AUGUST • C.CULLEN

three

CARLISLE
1895, ITALY

Carlisle grips the worn paper dated for 1870 in his hands as he sits at the desk in his small room, forlorn as he reads again the words he has already memorised.

'Dearest Carlisle,' It begins, 'I am sorry. So, entirely sorry. I do not wish to leave your side any more than I wished to leave my family so long ago. But it has occured to me that' the following words are crossed out and smudged so badly that even after all these years and his enhanced sight, Carlisle cannot make out the words that are written there. He sighs and carries on, feeling his heart weigh heavy in his chest.

'You were my first friend, and my first love.' Carlisle's thumb runs over this line delicately, his stomach twisting.

'I am only sorry it took so long for me to realise it. My friend,' Dark splotches line the page and Carlisle frowns at the thought of him crying as he wrote this. He lets out a shaky breath. 'My friend, as I write this, you are in our home, absorbed in your studies. I have never been more proud, more in love.

It is because of this that I must leave.

You are destined for greatness, Carlisle, and I refuse to stand in your way any longer. I think I will travel. The way I told you I would dream of as a sapling. Perhaps seeing the world, visiting the forests which have changed in the last few centuries will clear my mind. I have heard that Colombus is nice. Perhaps I will see it for myself.

Yours always,
August."

Carlisle slips the note into his worn journal with careful hands when one of the Volturi knocks on his door.

"They are ready for you, Carlisle."

He stands and smiles politely. "Thank you. I'm on my way."

—

AUGUST
1911, COLOMBUS

August smiles softly as he approaches Esme Anne from behind, a small bouquet of daisies in his hand and tied together by a pale yellow ribbon.

"Hello, Esme," He greets gently, offering her the bouquet.

"August, you didn't have to!" She grins at her tall friend, gently taking the flowers from his hand and smelling them.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my friend!" August jokes, "For I am certain that forgetting your birthday would lead to a lifetime of misery and scolding."

"August!" Esme laughs, hitting him with her free hand.

He chuckles softly, helping her sit beneath a grand oak tree. "Happy sixteenth birthday, my dear."

The two sit in silence for a moment before Esme turns to her towering friend. "Tell me, Auggie, do all British folk talk so formally? Or is it just old tree men?"

The question shocks him so much that he chokes on air, looking at Esme to see her mischievous smile. Her smile settles at his raised eyebrow and she continues, "And does every tree have a name? Like this one here? Or is it only special trees?"

August hums, looking up at the oak tree. "This tree is special, in fact," Esme gives him a grin and he continues, "Yes, yes. Oh, is that so?" He pretends to hear the tree speaking to him, leaning close and stroking the bark. "Oh, I see. Should I tell her?" He glances at the teen with a smirk.