Nightfall (A Carlisle Cullen / Esme Cullen fanfic, 18+)

CHAPTER TEN: CARLISLE

I don't know what came over me in the moment I saw her on the porch. Esme.

I had only the briefest moment to take in what my eyes saw- a beautiful young woman hunched in over her far-too-thin frame, her dark hair lank and dull, her eyes glassy with suppressed agony - and then her scent washed over me. Lilac and rose - the aroma that was all over Martin, except here with her it was fresher, brighter - as though the stale remnants of scent that lingered on Martin's clothes lacked some vital part of her essence. The contrast was like comparing a garden in winter with the loveliest spring bloom. And how strange - my heart couldn't possibly be beating - hadn't moved in over 300 years - and yet I felt as though it leapt in recognition as I looked at her.

In all the years since I'd been turned, the secret had been my top priority - especially so now that it was Edward's secret as well. Generally, if we encountered someone again after too many years had passed, we found ways to become less noticeable - we left the conversation as soon as we could, and we certainly didn't draw any attention to the fact that we'd met before - that they had changed, but we hadn't. And yet, here I was, blurting out that we'd met before - as though some uncontrollable part of me had roared into life in recognising her, and demanded to be remembered in return.

She flinched when she saw me - even if I had only had human perception, I would have noticed. And that was almost enough to stop me, to remind me of my two core values - control and caution - but then I saw the true depth of sadness in her eyes. She looked utterly wrung out. The bones in her cheeks poked out alarmingly, and the colour of her face was almost as pale as mine save for spots of flushed and blotchy colour in her cheeks that concerned me as much at the otherwise pallid condition of her skin.

It was a dark and drizzly day - otherwise, I could never have come here - and it seemed to me that the weather matched the condition of her spirit. She gazed up at me sadly for a long moment, and then - startling both her father and Dr Smith beside me - she spoke.

"Are - are you real? I remember..."

I smiled at her encouragingly. "It was your left ankle, wasn't it? You were very brave when I re-set it for you."

I grimaced internally - why was I speaking to her as if she were a child? But she blinked as though clearing her eyes and looked at me more intently. Martin had said she hadn't spoken in weeks - so if I was drawing out this reaction, perhaps it was a good thing.

"You look the same," she said, and I cringed - of course, the inevitable confusion and horror when people recognised that I was different to them. Unnatural. Dangerous.

But then she went on, and though there was confusion in her tone, it was mingled with something else - wonder? "I - I thought I had imagined you."

I was at a loss for words - struck dumb by two simple statements from her. Some instinct inside screamed at me to deny it, to undo it - to protect the secret at all costs - but I ignored it. I didn't understand why, but - I wanted her to remember me. To know me.

Martin cleared his throat beside me and I was brought back to awareness of my surroundings. She too turned towards him, and as she moved I saw it - the minute wince that betrayed that she was hurt. I turned my attention back to her sharply.

"Are you in pain Esme?"

The look she gave me in response told me enough about her opinion of my intellect. I smiled apologetically and tried again.

"I'm sorry - I know what you've been through. But I actually meant - are you ill? Are you in physical pain right now?"

She frowned but didn't reply. But I was already casting out my senses - tasting her scent again, listening to the irregular beat of her heart, feeling the air around her to assess her temperature. Ah - there - beneath the pleasant notes of her scent I detected it. She was injured - internally. I could smell the infection. If I closed my eyes and focused, I would be able to track every drop of poisoned blood that pumped through her system. This was... bad. She was very, very ill.

I felt my brow furrow, but I refrained from commenting - I could talk details with Martin on the ride back to town. But perhaps there was one thing I could give her before I left - where her skin was burning hot, my own was unnaturally cool. I knew from past experience that my touch could bring temporary relief to those suffering a high fever.

I extended a hand towards her forehead, pausing before I touched her, and asked "May I?"

She gave the merest nod. I pressed my palm against her burning skin and she shivered violently, wincing again as the movement aggravated what I now know was an untended internal infection.

And then as she adjusted to the harsh contrast in temperature, she relaxed, sagging in the chair for a moment. And the side of her lip edged upwards - the expression was so small that I was sure I caught it only because of my heightened senses. But it was there.

I told myself that it was only a doctor's satisfaction at seeing a patient relieved that warmed me so, and hated myself for finding it so difficult to remove my hand.

But that was nothing compared to the self-loathing that suffused me that night as I went over and over her condition in my mind and came to the same conclusion. Esme's infection had remained unchecked for too long - though Martin didn't see it yet, she wasn't long for this world. There was only one way I could think of to save her - one way she could become whole and healthy again. And when I told myself again and again that there was no way I'd even consider offering this way out to Esme, or if I did, that it had nothing to do with what I wanted, with what I needed, I found I couldn't quite believe myself.

Esme was going to die. There was no escape from that - as a human.

And because I couldn't convince myself that offering the other way out wouldn't be a selfish move -that it wouldn't be based on my own utterly unexpected and unprecedented feelings - I would leave tomorrow. I wouldn't see her again. She deserved more dignity than to have a wretched soul like me influencing her to make this eternal decision.

Yes, I decided. I would go just before dawn - slip through the quiet streets before the sun threatened to expose me.

But I was brought sharply out of my reverie by a knock on the door.