It had been one thousand eight hundred years to the day since his little sister was killed.
No one knew what really happened that night all those years ago. Most people thought she was killed in a battle with the Romanians.
Didyme was, in fact, on the front lines that night, much to Marcus's displeasure. The last thing he wanted was for his sweet, kind, loving mate to be out there fighting, of all things. It was practically an oxymoron for Didyme to fight with anyone. But she was stubborn – she wanted to. It was a weak point in the empire, and the Volturi forces were short. She wanted to do all she could for what she believed to be the greater good. Didyme always put herself before others. It was one of the things Aro loved and admired about her. He considered himself a rather selfish creature.
He proved himself correct once again that night. As his sister gave him one last look of confusion before he took her head off of her shoulders, ripped her limb from limb, and lit her funeral pyre, he felt the uncomfortable prickle of tears he could no longer shed.
"I'm so sorry, Didyme," he whispered, barely audible. "So sorry."