This is going to be a look into the lives and love of Carlisle and Esme.

This story will hopefully cover everything in their lives, starting with Carlisle's human life and transformation, then travelling through his years alone and Esme's human life, before covering their life together.

It will tell the story of their lives pre-twilight and then cover the events of the Saga.

Oh, and I don't own Twilight, obviously.

If you're a new reader, then feel free to ignore the notes about chapter updates. If you're not, then if a chapter has been updated I have left a note at the top of it stating when the update was posted.

So these first few chapters are all Carlisle, as we have 200 years to cover until Esme is born.

This first chapter was updated 09/06/11

~ Part One: Loneliness and Loss ~

1663

Carlisle

Snap. Crackle. I recognized with disturbing ease the sounds of a fire. The scent of burning filled my nostrils as the smoke quickly began to fill my lungs. The scent that followed was worse, the rotten stench of singed human flesh. Unable to prevent myself, I began to cough, as the cloying scent choked me. I knew I wasn't suppose to react like this, that my father wished for me to stand there cold and stony like him.

Who was being burned this time? Who had my father condemned to die this horrendous, torturous death now?

I tried to look for the bonfire but the smoke surrounding me was too dense.

Instead, I tried to listen for the sound of screams, so that I could follow the sound to its source. To which ever pitiful, luckless person was producing them.

But aside from the fire, there was silence.

I was unnerved now, I felt my heart begin to speed up. A feeling of unease spread throughout me. This wasn't how things played out. I had witnessed this scene enough times to know this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Where were the screams? Where was the heckling, sneering crowd? With their faces full of hatred and condemnation, whipped into a religious fervour for all the wrong reasons.

And where was the fire that all this smoke was coming from?

The menacing crackling of the fire I still could not locate grew in volume, surrounding me.

And then suddenly, with horrified realization, I knew exactly where the bonfire had been lit.

The pain hit me in that instant. A pain so intense it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I tried to look down, to see my feet as they burned, to see the flames lit beneath me, but I could not. I was tied rigidly to this post, unable to move, unable to escape.

But still I tried. I tried with all my might to fight against the bonds. Desperately seeking relief from the torture that overtook my lower body.

The silence ended then. I could hear the crowd heckling me now, booing and shouting insults.

"Devil!"

"Demon!"

"Heretic!"

Through the smoky haze, I saw my father, watching on uncaringly.

I realized I had started to scream. Blood-curdling screams. Screams of desperation. The screams of a man being tortured as the unbearable pain began to move up my legs.

With a sudden jolt, I sat up out of my bed. My breathing came heavily and my heart still raced as I tried to calm myself.

Just a dream. Just the nightmare again.

In the bed beside mine, my father grumbled in his sleep and turned over, but luckily did not wake up.

The night around me was silent. The rest of London was obviously asleep.

I could still smell smoke and burning flesh. It was a scent ingrained in my memory that I was unable to shake. I took a deep breath to fill my nostrils with fresh air but I couldn't rid myself of the nauseating stench that seemed to cling to me still, even here in my bed.

There'll be no more burnings, I reminded myself forcefully.

Recently my father's health had been falling into low repair. He still managed to find the strength to deliver his daily fiery sermons from the pulpit, but I had taken command over all his other duties, including the trails of the accused. Since then there been a dramatic drop in the number of people who were condemned. I had already seen too many innocent people burnt at my father's orders, forced into watching them as they died an excruciating death. All I had been able to do back then was try to block out their pitiful screams which filled the air while the fire consumed their bodies.

I planned to put a stop to that - but not everyone else agreed with my views.

'A dutiful son', that's what everyone calls me. 'A dutiful son following in his father's footsteps.' The people of the congregation always used that sentence with pride, as though I could do nothing better with my life. As though this was what I was always destined to become and nothing more.

I suppose, in a way, they were right. I come from a clerical family. My grandfather, Carlisle (my namesake) had also been the pastor of this parish. My oldest Uncle, also called Carlisle, had always been the one who was due to follow in his footsteps, until he died of typhus at the age of sixteen. At which point, my father, John, had been hastily trained in how to preach as his father did.

My grandfather died two years before my birth, but as a child my father was keen on telling me stories about his own father. It was my grandfather's supposed last words that have always stuck with me.

'Cure the world of evil, son,' he ordered my father on his deathbed. An order my father follows zealously to this day, if in a way I do not approve of.

That is why I worry when people referring to me as 'following in my father's footsteps.' I do not wish to do as he did and religiously follow a dead man's beliefs. I want to follow my own instincts. My own mind and heart. The very same mind that tells me that so many of the people who are killed by him are innocent. The same heart that pities their wretched souls.

I didn't wish to follow in his footsteps, and pursue those who were innocent. Those who were guilty of nothing more than being a little different or ill. Or of being a different religion to us. For were we not all human? And does this Bible not tell us to love thy neighbour? My father and I interpreted the holy text very differently. For where I saw God's forgiveness, he saw God's vengeance.

I shook my head in frustration at myself. Thinking all this through yet again was not productive when it came to the matter of falling back asleep.

I settled down once more in my fitful attempt to sleep, tossing this way and that in an attempt to get comfy. But, no matter what I did, every time I shut my eyes I saw the bright light of a burning bonfire. I heard a tortured scream. This time, I saw the little girl's tortured face.

There was one particular execution I would never forget. She was a child of five, an orphan off the mean streets of London. They had said the devil spoke to her, possessed her. That she was a 'devil child'. I had only been six at the time myself; just old enough to begin to understand what my father did. I had watched from my father's side as they dragged her to the stake and bound her. It wasn't the first time I had watched the burnings, but it was the first time I failed to understand why it was happening. All the others had been simple for me to understand; they had been condemned as evil, therefore they must die. But she had seen so helpless, so fragile. Certainly not something to be feared.

She is a mere child like me; surely they can not intend to kill her, I remember thinking in my youthful naivety.

"Father, what are they doing to that girl?" I had asked.

"She is a devil child, boy, she must burn for her sins," he had replied coldly.

"They will burn her?"

"Of course."

"But she is only a child like me."

"She is a possessed child. She is tainted with the devil. She must die." He had spoken with an air of finality. But in my youthfulness, I had been determined to keep asking, to try to understand.

"But-" I never got to finish my sentence, as my father had struck me across the back of the head.

"Do not argue, boy. Do not have sympathy for those who cooperate with the devil. If a child is corrupted, then they must die. There is no consideration for those who choose to taint themselves with the stain of evil and ungodliness."

"But how do you know she is guilty?" I had asked with child-like innocence.

"Be quiet, boy." It was a direct order and I had not dared to disobey it. I had watched in disgusted fascination as they had let the flames at her feet, but as soon as her screams began, I could take no more. I had turned to leave, but my father had stopped me.

"Watch it, boy, watch what happens to the sinners of this world."

"But, father, what sin has she committed?" Naïve as it was, my child's mind had not been able to understand what crime a child so young could have committed.

"Shut up, boy, and watch. She is a cursed child. A sympathiser of the devil. This is what happens to those who turn their back on God." So I had been forced to watch as the girl slowly burned. To this day I have never been able to forget the anguished look on her face, or her screams that filled the square.

I received many thrashings from my father throughout my childhood, but the one I got that night was the worst of them all. Afterwards he had told me that if I ever acted in such a way again people would start considering me a 'devil sympathiser', and that if I wasn't careful it would be me they bound up and tied to the stake.

And that was why I never said anything as those that I knew to be innocent were killed for their supposed crimes against God. I was scared of sharing their fate.

I'm not certain how soon afterwards the nightmares started.

Finally abandoning any attempt to sleep, I thrust the covers back angrily and stood up. I grabbed my shoes from being my bedside and stole out the door, being careful to make barely any sound. Stopping only to pick up a candle which I lit on the dying embers of the fire, I crept through the kitchen and out the back door in a similar manner. Once I was out our backyard and on the street, I relaxed slightly, paying less attention to the sound my footstep were making. As I walked down our street, they became quick, hurried footsteps to get me away from the house as swiftly as possible.

At the end of the street, I turned to look back at the short spire of my father's Church. It was by no means a grand place, but it looked like such a quaint little building when it was bathed in moonlight, like what it was a suppose to be – a place to honour the glory of God's creation.

I knew it was foolhardy and risky to walk around London at such a time, yet whenever my nightmares kept me awake and I felt restless in my bed, it was what I did. There was a certain peace to London at this time a night, early in the morning when even the drunkards and beggars had succumbed to sleep.

These were the streets I knew so well, in both the light and dark. The houses of my father's parish.

As I wondered aimlessly, I focused my mind on what I had to do now that I was in charge, rather than what had gone on in the past.

I had tried, in the last six months since I had taken over from my father, to be more selective in whom we damned. So far I had refused to send anyone to be burned. My father had watched with ill-disguised disgust as I continually refused to condemn those that his parish claimed were guilty.

Up until now I had never been willing to speak out against the burnings, even while in my heart I knew the people were innocent, due to the fear of being burned that my father had instilled in me that day many years ago.

Once someone had been accused, they were beyond help. Getting myself accused alongside them would be a pointless exercise, or so I had told myself. To ignore it made me feel dirty, like a weakling, but what else could I do back then?

I may not have been able to stop him from burning people back then. But I have seen enough innocent people die to know that I never want to be the one who gives the order which condemns them to a slow and painful death.

I was pulled from my troublesome thoughts by a blood-curdling scream. I ran hurriedly through the streets for its source, in the direction I thought the sound had come from.

I knew this was dangerous, that I was probably about to be embroiled in a situation it would be better to avoid – most likely a murder, for the scream had been the last desperate cry of a dying man. Yet I couldn't fight my desire to help, whatever the consequences might be.

As I ran I waved the candle around frantically to shed light onto the deserted streets, though dawn would break soon there was still not enough light to see adequately.

Eventually I reached the bank of the Thames. Bending down over the wall, I held the candle so that is shed it light on the sandy bank below me. All I managed to see in the flickering light was just the usual mess of rubbish that always littered the banks of the Thames.

My common sense told me it was time to go home, yet curiosity got the better of me. Recklessly, I jumped the long distance down to the sand below, landing too heavily so that I nearly fell.

The candle had gone out by now and I dropped its remains on to the bank, but luckily there was just enough light to see here as I was no longer in the shadow of the houses.

I scanned the banks once more and my attention was drawn to a lump laying in the shallow waters, which I walked over to investigate.

It was a man's body.

He was clearly dead. His face was frozen in a state of pure terror, his mouth still open from where it had framed his last terrified scream.

Though the water had washed away the majority of the blood, the large flesh wound in his neck was still obvious. I couldn't help but stare at it in horrified shock for a few moments. It looked as though the man had been attacked by a large animal, but how had that happened in London? Somehow, my first thought of murder still seemed more likely, but what act of murder would leave a wound like that? It was not a knife wound or a gunshot wound. It looked as though the person had been bitten to death. But who would commit such an atrocious crime?

Involuntarily, I shivered. Clearly, we were dealing with an unprecedented level of evil here. My father's talk of curses and witchcraft suddenly made a lot more sense, for what other than a creature of a Satan could commit such an act?

A low growl sounded from nearby.

My heart sped up and I looked around wildly. Whatever it was, it was about to kill me too. I began to pray silently and desperately. Even though dying was when you entered God's kingdom, I still had no desire to do so. I clung desperately to my desire to live, my eyes still wildly searching for the source of my impending death.

I saw him only for a few seconds, but it felt like much longer. He was clearly a demon. All I saw was pale skin and red eyes. Then he was gone.

I stood there for a few more seconds until my mind begin to work again. Then I ran. I ran the fastest I ever had in the opposite direction to where the demon had stood. I scrambling up the first flight of stairs of the bank that I came across and then ran through the rat-run of streets. Once I arrived at the Church I frantically thrust my key into the lock to open it.

Once inside, I collapsed to my knees by the altar and prayed for guidance. There was a demon, a true demon, here in the heart of London, and I knew I had to stop it.

For the past years of my life, I had been researching demons, as I wanted to chase true fiends when I took over, not the false demons my father did. To purge the world of true evils. To be true to my faith and my father, whilst not having to turn on my fellow man.

Now I had that chance. I was certain I had seen a true immortal on the banks of the River Thames. From the marks on the murdered man's body, I could guess at what the creature was. A bloodsucking fiend. A vampire. I could only assume the reason for my survival was the break of dawn.

I could do the Lord's work and not condemn the innocent, as I had wished to be able to do for so long. But I would need the strength and courage needed to do what had to be done, and so I prayed for it.

"Carlisle?" Father's voice rang through the Church.

Hurriedly, I stood up from the floor. I turned to face the door just as Father walked in.

"Art thou sick?" he asked instantly and for a fleeting second a look of panic overtook his face.

I shook my head. No.

"What is wrong with thou then?" I shook my head again, still unable to form words.

He scanned my face quizzically.

"Something has happened," he stated matter-of-factly. No doubt my shock was still plain on my face. "Out with it!"

"I saw a demon," I finally managed to whisper. Father's face whitened with shock.

"A demon?" he whispered.

"On the banks of the Thames. Near the entrance to the sewers."

"And what will thou do?" he asked me questioningly. He was turning this into a test and I was determined not to fail.

I took a deep breath before answering. "I shall catch it and shall rid London of it. We do not want true demons loose in our fair city." I couldn't help the last sarcastic comment that slid of my tongue.

My father surprised me with his response. "Perhaps you will succeed in your chosen path yet, my son." It was the closest thing to a compliment he had ever given me. Without another word, he walked past me and towards the alter.

He stopped just a few steps away and his body trembled with the strength of his hacking coughs.

"Father, it is too cold in the Church. Go back inside, I shall set up for your sermon."

"I am too sick to give my sermon today, you shall have to do it. You will need men from the parish to help you catch this demon, this is the opportunity to get their support."

I was speechless, even when I had begun to take over from him, Father had never allowed me to actually preach before.

He turned to leave before I had a chance to reply. As he walked past me I noticed how much worse he looked, his face was worn and weary. He did not look like the man I feared at that moment, but just a worn-down pitiful old man.

"Thank you, Father," I replied.

~o~ ~O~ ~o~

I led the small group of townspeople towards the sewers, where I was certain I had seen the demon emerge two days earlier. They followed me through the narrow streets of London, fires and stakes at hand.

My sermon had been a success and the majority of the able-bodied men in the congregation had been more than willing to join me in the capturing of a 'true evil', as I had called it. The dispute between my father and me over the innocence of his victims was well-known to these people, even if it was very seldom mentioned due to propriety. Therefore they knew that when I was the one calling for the hunt there was no dispute over whether we were searching for a creature of Satan or not. I had no doubts about what I had seen. It was no human we hunted now as had happened so many times before.

I thought once more about the demon we now hunted. With its death I could achieve two things. I could help protect the innocent by showing these God-fearing people what a true demon looked like, and also, perhaps, finally, earn my father's approval. Stop being his nuisance son who had never done anything but kill his wife. It should not have mattered to me, yet it still did. Up until two days ago, I had never received anything even like approval from him. Maybe that could all change tonight.

As I continued to lead the small group through the winding streets of London, I considered once more my father's particular branch of justice. In leading this hunt he seemed to think I was truly following in his footsteps for the first time. I did not bother to diverge him of this idea. For what harm did it do, to give a sick man some comfort? I knew what I was doing was different to what he had done, but if it pleased him to think I was copying him then I would let him be. I knew in my heart that I never truly would do as he wished and yet I couldn't help but find joy at the idea that he might actually be proud of me for once.

By now I had led the group to the bank of the Thames.

Will it show this time?

If it truly was a blood-sucker, it would probably be drawn out by our presence. No doubt it was my blood that had enticed it towards me the first time round.

My heart was racing as I remembered my first encounter with it. But I was ready for it this time, or so I tried to convince myself. Every nerve on my body was alive; in my right hand I nervously spun the wooden stake I would use to kill the creature.

We were nearing the stairs I had fled in terror up two days previously when I thought I saw a flash of movement at the entrance.

Wasn't so difficult to draw it out then, I celebrated.

It moved so quick I was lucky to have seen it; I don't think anyone else in the group had, but I knew what to look for.

It had disappeared up a side street. I ran at my full speed in the same direction, leaving the rest of the group behind me. Coming to a stop in the middle of the street, I looked around wildly, looking for some clue as to where the demon had gone.

Suddenly, it emerged from an alley that came off of the street I was stood in. I just had time to notice the pale skin and the demonic red eyes once more, before it attacked me. I was pushed roughly onto the floor and my head hit the cobblestones painfully. I felt the creature's mouth clamp down on my neck and could feel its treacherous breath against my skin, and then there was a piercing pain as it bit down and began to drink my blood greedily. I tried in vain to break free of the creature's grasp, squirming and pushing against its hold, but it was to no avail. As I remembered the stake in my hand, I swung wildly in the direction of the creature. I thought I heard a sound that could almost have been a gargled chuckle.

How dare it! It laughs at me while it is killing me.

For surely I would die now. I thought of my life, and how little I had achieved with it.

I should have stood up for what I believed in sooner. Should have refused to watch on while innocents were killed.

But it was too late for that now. Those thoughts were nothing more than empty regrets.

Will I make it into Heaven? If I do, will it be the merciful God I have always secretly imagined who will greet me there? The one who wanted to look after the innocent and weak? And if so, will He turn me away for my failure to protect those less fortunate? Or will it be the vengeful God my father preached about? If so, will He turn me away for my belief that those that my father had condemned should have been spared?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the sound of footsteps growing closer. With a sickening jolt to the stomach, I realized it must be the rest of the group. I wanted to shout at them to run but was in so much pain that all I could do was scream.

I felt the creature pull away from my neck and disappear from my side, but the searing pain didn't decrease.

In fact, it began to spread, to become unbearable as it spread further down my neck and into the rest of my limbs. Realisation dawned on me.

I am not going to die tonight. I am going to be damned instead.

Oh mighty Lord, hear my prayer. I pray to thee to deliver me death. Amen.

The prayer was all I could think of as the pain engulfed my body. I would rather die than be damned.

How will Father react if they tell him of my death? Will he grieve for me? Even if knew what really happened? What will he think if he finds me like this?

He would order me to be burned, without a doubt. It was that thought that motivated me to move. To fight through the pain and attempt to drag myself from the middle of the street, where someone would surely find me soon enough if I stayed. I forced my mouth to clamp shut, biting down hard on my bottom lip, so that no more screams should give away my position. I could only assume the rest of my group were dead by now. That thought stabbed through me like a knife.

In my vanity and stupidity, I led them to their deaths.

However, preferable they were all dead and with God now, then in my position, so close to the brink of damnation.

Yet even as I thought about how death was better than damnation, I still dragged myself along the cobbles in my desperate attempt to find some cover.

Ever since that day seventeen years ago, when my father had first mentioned that if I continued to show sympathy for the condemned then I to would burn, I had been determined to not die at the stake. Even now, when I wished to die, I would not have my life end in those fires. It was this determination that allowed me to drag myself across the street, and drop myself down the stairs into a nearby cellar. Seeing a pile of potatoes, I forced myself under them. It was excruciatingly painful to force my body to move and to stay quiet at the same time, when all I wanted was to lay still and scream till it stopped. But still I made sure every part of me was covered before I gave in to the raging pain within me.

This only made things worse as I was now fully concentrating on the pain. I was unable to move anymore though, it was so severe. It felt like how I had always imagined being set alight would feel, except in my nightmares the pain was never this intense.

In my desperation to avoid the fires of the stake, I had managed to bring them upon myself anyway.

And I have condemned myself too.

It was out of my control now though, in the hands of God, or the devil, or whoever currently held my life in his grasp.

I could do nothing more but try not to scream, as the fire engulfed me.

So, what did you think of the first chapter, and the concept for the story as a whole? Reviews would be greatly appreciated.