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ℑn this idyll, there persists a rhythm. Circadian in its poetry, though unaccompanied by the mortal percussion of a beating heart; no sanguine tide flowing through veins, no pulse declares its dominion. And yet, this house, this home, peopled by the cold and the changeless (save one), is not bereft of warmth. It is steeped in it. It breathes it. It is kept by it. Love, here, is not an adornment; it's the very architecture; the very foundation, with Esme, the Cullen Matriarch, at its core. It binds them in a covenant far more enduring than blood: an unassailable promise of forever, chosen and re-chosen in every silent hour. And the relief, the profound and ineffable solace in the assured continuance of her granddaughter’s life. A permanence. Her existence secured within the gilded, unbreaking chain of their immortality. The youngest bloom in an eternal garden, untouched by decay, luminous in her becoming.
ℋere, within this sanctuary, this amaranthine haven, the ingénue inhales what might be called the scent of home, were such a thing not beyond the senses of her kind. And yet she knows it. Aureate light spills in ribbons across polished floors; it gathers on Edward at the piano, where he plays her song, while beside him, Bella sits in quiet constancy, her presence a sentinel even at rest, her love a force that stretches far beyond the limits of sight. In the adjoining room, Alice arranges flowers with delicate movements, each petal placed as though it were a note in some silent symphony, while Jasper lingers near. Book in hand, gaze intent, attuned always to the invisible cadences of feeling that move through them all. And there, beyond the threshold, where Douglas firs stand in their ancient watch, laughter, bright and unrestrained. Emmett, undone by delight as Rosalie bests him again. Perhaps in some spirited contest of strength.
𝙰nd always, always, him. Carlisle. Her Carlisle. The axis upon which her eternity first turned. The quiet miracle she chose, and was chosen by in return. Occupied in his study, as he so often is, broad shoulders inclined in contemplative repose, one hand absently tracing the margins of some newly published thesis, the other: veined, elegant, impossibly steady, turning each page with the care of a man for whom knowledge is both vocation and absolution. And the door, as ever, remains ajar. For her. Eternally for her. That he might see her when she passes. That he might look upon her not in habit, but in devotion renewed. That he might, in the quiet sanctity of their shared eternity, continue to admire the singular grace of the woman who taught him that immortality need not be endured, but cherished.
brother:*is playing with friend in moh*
me: *uploads shitload of gifs on tumblr*
brother: MAGDA ARE YOU BUFFERING SOMETHING?
me: no... 8||
brother: cause we have lags...
me: no i'm not /buffering/ anything... 8||||||