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Jasper Whitlock is not such a miserable soul by the time the American Civil War rolls around. But he is not yet a man of the same caliber as Carlisle Cullen.
He feels the call of the spilled blood in the core of his being. But he stays by the doctor’s side through that conflict.
He stays in the suffocating, all-consuming tension of the medical tents where men lay dying of all sorts of injuries and ailments. And he suffers through it, resisting his most base urges.
Until the night he hears a prayer, barely loud enough to be heard in the stifling dark.
“Please God, take me now,” the voice hitches on a sob before continuing and he can feel the agony rolling off the man in waves as he continues, “I’m ready.”
Jasper is not as good as Carlisle Cullen.
He goes to the man and kneels over him, golden eyes gleaming in the dark. He whispers in the man’s ear that he can make the pain stop. And the soldier, a better man than Jasper, begs him for whatever relief he can give. So, Jasper takes away the man’s fear, sending waves of calm that tamp down all but the most peaceful acceptance. He places a hand over the man’s mouth and bites into the meat of his neck.
The man barely struggles, so at peace with his end with Jasper suppressing the panic that naturally wants to rise as he goes limp and his life slips quietly away.
He barely notices Carlisle until the man is at his shoulder, pressing a hand into his shoulder. Doesn’t realize he’s crying until Carlisle wipes his tears.
He’d heard it all and he wasn’t angry or disappointed. But when his eyes took in the maroon of Jasper’s own, he looked so sad.
Jasper would take the lives of thirty-three men by the end of the war. All good men, fighting for the freedom of others. Men who were in pain. Men who were already marked for death.
He would sit by the bedside of many more, soothing their fears until they quietly slipped away on their own. He held their hands and stood vigil by their beds. He let them cry and scream and beg whenever Carlisle had to deliver his bad news. That there was nothing more to be done. That they were going to die.
He penned letters too, from the dying to those they loved so dearly, the ones they wished could be there in those final moments. From those letters he learned the most sincere thoughts of love that passed through their heads; for their lovers, their children, their pets, their homes.
Jasper felt more vault than man some days, and on those days not even Carlisle could pry the pain out of him.
He didn’t know what to do with the grief that took shelter in his heart. He felt for the men dying in Carlisle’s care, under his watch. And he felt the despair of those who would survive, but at a cost that had their very souls crying out.
Jasper only drained those destined to die, and even then only those who begged in the quiet hours of the night for their suffering to end. Otherwise, he sat a silent vigil and kept them as content as he could given his abilities. But he could still feel what he kept at bay, those feelings that wanted so badly to take root in the soldiers he watched over with Carlisle. They were scared and sad and they wished for death, but Jasper could never allow himself to kill those who couldn’t bring themselves to speak that desire.
He cried into Carlisle over this agonized decision from time to time when it became too much. He could feel it, after all, how desperately they craved the end of their suffering, and he wished there were more he could do for them, but he was no great healer. He could not undue the damage done by bullets and bayonets.
He could only hold their hands and keep the fear down while they waited for the end to come. And he did it without complaint for hundreds of good Union soldiers.