Again, we'll go with majority rules. This one comes from Annalund, fuz, Lurecyka, AnjieNet, and Carandash86.

Prompt #3: Angel

Carlisle Cullen was not God.

Although in the years following the fiery transition into my unlife, I'd have argued that on occasion, he suffered from bouts of a god complex.

I was the first of his creations, a boy on the cusp of manhood, who, on a snowy winter night in 1918, amidst the wailing and suffering of a city on the brink of an epidemic, was ripped out of time and place in what Carlisle, in hindsight, called a fit of selfless desperation to prevent my impending natural demise and selfish loneliness after centuries of wandering the earth unaccompanied.

I was to be his companion, you see, a progeny of odd sorts, but more so, another gentleman converser with whom he could pass away the endless years. Educated beyond my age and inherently curious, for a while, it was exactly as he meant it to be.

But, alas, my birth – or my rebirth, rather – was only the start.

For in another moment of weakness, driven by the instant kind of love and attraction that I could never fathom, Esme, Carlisle's eventual mate, came shortly thereafter.

And then a few years later, there was Rosalie, a beautiful, yet shallow woman who had been abused and left to die on the streets, and interestingly enough, who Carlisle had foolishly believed would be my other half.

Thankfully, for me, at least, a brawny fellow named Emmett lost a battle with a bear in the wooded hills of Appalachia and in the process wrangled away my intended's attentions to become the fifth member of our little group.

And finally, in the summer of 1950, on a sunny afternoon much like today, our so-called family was made complete by the addition of a pair of juxtaposed drifters, Alice and Jasper, the latter of whom gave new meaning to the term battle-worn. With a body littered with crescent-shaped scars, his was an unsettled mind, filled with gory scenes of wars long past, and of course, he had a pair of muddy-colored eyes to match.

For six decades, we seven lived as a close-knit unit, both a part of the ever-changing world around us and apart from it. Never aging, frozen in a twisted image of our human selves, everywhere we ventured, we straddled the line of revered and desired and envied and ostracized.

Hiding celebrities and nouveau riche debutants, some secretly believed us to be.

Ghosts or apparitions, the more creative ones said.

My favorite moniker, however – the one that always gave me an amused chuckle or two – was angel.

With skin as pale as virgin cream, with features cleansed and polished by the kiln of transformation, we were perfect to their human eyes. We were flawless, marble deities that moved with the grace and smoothness of the heavens. We were walking, talking, sometimes breathing brushed images of Michelangelo come to life.

In some ways, I supposed, maybe Carlisle was God after all.

Well, only if angels were actually vampires.


Note: this won't be a canon fic, but it'll likely have a few canon-esque components. You can go ahead and assume the Cullens backgrounds are pretty much canon. Edward's voice here obviously isn't, lol.

Also, even if you're not into dishing out prompts, I'd still love to hear from you from time to time. :)