowing a tough lump in my throat, I took a step back from the stained glass river.

"Your stories frighten me," I admitted, only comfortable doing so in a deserted church.

"That is because they are true, my boy," he said as he rested his head against the stone and looked longingly to the window.

"I don't understand how you came to be from such a cruel time."

Carlisle looked at me quizzically.

"I mean that you are so…good," I explained, hoping not to sound overly flattering. "It sounds like all of the people who lived around you at the time were merciless bastards."

He uttered a soft choking sound at my rough assessment and straightened up to speak. "Edward, you must remember that for every evil which exists in the world, there is something good to restore balance." The features of his face smoothed as he brought one hand free from his pocket to rest against his hip. "My faith tells me that all things are inherently good. God does give us free will, which means that we may choose evil from time to time. But we were never created to be so by our maker."

"Humans were created to be good," I emphasized darkly. "Humans."

His eyes spoke volumes as he stared squarely into my face.

"Were you and I not once human?"

I sighed in defeat. He knew my point. I'd told him before, too many times.

"May I tell you a story, Edward?"

"So long as it's not about the various execution methods of tried witches."

He smirked lightly as I nodded for him to continue, bracing myself against the arch opposite where he stood.

"When I was in Italy, Aro took me into the catacombs. There he showed me the skeleton of a Christian man and asked me whether the man lived on. When I replied that yes, he did live on in the afterlife, Aro called me a fool."

"Why?" I sniffed. "That seems a perfectly legitimate conjecture to me."

"The trick is in the wording, Edward. Aro's argument was that the man did not live any longer. Our concept of the afterlife is quite different than what philosophers would have us believe. We do not live in the afterlife. It is not so much a second life as it is an entirely new dimension of which we have virtually no concept. From this I can only presume that you and I are not in the afterlife. We have yet to pass into an alternate dimension for we are still here on earth. Earth is no place for the afterlife we have been promised." He smiled gently and averted his eyes to the brightening window. "So you see, in trying to trick me, Aro in fact supplied confirmation for my theory."

At this I had to smirk. Though I had never known Aro personally, I could not help but share Carlisle's satisfaction in having bested the old vampire at his philosophical mind games.

"You and I are still waiting on our salvation, Edward," Carlisle whispered, his voice so hopeful, so assuring that I almost dared to believe him.

"I understand your reasoning..." I began.

Pressing his lips together, he guessed in a low voice, "Ah, but you do not appreciate my reasoning."

"No," I admitted, quiet but resolute. "I believe Aro was right about one thing: we are soulless. We must be."

Carlisle looked to the ground for an instant, then resurrected his gaze with new fire.

"Regardless, salvation was given to us all at birth. Nay, at conception," he declared, his passion poisoning the silence. "We are saved. All of us are given that chance whether we are immortal or not."

"How do we know that we still have that chance?" I asked, my voice small.

A sensation of spirited fullness clasped my body from head to toe, just before Carlisle spoke his tender words.

"When God gives a gift, He does not take it back."

There was nothing I could argue then, from the strength of his voice to the hard truth in his eyes. Carlisle seemed to realize the power his simple statement had over me, and as he stepped forward to join his hand with my shoulder, I did not question or recoil at his touch.

"And so, Edward, when I offer you a gift, you must understand how much it means to me that you accept it," he continued in a fierce whisper. "For I am the victim of many undeserved blessings myself."

God has given me a son.

The thought was so disturbingly clear in his mind, I thought he had spoken aloud.

It was like the chime of a church bell, the toll of a grandfather clock, somber and true. His eyes were lush, brimming with honesty and love as I had so often seen in him before. I knew that he loved me, for little reason other than I was his only true companion in the world.

But this, I now realized, had been reason enough.

Carlisle loved me as his own son.

And with only faith, sola fide, would I one day come to love Carlisle as my father.

A/N: The only citation that I must make in this story regards the time that Carlisle says the sun rises at the very beginning. This information was retrieved from the log at where I looked up the times of sunrise for Chicago during the month of January in 1919. If I was not a nerd before, I am now. :)

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and thank you to Fireangel1699 for prompting me to write one of the most challenging things I have ever written. I would deeply appreciate hearing any thoughts on this piece that you may have.

The second part of this story is told from Carlisle's point of view when he hears Edward call him "father" for the first time.