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Chapter Text

 Roman Empire, Tyre - 17AD

Aro sat cross-legged next to his fireplace, his cat, Sekhmet, curled up between his legs, breathing calmly and providing him with more warmth than the dying flames. He shouldn't waste any more wood. No one knew how long the frost would last. No one had predicted it either. He pulled his only woolen overcoat tighter around himself and gazed out of the half open window he hadn't bothered all summer to replace the shutter of. The stars were beautiful at least, he thought and lost himself in their dance for a moment.

The light in the room became dim, dimmer, then dimmer until it went out. The last ember had burned and Aro would soon freeze. He shouldn't try to sleep. The small basket he had put on the table earlier was now looking right at him, and Aro met it with one of his own.

Carefully moving Sekhmet, who readily responded with a mrrp, he stood, grabbed the basket and slipped on his sandals.

“I won't be long,” he told the cat that had curled up in his bedding already, and without so much as a candle he was out of the house, making for the edges of the forest.

The ground felt sturdy under his feet. It had not rained in days, so the air had found nothing to freeze but everyone's crops. Aro frowned. “Maybe it's not really a forest,” he said quietly to no one, distracting himself from the reality of the hard winter they'd all have to go through.

“It's too small and too close to the desert,” he continued. “But I suppose everyone calls it that.” His feet went numb already. “I'd like to see a proper forest one day.”

No one came to these woods in the winter, they had nothing to offer, but Aro liked them. He spotted a bush of winter blossoms and bent to pick them carefully. The stalks snapped with a distinctive icy sound, making Aro click his tongue. He only picked half of them, leaving the rest as they were so as not to harm the plant. Once straight on his feet, he let out a playful breath to look at the white puff of air ascending the sky.

He let another moment pass in silence, peacefully looking around. “You're all so quiet tonight,” he commented and to his delight an owl answered him with a coo. Aro smiled and moved a little deeper in the woods with a lighter heart.

Not ten steps forward he stumbled onto something. He shut his mouth, even brought his hands to cover his lips, but upon a second's inspection he saw it wasn't a wild animal that was about to devour him, but the form of a sleeping person. Half leaning against a tree, covered all the way up with a thick fur.

“Huh,” he let out, surprised. Must not be from around here, he thought. It could be a thief.

“Hey stranger,” he called out, switching to the common Latin.

A pair of eyes slowly opened and looked around in the dark to find him. “Hey.” A deep voice, half asleep.

“You'll freeze out here.”

The man's eyes narrowed, looking over Aro from the top. His hair loose, not a scarf in sight, no fur but a woolen wrap, half his legs exposed, and not even a pair of socks. “And you won't?”

“I won't be out for long,” Aro answered unbothered by the scrutiny and doubt. “But you won't make the night.”

The stranger scoffed. “I'll manage.”

“There's an inn you know,” Aro persisted.

“It was full.”

“I bet not.”

“Alright, then maybe I didn't want to go.”

Aro went quiet then. Perhaps, he thought, he understood. The man's accent was not great, much like his own. Perhaps he was running from something. The law, for example . Perhaps he had not the money for the inn. Perhaps he needed another person's understanding. Overtaken by a sudden wave of emotion, Aro felt he'd be damned if he didn't offer what he himself so often seeked.

“Listen, my house isn't far. I can light a fire, make you some tea, offer some bread.”

The stranger stared at him for a long moment, quiet, unmoving. “And why would you do this?”

Aro swallowed, flexed his freezing toes, trying to get his blood moving again. The cold of the night had started to seep through his skin. “Maybe I don't want to hear the news of your death tomorrow. And in any case, you dying here will ruin the winter blossoms for years. And these are the only ones I have.” He waved the basked a little to make his point, the handful of blossoms swaying and jumping with the movement.

The man huffed a laugh incredulously and after another moment, he pushed to stand. “Alright,” he said and fixed his clothes, pulling the fur down, revealing long black curls, complete with a thick black beard.

“What is your name, host?”

A hand was extended towards Aro who hurried to grasp at it. “Aro. And yours?” He started walking.

“Abraam.”

Aro nodded. Even more curious, he thought. If anything, Hebrews took care of their own. A strong wind made him pick up his pace and soon his yard appeared through the woods. He had left the fence open, something his brothers often scolded him for, but now it made for easy entry and escape from the cold.

Abraam stood, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the indoor darkness, but not his host. No, Aro was already moving, laying his clothes on racks and hangers, putting the basket on the table and quickly lighting a candle. He brought it to Abraam with a soft “Here,” only to move away again, this time to the fireplace.

Abraam used the flame to look around, starting with Aro. A lithe form, dressed in what seemed to be cotton layers, setting up enough wood to burn till the sun came up. He turned the other way, laid the candle on a holder on the table and removed his fur. This side of the room was full of shelves and racks and a counter. There were a couple of sealed jars with different colored oils, most likely not edible, and then plenty of clay containers with the lids half open. Must be empty, then. Open so they don't grow mold . A soft glow lit up the room and Abraam turned to see.

“Sit.” Aro was smiling politely, motioning towards the fire that was now burning calmly, quickly warming up the small room. “I'll make you tea.”

Abraam laid his fur on a chair, approached the fire and lowered himself to the pelts on the floor. He watched Aro pick a thin, copper pot, blindly raise his hand to dip in one of his clay containers. His fingers came out with a handful of dried leaves. Abraam's eyebrows rose to the top of his head. Herbs and teas? Aro filled the pot with water from a carafe and hung it over the flames. He went back to the table, picked something wrapped in cloth and handed it to him. It felt like bread. He looked at the containers once more. A black cat had appeared on the table and was staring at him moving its tail left and right slowly.

He was more than warm in his woolen clothes. He removed another layer and quietly observed how the hairs on Aro's arms remained raised. The tea was ready. Aro poured it in two cups.

“Eat. You were out in the cold for long.”

Abraam felt the bread in his hand. Just enough for one person. He had not seen another cloth wrap protecting anything. He felt the leather pouch that was tightly tied on his belt suddenly weigh him down. A whole month's wages.

Guiltily he unwrapped the bread and ate.

Chapter Text

Egypt, Cairo - 600 AD

“Kneel,” Amun said calmly from the top of his throne. The three younglings looked even smaller from here. Only one of them, the pale one, the one that had refused him years ago complied at once.

“Please, King Amun,” Caius said. “Help us.”

Amun watched rather indifferently, infinitely patient. The woman, Athenadora, followed Caius' example and knelt next to him. She did not speak and she would not look at her husband. Last was Mauro, of course. He was staring and staring at him, as if he could hurt him with his gaze alone. But eventually he yielded too. Clenched his jaw, bit his tongue, dropped to his knees.

Amun thought he could almost smile. “Lead me to him.”

It was the first time he came to Volterra, having ignored their invitation after they burned Atalan Isle. He had nothing to compare the current state of their manor to, but he needed no experiences to see they were currently under the spell of misfortune. He was rushed to a room on the second floor with a clear view of the garden. Overgrown, dried and as dead as any of them.

A pitiful little growl coming from the corner of the room stole his attention, and the pieces connected in his head easily.

Aro, their mind reader and witch, the naive and hopeful delicacy , had become lost in his head so thoroughly he resembled not a person.

Amun approached unafraid, even as the growls got louder, defensive. He stretched his palms forward, framing the crawling form in his mind's eye and focusing his own gift on it. After barely a second he knew what was wrong. Of course, not only was he naive, he was sloppy too.

“Hold him down,” Amun addressed the other three vampires in the room. Caius obliged immediately, Mauro followed slowly behind, but Athendora left. Something itched at his mind, something not quite fitting with the scene he was presented. He looked at Mauro but found him avoiding his gaze.

Caius went forward, braced against the fearful growls as if he himself was pained. He allowed to be desperately bitten again and again as he wrestled -if that could be called wrestling- Aro to the floor. Mauro helped keep him still. Cold, detached... pleased? Amun's curiosity was awoken but before he swayed from his path, he focused on the tormented vampire.

With his knowing eyes, Amun observed the skin he just exposed, and he saw a painter's scrap canvas. The one they use to combine colors, rehearse lines, the one they don't mind to get wet, or even ripped, painted over and over again with no plan, no desire, no care.

He set his palms forth, moving them from Aro's forehead to his throat, down his chest. There was a name carved there, permanently etched on his skin. Amun read it slowly, letting each letter tell him their story. D I D Y M E.

Unfinished, interrupted , they said in both sadness and relief. Curious, Amun knew not what exactly had happened. Something stronger was forbidding him from seeing. He moved his palms to Aro's belly, to both his legs, until he reached the bottom of his toes.

Finally, after reading the vicious current of poison running through his body, he knew that Aro had done something he shouldn't have. Something to break the seal and release this word onto himself, to cause his own blood to sing it, his own hairs to shout it. This word, written over his skin, in as many languages as Amun himself knew, that Amun too carried, so heavy, so unforgettable. Nobody's fault but fate's.

Amun swallowed. “I need a blade that can cut and mark our skin.” The lightness with which he had arrived was long gone and it worried the two kings into complying without question. Caius pulled his blade from its sheath at his hip to hand it to him.

He had been mistaken, this wasn't messy or careless work. It was desperate. Aro wasn't using himself as both the scrap piece and the finished work because he didn't care enough. He was doing it because he had no other option. Amun didn't have to guess what came first. A witch with taste like Aro's wouldn't have been bettered by neither spell he cast. It was because he had cast them while he was already poisoned. Branded with this inescapable word: unsought .

You poor thing... Which one rejected you? Amun thought and pressed the tip of the blade right over Aro's heart. I'll help you, he promised silently and for a moment the vampire below them ceased. He pressed the blade down, just enough to break his skin and coax his blood to rise to the surface. Aro yelped and started thrashing again. Amun moved the blade, tracing a line from his heart towards his armpit, and from there down the inner part of his arm, forearm to his palm, where he brought the blade to the middle of it. He carved five separate paths, one for each finger and watched intensely as finally the blood turned black in his eyes. Foul ink that was finally leaving his body, taking some of the damage with it.

As soon as it was done, Aro breathed out, calmed. He closed his eyes against the pain that seemed to have lessened. Shhh, I will release you, Amun told him through his touch. He pressed the blade over his heart again, moving towards his other arm to trace the same pattern. You cannot keep all this inside you. His other palm was finished and Aro sighed in relief, letting his head hit the floor. Amun pressed the blade to his heart one more time, moving down his left ribs and over his hip bone, straight down his thigh, to the inside of his knee, to his ankle to end underneath his toes. A sigh of relief came from Caius too, and the answer was now standing bare in front of Amun.

He looked at the now hacked over name. He had given it its voice back, and it reached out to him, revealing to him what it was there for. What it had failed to do. And right after it, with a deep tremor that rattled all three vampires who were touching him, Aro's bones called out to Amun, begging to be heard. What a secret to hold on to, Amun admired the dedication, recognised the hopelessness of it. But then, what wouldn't he have done for his soulmate?

He placed the blade on the cut on Aro's right armpit and moved downwards to his toes again. I know your secret , he told the mind reader, surprising himself at his own honesty, and stood.

The other two kings, unaware of their conversation, and everything that was forced on their brother to carry, let go and Aro did not move. He stared at Amun, his awareness returning. No longer an animal, but merely an exhausted man. Amun heard it so loudly, Aro had might as well spoken. I know yours too.

Amun, disquieted, wiped the blade on Aro's discarded clothes and passed it to Caius, quick to pull his hand back, lest his own markings were seen. “He will be fine. Let him rest.”

Chapter Text

Egypt, Cairo - 1110 AD

“ Find them.”

That is what his new master had ordered. He was sure of it, he would swear it. All of his attention had been focused on him ever since arriving, waiting patiently to be called. He nodded once, emphasizing his intention by bowing at the waist too. Habit and survival. The clothes they all wore in Susa perfectly covered them whole, not an inch of skin was visible to the traitorous sun. The headwrap they had covered their face so completely, only allowing a thin gap for their eyes to peek from, and so, facial expressions could not be counted on to communicate anything. So he made his bow obvious, unmistakable, and rabid in his seek for approval, he found them. Both of them, as asked.

Three days it took him, based on a description and a last known location. His personal best, he thought and dared to secretly feel proud of himself. He returned, unscathed, after traversing a land he had very briefly known, almost forever ago, and now he stood with their heads in each hand, calmly presenting them to his master.

Amun beheld him for the longest time, and every second in silence picked at Demetri's nerves. He searched his face, trying to read through his skin and find what had displeased him. What about his performance had been deemed inadequate. Amun breathed in and Demetri broke out in sweat.

“I replay in my mind what exactly it was I asked of you,” Amun started, his voice revealing wonder and a little confusion.
Demetri lowered his gaze to the floor. He would not speak unless directly asked something, but his clenched fists had started trembling.
“Who did I get you from, remind me.”
Demetri did not look up as he swallowed once in preparation to speak. “Atamraz,” he said and his voice sounded secure, confident.
“Ah,” Amun exclaimed in understanding. “Of course.”

Demetri felt his stomach twist. Amun had not even been present at his purchase. His right hand had bought Demetri from Atamraz for a large amount of money. The second time he sold him. “Make it last this time,” he had said.

His late st renter had dragged him back to his maker, demanding his execution and Atamraz had raised his sword to do it when she intervened. “ Name your price to spare his life.” Demetri almost broke his orders and told her to let them do it.

But he didn't speak, and she bought him for far too much, so now he was trying to prove he was worth at least some of it.
But he had fucked up, and now Amun might take him back, and God knows how angry Atamraz would be. There were far worse fates than death.

“ All I wanted you to do was find them, come back and tell me where they were. You did not need to kill them.” Amun spoke, redirecting Demetri's accelerating thoughts.
What proof would he have that he found them then? Why should Amun believe him and not call him a liar and punish him?
“ In fact, I don't want you to kill unless I give you a direct order.”
Demetri swallowed around the knot in throat. Now he sounded upset, and -if Demetri had learned anything from his numerous renters- malicious. This order was purposeful. Every other time he was given it it served to remind him how weak he truly was. How helpless. Did Amun not know? That there were people out there hoping to find the Inescapable Persian? That if he got got while on a mission it was kill or be killed?
It's be killed, then... “ Yes, sir,” he responded stoically.

Amun relaxed against his chair, signaled with his fingers and two servants came in at once, taking hold of Demetri's proof. He stood where he was, let it happen. He wouldn't budge unless properly dismissed.
Amun flicked his wrist once, releasing him. “Go wash yourself, and not a word of what you did to the others until I tell you.”

Demetri felt cold sweat run down his back, down his temples. “Yes, sir.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was so hungry already. Who knew when he would be allowed to feed now.

Amun swiftly moved away, harshly calling for Anut, surely because of Demetri's fuck-up.

Demetri kept track of him until he was out of the palace, crossing the sea. He would have continued for longer, but a servant called his name to inform him his bath was ready.

The servant led him to a large room currently occupied by no one. He was told he could take as long as needed, and that he would not be disturbed. With a bow of the head to express his gratitude, too scared to speak, lest he wasn't actually allowed to, he entered.

There was incense burning at a corner, filling the room with a dizzying scent. A bath was carved into the stone, filled with water that seemed to be continuously flowing. Some oil Demetri did not know of was already poured in, along with something like salt. Demetri wasn't sure how he was supposed to get clean when the water itself wasn't clear. He spotted a white cloth draped on the side of the bath, a bar of what he hoped was soap and a set of clean clothes to wear afterwards. “ Egyptian attire ,” he thought. Did that mean he wasn't being sent back?

He stepped forward and in the corner of his eye something moved. He turned towards it startled, only to be met with his own calm reflection.

Demetri blinked for a long time, confused and disbelieving. The person staring back at him blankly, as if all emotion had been erased from his face, could not possibly be his own.
He scowled and watched in confusion as his reflection did not. Some deep instinct in him awoke, telling him there was a fundamental mistake in his being, urging him to do something about this.
H walked closer to the mirror. Frowned on purpose and his reflection mimicked him. Smiled on purpose, and his fangs greeted him. His third set already. A convulsing ache stabbed him in the chest and he scrunched his face to give the pain an escape. Except... he didn't, for the mirror image of him had remained expressionless at the pain. Demetri lifted one hand and rubbed at his chest, trying to move the pain along quicker. It didn't help, it never did.

He looked at his face, supposedly, leaning closer to inspect his eyes. Black but empty. They did not betray how hungry he felt. How scared he felt.
Again, something coming from deep within him struggled and tried to call out. This isn't you! Unnerved at the lack of reaction he was seeing, contradicting what he thought he was doing and what he was seeing himself do, he felt enraged, one fist clenching at his side.
He met the stoic stranger's eyes one more time, trying to make sense of him. Unmoving, unbreathing, trying to be unnoticeable.

I'm protecting you, the mirror whispered and Demetri's fist unclenched at once. He turned away from it, shedding his clothes and getting in the bath even if he wasn't sure he would use it right.

He kept his back to it, not risking getting another glimpse of himself.

I'm protecting you, the mirror image told him. And Demetri believed him. After all, he had been the one to call out to him, beg him for help. And the person in the mirror did. He was successful. He had found out what Iraj had wanted, kept them alive for the whole ten years. In a way, Demetri was grateful to him. He just didn't like looking at him.

Chapter Text

Volterra - 1940s

Caius rolled his shoulders backwards, turned his head this way and that, let out a quiet sigh and finally relaxed into his chair. Jasper stood across from him, his hands loosely at his back, concentrating on combating the king's pain in small, increasing waves.

He was an expert at it by now, long were the days where he would do it too quickly and have the king faint where he stood. He remembered it so clearly, the first time Caius asked him to try and numb his pain. Jasper had never attempted to use his gift like that before. It was manipulation on lies and confusion, but this... He hadn't even considered he could use it for something generally good. And in his eagerness to please his king he used all of his power at once, unconfident in its effect. And the king was blown out like a candle in a hurricane. Jasper had been too preoccupied to act, but Felix had been standing there, right behind him, watching his back. And when the king's knees buckled, when he let out the most heartbreaking sigh, Felix was there to catch him before he hit the floor. Felix had panicked, called the whole palace to attention and at once twenty guards appeared in the room, surrounding Jasper who was just then coming out of his trance and easing up his gift over the king. And then, as Jasper blinked himself back to awareness, before he even took in the fact he was surrounded, the guards parted to let a furious, cold blazing queen between them. Jasper had felt his blood cease as he was eye to eye with the tip of a sword, held by the steady hand of Athenadora. Jasper did not dare look anywhere else as he slowly raised his hands up in the air, but in the corner of his eye, he saw Felix carry the king back, and on the balcony perched over curiously was Aro with Marcus glued to his side and his hand wrapped around the grip of his own blade at his hip.

Jasper looked around at the familiar office now. The fireplace burned lowly, covering the room in warmth, yet he felt on edge.

"Jasper, we have a mission for you," Caius started after a prolonged silence.

Jasper straightened, prepared to listen. Demetri had broken the news to him earlier that week. The kings had him watch over the States a lot.

"We want you to provide protection for someone."

Jasper nodded. Something was brewing in his veins. Something combining fear and excitement. A hesitant desire that if released would swallow him whole.

"We have reason to believe he may be in danger, and we know for a fact he is a horrible fighter."

"A Volturi?" Jasper questioned, finding it hard to believe anyone got past Caius' intense training.

Caius tilted his head to the side, clicked his tongue. "Of sorts."

Jasper frowned. "You think I'm the best for the job?"

"Yes. For multiple reasons." Caius grimaced and started rubbing down the length of his thigh. This happened often too. After a moment under Jasper's influence, the rest of his body would relax and call for all the attention it had been starved for. "Few people know you're a Volturi and that is essential, because we don't want you to reveal it at all."

Jasper swallowed.

"Ideally, you'll integrate yourself into this person's close circle."

"And who is that person?"

"Have you heard of the name Carlisle Cullen?"

Jasper's face shone in understanding. "Sometimes he's all king Aro talks about."

Ciaus chuckled, nodded. "We have very little presence in the States, which appeals to a lot of people that don't like us. Which in turn, puts him in danger."

Jasper nodded. He would not share his opinion on the plan.

The king let a moment pass, let Jasper gather his wits, but his voice was soft and concerned when he asked. "How do you feel about going back to the States?"

It gave Jasper the freedom to really think for himself. "I didn't think I'd ever be going back."

Caius nodded in understanding. "Do you not want to go? We can think of another plan."

"No, no, I'll go. It just sounds like a huge mission."

Caius gave him a reassuring smile. It was a little tight. "We wouldn't assign you if we didn't think you could do it."

Jasper nodded. If anything, his king did not lie. He took him from the depths of hell, brought him home, gave him everything, and now he was asking for Jasper to do the job he had been trained for. "When do I leave?"

Caius did not answer immediately. Gave him time to take back his enthusiasm. "In a year or two. We have some training to do. Break you out of my fighting habits enough not to raise his suspicion. And you must not go to him immediately. Reacquaint yourself with the territory, the local mannerisms, the new way of speaking. You must appear completely local and like the only other language you know is war spanish. And we must work on your desire to go back and find your maker."

Caius started listing things that had to be done and Jasper swallowed, looked away. He had not quite considered the fact that he was no longer local to Texas. To Mexico. To the Americas. It didn't click until Caius brought it to light how he had changed. He never spoke English, his Latin accent was worked to perfection, his hand gestures had grown and grown until he was practically indistinguishable from Demetri. God, for a second he feared he had even forgotten how to whistle.

And Maria... It was easy to resist her call when he was here, an ocean away, with a very specific task to do that required his proximity to his king.

"What will you do during this time?" he asked all of a sudden, now the pieces connecting in his mind. The reason why Caius wanted to break his dependency slowly. He was preparing himself for Jasper's departure.

"I'll manage. Like I did before." A soft silence settled. "We don't believe it's going to be for too long."

"Believe or hope?"

Caius spared him a smile. "Amun said with the turn of the millenium."

"Hasn't he been wrong every time before?"

Caius laughed now. "Yeah, he gets events correctly, but never the times."

"So, a century in the States. I'll be more of a Cullen than a Volturi by then."

"I hope not, he is insufferable."

Jasper laughed now, joking about to make the situation lighter was just what he needed.

"And say he does come back. Won't he be angry to find out I was a Volturi spy the whole time?"

"It's not the best plan. But we'd rather have him alive and angry than dead."

Silence again, Caius was calm, waiting for the big moment. Jasper chewed on his tongue for a moment longer before the words escaped him. "Do you think, with me there, we can establish the Volturi base we need to end the war?"

"Sure," Ciaus answered and they both knew it was a transparent lie.

"And, uh... if she gets me back?" Jasper dared to say lowly.

Caius shook his head. "You think I'm going to abandon you in such hostile land? No, Jasper. Demetri will be watching you, if you stray and linger in the south for too long we'll know and we'll come get you."

Jasper wasn't looking at him when this was said.

"Hey, look at me. I mean it. I'll raise all of Europe to come get you out of there, alright?" Jasper nodded at the intensity, trying to make himself believe it.

"Good. So don't linger down there for nothing. And I want frequent reports. Oh, some coding is necessary to learn too. See, we got lots to work on."

Chapter Text

All in all, it had gone better than expected, Carlisle thought as he stood leaning against the doorframe, looking out to the balcony where Bella was once again pestering Aro with the utmost serious questions of “How can you be sure the backrooms aren't real?” and observations of “Unless you have personally tried to feed off a lizard person you wouldn't know they are one.”

But Aro was infinitely patient, and even more surprising (but if he really thought about it, it made sense) Caius had been as well.

Carlisle shook his head, trying to urge the events out of his mind. Nothing happened in the end. Not when she jumped on him to better inspect his two sets of fangs (he even laughed!), not when she reached to grab Aro's hands (he personally knew of two- two!- people who had lost limbs for that exact transgression.) Nothing happened when Emmet openly claimed he was the strongest in the room (they all agreed), nothing happened when Didyme was mentioned and nothing happened when he said he wasn't sure he wanted to go back to Volterra.

They had come with pure intentions and Carlisle wasn't sure Aro had bid them to behave or things had changed in the few centuries in between.

“You look so concerned,” Caius' voice broke him out of his trance and he blinked to only just notice Emmet had joined his mate and the youngling Bella in the balcony. He suddenly felt like he needed to go out there and stop whatever was about to go down.

"Yes, it's not every day the whole Volturi family comes to your place, is it?” he tried to smile but he wasn't sure it was convincing.

Caius flicked his eyebrows upwards once and stepped closer. He was holding a journal in his free hand, very old and unkempt.

“What better time to give you some more concerning information then?” he said and raised the journal towards Carlisle. The younger vampire reached to take hold of it, mildly suspicious. When Caius didn't immediately speak, he flicked the cover open and skimmed the first lines.

Christoper William Cullen, the signature read. And below it,

To my son, Carlisle,

God willing one day you will find this.

Carlisle froze, his eyes snapped up to meet Caius. “What is this?” he asked, his voice rushed, full of tension.

Caius breathed out slowly. “A couple of weeks ago a few guards were on an inspection mission in England. We have reason to believe the ancient race is reappearing and we don't know why or how. But the guards entered this church, spoke with the priest to get his perspective and they noticed this bookshelf with ancient looking books. We are always interested in those, perhaps someone had noticed a pattern and noted it down.”

Carlisle swallowed hard. Caius only rambled when he had alarming news to deliver. If it was good or bad, he made his point first and then (maybe) elaborated. But this, this tale that took him more than a sentence only testified to his hesitancy to tell Carlisle.

“They asked the priest about it and he said they were whatever had been saved from the old church that used to be on the spot. It had burned down in the 1600s, I don't suppose you had anything to do with it, did you?”

Carlisle only shook his head. The longer Caius spoke, the more his heart climbed to his throat.

“It was a few holy texts and a couple of journals by the old priest. There wasn't anything important historically or otherwise. The only value they had was because of their age alone and so my guards were allowed to look at them. You're lucky,” Caius pointed at him then shrugged, “Or unlucky I suppose. It depends, I guess, but one of them knew you, remembered your name. So when he read “Christopher William Cullen” and then “To my son Carlisle” he recognised it and took it with him. It appears to be entries as if instead of letters but we didn't read it in full.”

There, now Caius stopped and Carlisle was left to stare at him numbly.

“If you don't want it we will go through it to see if your father -presumably- made any notes about the vampires that took his son.”

And there was the bluntness too.

Carlisle nodded. Because he understood what was said to him. He really did. But... it all sounded unreal. “Why would he write “Carlisle?” First time I went as Carlisle was when I came to Volterra.” He told Caius as if he had the answer to that.

Caius nodded calmly. “Alright.”

“It can't be him,” Carlsile shook his head, flicked the journal open on a random page. “See?” he turned it so Caius could look at it. “It's not even in English.”

Caus nodded in understanding again. “I know. It's Gaelic.”

Carlisle froze again, then slowly turned the notebook back to look at the words. No... No, his father hated the Irish. He didn't even let him be friends with the catholic kids.

“I don't speak Gaelic,” he said lamely.

“Aro does,” Caius said a bit harshly and then moved to break the suffocating atmosphere. “Listen, I'll let you have it for a couple of months. If you read it, Aro will know if there is anything important there and he'll tell us. If you decide not to read it, I'll have to ask for it back.”

Carlisle nodded again, to speak words a foreign concept at the moment. Caius patted him on the shoulder once and left him alone again to gaze out to the balcony and at Sulpicia who had arrived to Aro's aid.

* * *

Later that evening, when they were alone again in their apartment, Carlisle wasted time turning the journal over and over in his hands.

“Aro,” he called and ceased the movement. His soulmate lifted his gaze from the TV screen and met his eyes.

Carlisle breathed in, made his choice. “Will you read this to me?”

Aro shifted on the couch, sat up straighter, nodding along. “Yeah.” He pulled the blanket aside and motioned for Carlisle to sit beside him.