The air was uncomfortably warm, and the breeze was too slight to make it bearable. Her lungs were burning, muscles tender, her sweat sticky, cloying. Her hair clung to her forehead, her neck, her shoulders, her back – her blood sticky, cloying. Her wounds ached and pain shot up her right arm like a bullet, incapacitating her. A flashback replayed in her mind's eye. She was unable to pull her gaze away from what she saw.

The chains were all too real, it felt as if the cold, harsh metal still incarcerated her wrists, her neck, her ankles. She looked down. The raw red flesh throbbed in her joints, and her dislocated shoulder, scarred from a previous injury. The injury from the flashback.

The bowl of rancid cat food made her stomach growl. It was the only food that had been near her for three weeks. She did not care that it was for cats. She did not care that it was months past its use-by date. She did not care that it would be bad for her. It was food. That was what mattered. She stretched out forward with a deep breath, her arms spread out behind her like she was flying, like an angel falling from the sky. The shackles tore agonisingly into her wrists as she strained, desperate to reach the bowl with her tongue. Her shoulders burned and stung as she gave up caring, and flung herself forward with all her remaining strength. The skin tore. She screamed as her right shoulder ripped out of its socket and a tear opened at the top of her arm, hot blood streaming down her emaciated body.

She shuddered at the memory.

Her shoulder was healed now, barely, but at least she was free.

Freedom.

It did not feel as good as she had hoped it would.

But that feeling, that hope, the longing for the euphoria, propelled her. Though she felt as if she had been walking for an eternity, she wanted to be nowhere but the furthest she could be from Cecina as she could get. Thus, she trudged on, over the Italian countryside, wandering, lost, waiting until she felt safe enough to stop and find someone to help. "It would be so much more helpful if I knew Italian," she mumbled to herself in the dark, then laughed quietly. Of all things, she thought, I would be worried about that?

She came to the top of the hill she had been climbing and observed the landscape. She would have preferred not to climb hundreds of feet up and down hills, but in central Tuscany, she had no choice. The entire landscape comprised of hills, each of them seeming to rise higher than the next to her weak physique. A town's friendly, alien, orange lights lit up the next hill, higher than the rest, and she felt a strange pull towards it. The silver light from the full moon gleamed off the buildings, enhancing the majesty of the city's strong walls, and two high towers atop the hill. Perhaps this place was safe enough?

She did not take the road into the town. She feared the cars' headlamps, ducking down into the grass whenever two yellow beams lit up the road, despite being so far from it. She knew that they would be looking for her. Her anxiety of being caught nearly choked her. She stumbled around the perimeter of the city, looking for a way in that would have no cameras, no witnesses. But each time she found an arch in the imposing stone wall, her panic swallowed her whole and she had to sit down and try to breathe.

But, after over an hour of searching, she found a smaller wall off the path she had been following, and away from all the roads. Carefully glancing over her shoulders, she raised her arms painfully above her head and her hands discovered the top of the wall. It was rough, and scraped her skin as she hauled herself up, wincing and biting her tongue in agony. She no longer cared about getting hurt again. She just wanted her ordeal to be over.

She fell hard to the ground with a thud, but was only grateful to be finally lying down. She rolled onto her stomach and her white hair fell over her eyes, and from under it she observed her new surroundings.

A contrast to the lonely and distressing landscape around, she lay in a small garden; tidy, decorated with nineteenth century lamps, emitting a comforting warm glow which illuminated the pretty space, reminding her of a lit fireplace in a countryside cottage in winter. A humid breeze swept around her, blowing towards her a new sound – water. In the centre of the small garden was situated a fountain. She dragged herself over to it, and was delighted to find the water clear and sparkling, and dipped her head under the curtain flowing from the higher stone tier into the pool, and drank. It tasted like the euphoria she had been searching for; her freedom, her release, her life. She rose and sat upon the edge of the pool of the fountain, and breathed deeply. The air smelt fresh and clear, filling her aching lungs with relief.

The flowerbed that ran a ring around the garden was home to a multitude of beautiful flowers, well cared for, and in a variety of colours, all dark blues and purples and black in the orange light, and perfectly complimenting several Roman-era statues standing proud. She couldn't identify them all, but the one directly before her was Venus, she was sure.

She strained a little smile, but it played more in her light blue eyes than it did on her full, broken lips. She leant backwards, and let the cool water envelope her body, and wash her clean. The small white nightgown clung to her torso and thighs, but it felt nice, and lastly, she dipped her head underwater.

Part of her did not want to come up. I should stay down here, she pondered, it would save me so much pain in the future. I really am a silly little girl to think I could just leave like that. They'll obviously find me. and I'll have to go back. They are my family after all, as horrid as they are. But maybe I deserve it. What am I good at really? I've never even been to school. I can't read properly. I have no friends. No one would miss me. My mum didn't even report my birth until I was three. I only know her, and her bastard of a boyfriend. No one would miss me. I'm good at nothing and no one would miss me. No one cares about me. I don't even care about me. No. She shot back up and gasped for air. I can't think like that. Not anymore. I'm still young; I can learn. I can meet people. I could have a normal life. Unlikely, very unlikely, no one would want me with all these scars, but maybe, yes, I could try. She pulled her legs up to her chest and remained in the safe little space between the fountain's central column and the soft, flowing water.

She must have sat there for at least an hour; it was nice there. She wanted to remain there forever. She felt safe here.

Suddenly the light changed. Her heart reacted first, nearly jumping out of her chest. She peered toward the change in light, the shade that seemed to be approaching her. She couldn't see properly through the water, but she realised that when it passed in front of the lamp closest to the fountain that it was a man, and he was looking right at her. She looked away immediately and buried her head between her knees. But it was too late; he'd seen her.

He spoke to her, almost too quietly to hear over the rushing of the water. His words were Italian; she did not understand. His voice was deep, whispery, and though the tone sounded reassuring, a cold chill shot down her spine. "I . . ." she started, "I don't know Italian."

She dared herself to look up. He was sat on the edge of the fountain now. Strange, she had not heard him move. She could make out his features a little more clearly now. The orange light was still tricking her eyes, for while she could make out black hair, white skin and black clothes, even after blinking several times she only saw his eyes as a bright, terrifying red.

He looked her directly in the eyes, and raised his hand toward her. "There is no need to be afraid, my dear, you can come out from under there."

She had never spoken to anyone before who wasn't her two family members, the occasional postman or airport staff. She was almost as afraid of meeting new people as she was staying with the ones she knew. Nevertheless, she told herself to be brave, and took his hand by the fingertips. Surprisingly, she wasn't shaking. His hand was cold, but so was she. His skin was hard too, like the stone on which they sat. She looked down at her lap, abruptly ashamed to have been caught trespassing. This garden must be his.

"What is your name, sweetheart?"

"Lillian," she whispered.

He let go of her hand, and she found the courage to look at his face. No, she had not been mistaken. His eyes were most definitely red. His jet-black hair hung straight to his shoulders, and he wore a suit of an identical colour, minus a tie. What most struck her was the contrast between his hair's dark colour, and the chalky pallor of his skin. She thought that he was handsome in a way, despite the stark disparity in the colours of his face. She though him a sort of creepier, male Snow White.

"Lillian, what were you doing in the fountain?" He cocked his head to the side, inquisitive.

"I don't know," she replied.

"Surely there must be a reason," the man said, and smiled. "It is not a common occurrence for young women to materialise in our little fountain here."

Lillian couldn't help but smile too. But then she remembered why she was there, and the smile fell from her lips. "I was hiding."

"Why?" Why did he want to know?

"I ran away from my mum. We were on holiday in Cecina. Or, she and her boyfriend were." She sniffed, and gazed at the wounds on her wrists. She looked up at him again, and his attention had been diverted to them also.

He took her left wrist in his hand, and touched the raw skin tenderly. "Did they do this to you?"

She nodded. But you don't know him! Why are you telling him this? A lump formed in her throat and she forced herself to swallow it. "Yes." Wasn't he going to introduce himself? She was too afraid to ask.

His face morphed into an expression of concern. She could not discern if it was genuine. "That is horrible indeed. Do they have a reason for harming you so?" Lillian felt uneasy, as if he was talking down to her, or using her for his own amusement, but she tried to shake that feeling away. If she was going to get better, she needed to learn to trust people. And I can start with him.

"The twins," she said.

He raised his eyebrows, prompting her to explain.

She shook her head. "It's just a myth." She tried to relax a bit, and swung her legs out of the fountain and put her right hand by her side instead of on her lap. He let go of her left wrist. "Apparently, like a thousand years ago, there were two twins in my family, a boy and a girl, who were called witches by the village so they were burnt at the stake. But that's not what happened, because their cousin went out into the wood to hunt deer or something, I don't know, and when he came back everyone was dead, the houses were on fire, and the twins were nowhere to be seen. My mum says that they conjured up the devil to save them." Her shoulder began to throb a little, and she rubbed it gently.

"I see, but how does that tale influence her to harm you, her own offspring?"

"She says the twins had some sort of special powers, and that I do too, but if I really did, then I wouldn't have managed to escape her so late. I would have probably ended up conjuring the devil to save me or something, too." She chuckled briefly, but he laughed, and clasped his hands together, entertained. His smile was knowing, as if he was withholding something important from her. But he could not possibly know anything about her family's story, so she dismissed the feeling once again as due to her lack of social experience.

"I imagine we all would have, given the situation," he grinned, and reached up to stroke the side of her face with his fingertips. "What does she think you can do?"

Lillian shook her head again. "I don't know. But I don't think I want to have a super power or something if it meant I was evil. I don't want to hurt people."

"Ah," he replied, leaning towards her, clearly much more interested in the conversation than she was. "If, hypothetically, there was a chance you could have a super power and yet refrain from slaughtering entire villages and hurting those who have done no wrong, would you take it?"

She hesitated. It was getting light. If there was a helicopter or something looking for her, it could see her out here . . . "I don't know. But I think that if I were the twins, I would want revenge on the people who hurt me too. They deserved it, if it's true, to hurt innocent children like that." She looked up at the sky. "I might take that chance. But I wouldn't if my power would be to hurt people." She glanced back at him. "Sorry, but what is your name? I can't remember if you told me."

"Oh! I am sorry, I've got ahead of myself. Your story is so intriguing, Lillian!" His pale lips grew into a full, teeth baring grin, briefly before he continued. "I am Aro."

"Like the weapon?"

He laughed. "Ha ha, no, three letters. A, R, and O."

She smiled back at him. He was such a happy person. She envied him.

Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he lifted his up his hands and reached towards her, then paused, revising his train of thought. He put his hands together, and raised them to his lips. "Sweet Lillian, can you keep a secret?"

"I think so," she replied, "yes." She chuckled once to herself. It's not like I have anyone to tell any to.

He leaned very close to her then, and she could smell his sweet breath as he spoke. "Some people do have gifts beyond the ordinary," he revealed, and stroked a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "I, being one of them."

She didn't know what to make of this. Could he be crazy? Or could stories like the twins' really be true? Her confusion only served to confirm to her that she really did know nothing about the world, and just how vulnerable she really was. Aro could be anybody. He could really have a 'gift' like he said, or he could be a madman. She had no idea how to tell. Except to ask. "You do?"

"Yes, here." He took her hand.

She looked up at his face as he closed his eyes, and pulled her closer to him. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer immediately.

She just sat there, watching his face, in the rainbow colours of dawn. She noticed red clouds in the sky, so she gazed at them, mesmerised. She'd never had much of a chance in her short life to stare at the sky freely.

Aro regained her attention when he released her hand. Lillian had been daydreaming; she'd no idea how long they had been sat like that. She watched his face again, waiting for him to explain what he was doing.

And from that day forth, she would become unsure whether she had ever stopped daydreaming.