Title: Dearest Esme

Rating: FRT
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just the idea.
Spoilers: Twilight, I guess.
Summary: Oneshot. It's 1917, WW1 is 3 years old and Dr. Carlisle Cullen has been drafted by the US Army to treat the wounded in Europe. Between bombs, bodies, and blood, he finds the time to write home. AU, with bits of canon smattered in.

Because I couldn't find anywhere to put chapters, I'll make this a longer oneshot. No timeline, just random events.

"There's nothing else I can do for him," the sentence hangs thick in the night air.

"But, you gotta…" the Corporal's pleas trail off as I shake my head despondently, checking (even though I can clearly hear the absence of a beating heart) the neck, the wrists, and the pupils one last time, of the boy, just a child, who lays pale and still before me.

The Corporal, who I note by his name tag as Jenkins, removes a set of dog tags from his dead comrade, (an act in which I am too familiar with these days) and quickly searches blindly through mud and blood-caked pockets to pull out a scant few bills, and a wrinkled faded photograph.

"I'll send these to his parents," Jenkins says pocketing them and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

I pat him on the shoulder briefly before rising from my crouched position, retrieving my medical bag, and rifle I've never used. Down the trench system about 30 metres South, I hear a call for Medic. My time is up with Corporal Jenkins and his deceased friend. There's so much death, I doubt I'll see him again.

"Have the body moved to Dugout C," I say to a Corpsman beside me, indicating the general direction of the artificial morgue, which is really a pile of rotting bones and flesh. Burial is a luxury neither side can afford.

"Yes, Sir," the soldier nods, as I make my way to the other casualties, mud and decay to mid-shin, flies buzzing around my already too sensitive ears.

Never more so in my life have I wished I could be able to use my inhuman abilities. The trench is difficult to navigate at this mortal speed, but even so, I am moving more swiftly than the average human. It's so hectic along the front, I doubt anyone notices anyway.

"Medic!" I hear for the one million and thirteenth time since my deployment to the War. It's hard to pick which calls to see to, which to put off for more urgent cases, and which to ignore completely, but I thank my biology for making triage a small bit easier. My acute smell, sight, and hearing aid me in choosing those who are most likely to survive, in lieu of those more surly to die. My sight allows me to accurately see the damages done from a distance, while smell tells me what organ (liver, kidney, bowel etc.) has been injured, as they all have a different smell. Although they both come in extremely handy, my auditory skills are most beneficial. Even surrounded by gunfire, mortars, and aircraft artillery, I can skill pick out through the thousands of beating hearts, the failing breaths of an individual person.

Quickly jumbling through the dampened trench, I find my next patient. A man, I'd estimate to be mid-twenties, holds the upper body of a fellow soldier against his chest, rocking back and forth, murmuring words of comfort I hear too often.

"Please Doc," the Private with a New York accent begs, "he's my kid brotha'. Ya hav'ta fix 'im,"

Checking the wound across the chest of the 'kid brother', I quickly deduce that the corned beef hash (I'm guessing) looking flesh is a shrapnel wound, and although it appears bad, it's not life threatening. I tell the brothers, whose surnames are Bannister, this, and after some antibodies, and wrappings, continue on to the never ending list of casualties.

That day, like everyday, I win some, I lose some.

Rain pours when the dawn creeps in. The fellow men in my company complain about the dampness in their fatigues, and the moldy rations in their canteens due to leaks and poor manufacturing. I don't complain, because none of these affect me, and sun is just an inconvenience. Even if it didn't do peculiar (to non-kind) things to my skin, if I were human, it'd only get in my eyes. Though as a Doctor, I do see a reason to worry, as for most of my service, Trench Foot has been a common ailment among the ranks. There's little I can do (despite my numerous years of experimental studies of various sicknesses) to treat the painful sores, other than advising the continual change of stockings. As of now, there is no easy fix, and only a lecture of prevention is all I can give.

For days the rain continues, and even I wish for it to cease, if not for a marginally smoother parade among the trenches, and easier treatment of wounds, then for the morale of my compadres.

Depression is always a factor in situations like this, with dreary weather, death, loneliness, and homesickness. Unfortunately it is also a factor I am ill-equipped to aid. In the seventeenth century, I dabbled in the study of Psychology at University of Oxford for a brief few years in England, but I found a great dislike of the practice, for it was very exhaustive and the results were often erratic. I am no Psychologist, but I do my best to talk with my comrades. Whether I've succeeded, I'll never know.

My company seems to think I have. Many of the junior riflemen have told me that they feel better just knowing they had a doctor or two among them. Many of them joke at my expense that if they get a Doctor's note, they'll call in sick to the war.

I laugh because the camaraderie is something the rain won't wash away, or that the guns can't bombard. You get close to your fellow platoon members; in cases like this, it's hard not too. But one always has to be cautious when developing bonds in a war zone. You'll never know when one day, that friend you shared your rations with, or borrowed a pair of stockings from won't come back from his tour through the hell called No Man's Land.

Days later, the rain stops but the skies remain grey. The men celebrate, because there has to be some form of distraction.

The celebration doesn't last long.

Toxic fragrances fill the air and I warn my Commanding Officer at the first whiff. The members hungrily grab for their gasmasks, silently thanking me with nods, and grateful glances. They all believe I had a medical condition with sensitive nasal passages as a symptom. They don't question the validity of the 'condition', nor do they dispute the results. They're just happy they're alive.

The higher ranking Officers in our company have given detailed lectures about the detection and prevention of the various gases of war. The crew is just shy of paranoia, but it's expected. They watch and sniff for Chlorine, as a pungent smell, and yellow haze make it easy to pinpoint. They worry for lingering, undetectable effects of Mustard, while fearing Phosgene, the enemy's ultimate killing gas.

I feel inadequate and selfish among these defenseless shells of human beings. My gasmask ready, but not needed; my shoes and socks on, but never uncomfortable; even my uniform and overcoat feel as if it's a waste, for I don't feel the dampness, and the cold is just my nature.

In the civilian world, as a Physician, there's a fifty-fifty chance of feeling useless. Here, it's an almost everyday occurrence.

There have been a number of men I've lost. If I were human, I would have lost track and given up remembering. But I'm not. The number is depressing, so I try not to think about it; I don't succeed. Every lost soul is just another added number. But they are never just anything. Each and every one of these men is somebody's son, somebody's husband, somebody's father; someone's friend, someone's neighbour, someone's lover.

I make it a habit of getting connected to these humans. Even if I've only treated them briefly, every one of them has a name, a story, a wish, as they lay bleeding on a foreign country's ground. I try, but it's no use. When my service is up, I'll still remember 43 year old Captain Allan Kinney, who survived childhood polio only to die from an infection from a single missing finger after a mortar, or Private Stephen Farwell, a 15 year old who snuck himself in because he thought he could do some good, or Corpsman Terry Strong, a lower-class man who joined under the condition that if he served, upper-class Mr. Hickstun would bless him with his daughter's hand in marriage.

I've heard every reason under the sun (clouded European sky), and every one I'll never forget.

I have a horrible existence. The thought shocks me. It's been a long time since I believed as such, but it's true. I'll survive this. It's not arrogance, (and I wish it was). It's just my biology, and what I am. I'll hear every bullet before it hits me; I'll see every enemy before they even think of ambushing me; I'll smell every gas before I pretend to breathe my last (I laugh bitterly) breath. I try hard as I might to be a human, and for the most part I fit in, but that doesn't make my situation easier. I know I'm a fake, and I know that none of these men can even beginning to imagine what I am. That's what makes my existence so unbearable. That most will die, that some will loss appendages, that others will suffer the psychological effects of war, but I will remain unscathed.

But such is the life when only two things can kill you. And I'm doubting that the shape-shifters or my own kind have found themselves here, when you're guaranteed to fail the mandatory physical for irregular or nonexistence heartbeats, or the inability to bleed, and urinate. I'm only here because a doctor is always needed, and the nurse supposed to be doing these samples was distracted enough (I admit, by my own abilities) for me to edit my own report.

"Tell me something. Where are you from?"

The man before me grinds his teeth before chocking out "Iowa, Sir," between flinching in pain. I apply more alcohol to the wound, a patch of raw flesh riddle with shrapnel between forearm and elbow, aware of the small pieces around the radial artery. My Corpsman beside me resumes the task as I begin to extract the small fragments.

"Ah, the Tall Corn State," I say, seeing the Private (who's surname is Webber) grin slightly at my knowledge of his home.

"You been there, Sir?"

I nod, removing another piece. "Lived there for a brief period of time; Mount Pleasant."

The Private's eyes lit up, "Really, Sir? Well, shoot. That's just a scant jaunt from my front yard."

"Is it now? Let's see," I make an effort to look thoughtful, "Des Moines? Winfield? Ottumwa?"

"You got it, Sir!" Private Webber rejoices at the last. "Well, just a bit out; cattle country, you know."

"Don't I know it," I say, more to myself then anyone else, turning at the sound of footfall to see a fellow soldier.

"Hey, Doc, you got a minute. Price is coughing up blood."

Turning to my Corpsman I let him take over, moving on to my next patient.

It's been nearly 32 hours by the time my duties end. To be accurate, I don't exactly have a beginning and an end of a scheduled rotation. I start when the first wounded appear, and end when the last have been mended to the best of my ability.

Throwing my rucksack at my feet, I sit down on it, leaning heavily against the crumbling trench walls. I do this more for appearance than anything. Physically, I can still outrun, out-lift, out-last my trench-mates; mentally, I am more on their playing field.

Even I, who have endured centuries of the Napoleonic Wars, the War of 1812, the Civil War, Spanish-American War, and many others, still can't fathom the mentality to start one. The death, the destruction, the carnage; it all seems so redundant when you factor in the cost of human life.

But that's my mentality. I'm a doctor; a life giver; a healer. I have never been one for violence, and if my hazy pre-change childhood memories concur, I don't believe I had even thrown a punch in school. Then again, the son of a pastor would know better, wouldn't he?

Exhaling heavily out my nose, just because it's habit after living around humans for 300 plus years, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Although my hearing and sense of smell don't fully block me off from the rest of the world, loosing my visual sensors is enough to give me my own bit of reprieve.

And as usual, my first thought is of her.

My wife, my soul mate, my reason for existence; and if anything were to happen to her, my reason for death.

My 'everything' isn't enough to sum up what dark caramel strands, and liquid, golden topaz means to me. But my kind has always been melodramatic like that. No words will ever do, and yet, no words are needed.

I wear a ring on my left hand but it is more to conform to human standards, than the actual necessity of it, as my kind loves deeply and never falls out of love. Though I will admit to morbidly enjoying the flicker of disappointment and envy across my gender's features upon eyeing the delicate, yet clearly exorbitant (sheepishly I grin) diamond upon her perfect digit.

And to this day, I still marvel at how it got there.

I remember vividly (of course I do) the day we met; a stunning creature in the body of a 16 year old, unladylike girl. I knew the moment I saw her in that Columbus hospital, lying on a table not looking at all ashamed for breaking her leg while doing something so undignified as climbing a tree, that she was someone I would never forget (obviously). Of course, I was a respected '35 year old' Physician, while she had hardly reached the age of womanhood. Pursuing her, let alone confessing to my secretive lifestyle, would have been a horrible and judgmental mistake.

So I endeavored to forget (as if I could).

Years later, working the night shift in Wisconsin, I had caught her unmistakable, mouthwatering scent; a scent that had lingered with me since our first encounter. The scent had lead me to the morgue (and if I had a beating heart, I'm sure it would have broken), where I found her pale and still on a metal slab. From a Physician's observance, she clearly had been pregnant, and my acute sense of smell also confirmed this with a tinge of mother's milk mixing in with her scent.

My grief, however, was short lived, as my inhuman ears were assaulted with the most glorious sounds on this planet Earth; the faint, almost none-existent beating of a heart.

Her heart.

"Hey, Doc."

The voice shocks me, but I don't react. It's rare since my change that someone manages to take me off guard. Opening my eyes from my own personal heaven, I observe the freckled face of Lieutenant William Forbes, one of my too few medical assistants, and closest companion in this hellhole.

"Lieutenant," I smile for the first time in what seems like weeks, as the redhead leans against the adjacent wall to remove his boots and change his damp stockings. I'm pleased to see him. We separated 2 weeks ago, when an Aid Station lost their Corpsman, and a substitute was needed till a replacement was found.

As both Chief Medical Officer of this unit, and Captain (due to my Civilian occupation as a Doctor, and my various aptitudes of numerous languages) it was my duty to dispatch the most skilled Medic I had at my disposal. It pained me to send Forbes as I would never know of his status until he either came back alive, or was confirmed dead.

"How have you been, William?" I ask, after my eyes keenly search for any indication of injury. I am relieved to find none. "It's good to see you well."

"You too, Doc," he says, throwing his overcoat down and folding his legs loosely Indian style. "Gotta tell you, as nice as it is to see familiar faces, I'm not all that glad to be back."

I nod sympathetically, "I don't blame you." The conditions here are far worse than the Aid Stations.

"I mean, the Stations are pretty rough too, but at least they have some hope."

"It's all we ever have," I say, crossing my legs, and holding my shin in a relaxed posture.

"But I sure did get the surprise of my life," he pulls out a roughed up tin of cigarettes, and lights one "when a bus pulls up and out pops this dame! Can you believe it? A woman in a war zone? I thought I was seeing things."

I shake my head in either shame, or disappointment, (I'm not sure), at the naivety, or semi-chauvinistic behavior a few of the men in the service hold towards the fairer sex. In my numerous years, I had always believed, despite some not being as physically strong as their male counterparts, that woman were the better species among both human, and my kind alike.

I believe this developed simply for the reason that as a child, a mother was not present in my father's house, having succumbed to the fever in my early upbringing, and I just had to respect and envy any man with one.

"I mean, I'm all for equal rights and all that, but a woman don't deserve to be in a place like this. Some of the men can't even handle it. I'd hate to have my wife over here, wallowing in the filth," he takes a final drag of nicotine before stomping it out under his boots and quickly pulls out an envelope. "Speaking of which…"

I inwardly chuckle. Just like any man here who's been away from loved ones too long, conversations will easily switch to the life at home.

"…Annie," he says, handing me a picture of a smiling brunette standing behind a cheeky, little redhead ", sent me a Polaroid of my girls." Forbes smiles widely at the mention of Evelyn Forbes and her mother.

"What'd' ya notice?" he excitedly points to the picture.

"Well, let's see…" I notice a lot everything; from the 17 freckles dusting across the little girl's nose and cheeks, to the tears in Annie's eyes; even the dial of the new Wireless atop an antique cabinet in the background, but I'm pretty sure none of this is what he's referring to. "My, she's gotten big," I exclaim, remembering another photograph he had shown me a few months back. The child had been on her mother's hip, playing with a pendent hanging from the parent's neck. Forbes had said Evelyn was 8 months old then, and was skillfully crawling on top of everything she could reach.

That's it!

"She's walking," I say, hoping that's what he's alluding to.

"That she is, my friend," he smugly leans back against the trench, pride, joy and sadness all conglomerating together in the emotions of the father.

"I guess congratulations are in order, then,"

"Thanks, Doc. Golly, I wish I hadda been there to see her first steps," he takes the photograph back from me and runs his thumb over the smiling faces. "Annie says- "

And then I hear it.

"Incoming!" I call out, already on my feet.

The enemy's barrage starts, like always, without warning.

"But I've never done this stitch before!"

"You're a first year medical student, you should have learned it," bullets fly through the air as I work on a man's severely wounded legs.

"Yeah, but on bananas! Not on an actual person!"

"Corporal, I can't do two things at once!" Technically, I can, but it would cause a few eyebrows to raise. "Either you patch it up and make sure it holds, or take over this other leg where it's pretty much the same thing."

"But if I botch it up, he'll lose the leg!"

"He'll definitely lose it if you don't try," I point out, wishing I had Lieutenant Forbes with me, instead of Corporal Wiltsey. He's a good kid, and knows his medicine, but he tends to crack under pressure, and right now, I can't afford an incompetent or insecure subordinate.

"But-"

"It's like a Simple Continuous suture, but under the skin. You know how to do that, don't you?"

"Yes, but-"

"Corporal, just do it," I say, elbow deep in aggravation, "If you can't then you're of no use to me!" I cringe at my harsh words. I'm not normally a bad-tempered person, but when a man who has a half decent chance of walking risks losing both legs because I'm too busy arguing about the procedure, I tend to loss some of my compassionate nature.

I don't have to look at him to feel the trepidation flow off of him. He's afraid to fail, and right now, also afraid to die. I understand his uncertainty, and long ago when I made my first attempt at the Horizontal Mattress sutures, I believe I felt the same way; the shame of failing; being known for shotty workmanship is always a fear for those in the medical profession. But right now, more so than ever, I need any attempt that he can muster, any and all that just might give this Private a chance.

I'm more than halfway complete with the repair of this leg, by the time the Lieutenant begins his. I would work quicker, but I'm already just shy of going too humanly fast, and well, Wiltsey needs to learn.

It's hours later when my crew and I finish with the wounded. Shortly there after, Wiltsey asks if I can teach him a few extra stitching techniques, and I agree to help. Sitting across from each other, we pull out pairs of stockings from our rucksacks, and purposefully rip small holes in them. I show him the most efficient way to mend the opening, while he follows my lead, skillfully recreating my sample.

Throughout the lesson, I learn that Wiltsey is one of four children, each following in the profession of their father, a Doctor in Connecticut. Wiltsey (Elliot is his first name), has a fraternal twin brother who is working with the Red Cross, an older brother is aiding a battalion South of here, and a younger sister has just entered her first year of Nursing back home.

I am pleased to hear of such respect for my chosen profession. Though at time it can be a draining lifestyle, one must thoroughly enjoy their work in order to succeed, and not burn out in this career path.

It's twilight before I manage to elude my company. Quickly, and quietly, I make for the enemy's camp miles away where I know there to be woodland; and where there is vegetation, there is prey.

It has been quite some time since my last hunt, and the thirst is beginning to take its toll. Surrounded by blood all day, I am shamed to admit that I have found its scent far more appealing then what I normally would. I do not lust for it, but I believe it would be as comparing our canteen rations to the desire for a roast dinner. (But I can't be sure.) It is mouthwatering, but I can control the appetite.

Deftly I wade through the brush surrounding me, and acutely pinpoint the scent running through my nostrils. Chevreuil if I'm not mistaken. My knowledge of French uh… cuisine isn't extensive, but my years traveling the globe have taught me the basics; that deer in any country is always plentiful.

It will do.

Moving silently, I come across the herd of deer that covers most of the rural French landscapes.

I attack.

None of my unit is the wiser when I return. Half are busy preparing for any evening attack, while the other half takes the relatively quiet time to get what little sleep they can. I don't have to sleep but I sit anyway, leaning against my rucksack.

A Sergeant off to my left snores lightly and murmurs something about an 'Irene'. He holds his weapon tighter against his chest, and I can only hope that the safety is on.

Riffling through my pockets, I produce a small notepad. Flicking to the last entry, I begin writing the date, name, rank, and injury of the men I've pronounced deceased in the last 24 hours. It's something I've done since I was deployed 8 months ago. With a photographic memory, I don't need to keep track, but when I get State side, I'll try to pay a visit to the families. Not sure what I'd say, but I'd tell them their son died heroically.

"Captain."

I'm on my feet as fast as humanly possible, sharply paying the respect my Commanding Officer dictates by rank with a salute, and firm back. "Colonel."

He waves it off, and most men in the outfit are happy they have a less strict C.O. I lower my hand, and take a loose at-ease posture; hands clasped behind the back, legs slightly splayed.

He also clasps his hands together, but turns from me to face the enemy trenches in the distance. For some time he stands quite agitated, avoiding my direction to look anywhere else. I'm unsure of what I am to do, but I stand still, anticipating him to break the silence eventually.

He does.

"Doctor, I have a personal matter I need to discuss with you," he speaks formally, but he sways back and forth on his feet; awkward and uncomfortable, I would believe.

I don't move, oddly anxious watching him; unsure of these turn of events.

"Have I done something wrong, Sir?"

He turns to me, shaking his head casually. "Oh, no. No. Not you." I'm relieved (I suppose) to hear that there is nothing I have done to warrant this conversation, though I am intrigued.

"You see Doctor," Colonel Avery continues, "I've, uh… developed a– how to put it… a… uh… rash… of sorts."

"Rash, Sir?"

"Yes," he nods uneasily, "lower, uh…more um…uncomfortable areas."

Honestly, I try not to laugh. Humor in this situation is not something one wants to hear. Though it does strike me as very odd to see such a strong man, so out-of-sorts by an ailment so common in the trenches. Flee and lice carrying rats are already to blame for most of the sanitary related rashes among the ranks.

I nod sympathetically, "You're not the first, Sir." This seems to lighten his mood, and he turns to me expectantly, hoping for a cure. I have one, and after application directions, and a strict order of 'this never happened' from him, he meanders on his way.

"Your turn, Doc."

"No, I don't think so, Sergeant."

"Come on," a ruckus of voices implored. "We told you our stories."

This, I was painfully aware of. For the last few hours, what started out as a group of four, had grown exponentially to 13 whistling, and rudely gesticulating men, sharing photographs, and trading tales of lives, and wives, back home.

And I couldn't really condone their behaviour either, for many of them hadn't been home, let alone seen a woman, in months, and well, even though I sat far enough away, cleansing my instruments, to be out of the conversation, I had heard every detail.

"Gentlemen, I have a fairly boring life," I lied, "nothing as interesting as Franklin's escapades with the neighbours' daughter," to which laughter filled the air. Franklin's misadventures had been the talk of the afternoon, and a favourite tale among the men. I must admit, envisioning the six foot five Corporal falling out of the neighbours' two story window in an early Kansas morning (as indecent as it was) had brought a chuckle from me as well.

"Come on," a Private Mathews said "we're not asking for anything quite as unique as Frankie's over there, just an innocent tale, that's all. I mean, we're all curious, what does Captain Cullen's wife really look like?"

"Yeah," Private Peters, this time, piped in "You're a doctor, so the women must be falling over you," to which he gestures to my left hand, "I'm sure your wife's a stunner."

I couldn't agree more. I had always found Esme Anne Platt to be the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes upon. Even as a human at the young adult age of 16, she had a grace, an elegance (despite falling from a tree) about her that had drawn me to the girl. It was wrong of me, masquerading as a 35 year old, to find the impressionable almost-woman to be so luring. Throughout the treating of her leg, every time I took in those wide, doe eyes, rich strands of caramel, and the lovely pull of her lips as they smiled, I felt disgusted with myself.

Instead of feeling like a respected 'middle-age' doctor that I was pretending to be, I felt like a sick, dubious Pedophile. Here I was, a trusted citizen, admiring my own patient, while my cold hands explored under her skirt, being unknowingly to her, taken by the naive girl. (She would later tell me, after she became my wife, that she was more excited then embarrassed to have someone who looked like me surveying the flesh of her calf).

By the end of the treatment, I had been undone by the child…woman…lady; with smudges of dirt across her cheeks, and stray leaves making home in her hair. It was clearly obvious to me that I had been observing too religiously, smiling too widely, and speaking (on the brink of) too flirtatiously, but the girl had been oblivious, and I was thankful. Even if by a one in 1 trillion chance she somehow managed to feel one ounce of what I felt for her, it could not, never, be.

I would not change her simply for my own selfish, emotionally driven reasons; nor would I subject her to any form of my dangerous, ill-advised company. Her beauty I could easily blind myself to, to see a wonderful, loving, personable woman; her scent, I could not.

I'm sure that if it hadn't of been for my biology, her scent would have unfailingly brought me to my knees.

But what was more shocking, was what I felt when I would inhale her bouquet. My kind is drawn to blood like a drowning human to land and over the years I'd become virtually immune to the bloodlust, but never would I have thought that my hunger for dear Miss. Platt was anything other than that of her blood.

I was appalled. Of all the women I'd ever met in my two centuries, it was a mere 16 year old mortal girl that I just had to find breathtaking, endearing, and horrendously enough, desirable.

I was a monster.

I had never felt so weak, so repulsive, so nauseated in all my years as a child of the night; and yet, I felt overjoyed when she smiled gratefully once her leg was cast, or when she blushed apple red when I caught her appraising glances. I'm positive that if it were able, I would have blushed as well.

"So, Cap'n," a brief few seconds have passed, "you gonna spill?"

"Her name is Esme," I say after a moment, and within seconds I have their undivided attention. Some, I assume, want intimate details, though most are more curious as to what kind of life I lead, as I don't often discuss it.

"I had treated her for a broken leg-"

"Playing doctor, were you?" a young Private snickers, while his buddy claps him in side of the head. "Shut your mouth, he's telling a story." Inwardly I chuckle; they all remind me of children.

"Anyway, I treated her for a broken leg. It wasn't till after she was healed, and was no longer my patient, that we courted." I skim over the details as I tell them a few vague, innocent, and mostly fake stories. They don't need to know that she was only 16, or that I was '35' or that she attempted suicide wherein my changing her from human to Vampire.

"What's she look like?" Corporal Olson asks and the rest of the men nod vigorously. I hesitate, briefly contemplating my choice. Though I sickly revel in the covetous longings that a photo of my wife would no doubt produce, I was more than male (man?) enough to admit I (along with every other male Vampire) did not like other men looking at their mate, even if it was just a photo. I was awed that she was mine, and quite openly smug about it too, but I found my kind's possessive and jealous rages almost as potent as the lust for blood. If one of them said the wrong thing, I would be unable to sheath my control, and my cover would be blown.

Silently hoping that my suddenly colder demeanor and possessive body language was enough, I produced a Polaroid. By no means, nothing scandalous, or something that would cause lewd catcalls, but still, a photo of what was mine for all to look at. The company, mostly Private's, some Corporal's, and a few Sergeants all inquisitively eyed the black and white photograph greedily.

She sat on a porch swing of an old bungalow we had renovated that was currently home. Dressed in a simple white blouse, light skirt, and pale purple pullover, she was the vision of beauty I could so vividly recall. Dark hair tumbled down her shoulders and a smile that my Esme reserved just for me graced her lips. She was equally pale as I, and her eyes were a warm butterscotch.

Watching the men's expressions carefully, I forced my hands not to curl into fists.

"Wow, Doc," said one.

"Quite a looker," said another.

"Told you she was a stunner," said Private Peters, while Corporal Hastings pretended to wipe drool from his lips. When Sergeant Griffith exclaimed a boisterous "Yummy," I held down a growl, and settled for a less divulging glare. He looked away and began fiddling with his dog tags.

"Wow, Doc, you really are a lucky man," one of the more mature men in the outfit said, handing me back the picture, which I ran my thumb over.

Yes, I am.

"Keep the pressure on it!"

"I can't! There's too much blood."

"Just keep it while I clamp off the supply!"

"Doc, you know just as well as I do that this much blood can't be clamped off! It's coming out of everywhere!"

"Keep holding it!"

But I know as I speak the words, it's over. The Sergeant's right. There's blood everywhere; too many holes, not enough tools, time and man power to mend.

"Damnit!" I say, almost too low for even me to hear. I don't use profanity often, but surrounded by a unit of swearing men, I guess I've picked up on it. And the boy I'm working on, he was so young. In his incoherent mumbling he had said something about how he wrecked his 'old man's' (his words, not mine) Chevy months ago when he was learning to drive, so I gather he's merely 16.

Such a waste.

I sigh heavily, listening to the fading heartbeats of this Private Westin.

Thump.

.

.

Thump.

.

.

.

.

Thump.

And he's gone.

Rubbing my eyes, just because it felt like the thing to do, I unclamp what repairs I did in an effort to heal the impossible.

"You did what you could, Doc," Sergeant Hogue admonishes, aiding me in the retrieval of supplies and utensils.

I say nothing as the ritual dog tag, and personal effects removal takes place, choosing instead to write his name in my casualty journal. Another name on a list.

It's 26 hours later when I get some time alone. The wounded have finally stopped coming, and the enemy have ceased the fire, probably aware that neither side has made any advance, nor no land has been claimed in days. We're both either too skilled or too stubborn to give anything up.

Throwing my overcoat on an ammo crate, I take a seat, ignoring the world the best I can with my abilities. Solitary is rare in a place like this that, and whatever you can get is a gift.

Down the trench from me, my comrades also take the time to relax. Some are rolling cheap cigarettes, with their own blend of tobacco and whatever else they put in those paper cylinders. A crew of five have set up a poker game, with scantily clad women on their cards, and those cigarettes as a wager; and based upon the snickers coming from Private McCarney, (another Scottish immigrant in the outfit) I'd say he was winning. To the other side of me, Private Norval is cleaning his rifle in a vain attempt to get mud out of the barrel. I've seen enough in this place to know he'll have to order a new one; either that or remove one off a dead man.

Digging threw my rucksack, I produce my journal. Turning to the back pages, I rip out a few, and take out a pencil. Dating the top left, I begin…

Dearest Esme,

Forgive me; it has been too long since my last letter, and I do feel quite abashed at my negligence. I apologize, but knowing you, you understand.

The days have been long, oddly enough, and the opportunities to write have been sparse.

With the mounting casualties, my duties have been quite onerous, and there is but little time to prepare for the next day's events.

Considering, I am well (but you already knew that). I wish I could say the same for my patients, and my company. Not a day goes by where I lose a fellow man, and it is always painful to realize just how unfair this world is.

But in every dark night there is a brief flicker of light. Three days ago Lieutenant Perkins received word that his wife had given birth to their fourth child; understandably, he his both blissful and discouraged by the news; but overjoyed to have produced a girl, among a houseful of boys. Sergeant Sampson also celebrated when his home correspondence delivered a child's tooth. Apparently it is the first for his youngest, Fannie. Corporal Henderson did his own small celebration when he was told he would be shipped out, and heading back home; unfortunately this also coincides with permanent blindness when an explosive detonated too close.

Yes, my dear, the spoils of war.

Myself, I miss you terribly. That is my only injury; that of my pained heart in our separation. My thoughts of you, and my knowledge that I will survive this, make the days slightly more bearable, but still, your absence from my side is greatly missed.

Yesterday, I received my Leave permission, and in another two months, I will be in Paris for five days. I will write with more details as they come available, but I would love for you to be there when I arrive. Due to tight holds on most banking services, my Savings Account has more than enough for a plane, or liner ticket. That is if you do not have other commitments; I know remodeling has a very firm grip on your heart.

The day is approaching twilight here, and our company is preparing for an evening attack. I now must say goodbye. You know I am counting the days till we meet again, but until then, remember my heart is always in your care.

I love you, my darling,

Carlisle

"Now, the Third line will follow through, accompanied by the Forth, with Fifth backing up the rear. Since wire and mortars have already been set, this is an updated grid of what and where. Do not step off the trail. I'm not gonna have you blow yourselves up 'cause a bunch of lackeys decided it was fun to test the map."

Major Kellerman's gruff voice continued to brief the unit on today's battle tactics for the remainder of the noon hour. I don't like hearing the maneuvers our company is involving itself in. Normally, they're littered with colourful phrases on how to incapacitate or maim the enemy, with cheers and 'Oorahs' echoing from the men. It's not something I like participating in, but as the Chief Medical Officer, I am appointed to the positioning of medal personnel under my command, and it's my job to make sure they know what they're doing and when.

Tomorrow, we see if our plans work.

It doesn't. We lose 318 men in one evening.

Today is an anniversary of sorts for me. It has been 12 months; a year, since my deployment, but at times, it truly does feel longer, despite the nonexistent passing of time for my kind. In these 365 days, I have treated 3716 patients ranging from severe, to minor, to near death injuries, and each one, I still remember. But unlike any other significant date, this is one not to be celebrated. The destruction of life and the senseless killing of (my?) fellow man is not something to think joyfully about. It is to be remembered; to be respected; to be thankful for.

Examining the mangled form of the man in front of me, I close the eyelids, and say a small prayer.

There's nothing else I can do for him.

Author's Note: First off, obviously AU. I had initially wanted it to be as canon as possible, but with Edward joining Carlisle during WW1, and Carlisle's reunion with Esme in 1921, that was impossible. If noticed, I did, however, put in most other canon facts regarding the relationship between Carlisle and Esme, true to the book. I also made Carlisle's mother deceased, 'cause I couldn't for the life of me remember anything regarding a mother. Most of my WW1 details are factual, and I tried to make it as realistic as possible. Some details might be inaccurate, but I attempted to research the best I could. Other military things, are what I leaned in Cadets, or History class.

Special thanks to my sis for the medical terminology and my dad for help with the war stuff.