I'm having a little too much fun writing Vamp!Death!Godric. Wa-a-ay too much fun… I seriously need to get my head checked. No. Really. This is just… I feel bad for Europe at this point. I really, really do.

GUEST FROM LAST CHAPTER: "I love the background on Amity's mother but I really don't want Godric to just be looking at Amity because he sees her mother instead of her. Otherwise I completely ship Godric/Amity, he needs some serious cuddles!"

I totally agree with you here about not seeing Amity and seeing her mother instead. That's just lame. Not to mention kind of creepy and insulting for Am. Just keep in mind, at this point, Godric doesn't really know a thing about Amity except that she's very brave (and/or stupid). It's gonna be a slow burn. As of right now, she's little more than a curiosity to him. Certain developments will need to happen with her and Godric if anything is going to happen between them at all. For right now, I hope you enjoy learning a little bit more about Cassia, and where she stood in the big scheme of things with him. As for the cuddles… Well, you'll see :)

Shout out to KarmaBites for informing me about the comics. I've got so much more material to work with now.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Especially not the homicidal lunatic. At least he seems to be having more fun than he did last chapter. This is also a disclaimer for the inevitable historical inaccuracy. I am so not a history buff. Can anyone tell?

CHAPTER 5: DÉJÀ VU

335 A.D. Constantinople (now Istanbul)—400 (give or take) years later.

Godric thought Constantine was hilarious.

He had heard about the whole 'Jesus' incident a couple centuries earlier, and thought that was hilarious too. He was sorry he missed it. Then again, when he started hearing rumors of resurrection he wondered if someone from his side hadn't brought the so-called 'Son of God' over. It was just too good. He really was sorry he missed it. And so he did what he did best and followed the path of death and destruction that came in the aftermath all the way to a little city called Jerusalem. His old friends the Romans were there, doing what they do best as well. Because, let's be honest, despite all the glorious art, philosophy, and innovation their 'holy empire' birthed into the world, the one thing they were truly good for was killing—oh, and let's not forget slaughtering, persecuting, and, last, but certainly not least, conquering!

But Godric was good at all those things too; he had the best teachers, after all.

So, Jerusalem! Godric had a blast in Jerusalem. The Romans just made it too easy for him. He was getting a little tired of easy though. He figured he'd give it another century or so, and if they didn't put out, he'd go terrorize another part of the continent. But then along came Constantine… Oh, Constantine. How to describe Constantine… Godric thought he was as close to a vampire as you could get without actually being a vampire. He was one of those not-so-rare, but deliciously special rulers who just also happened to have the mind of a strategic, bloodthirsty lunatic. Godric wasn't sure why he advocated Christianity so much. The man clearly had his own religion complete with the dogma: Kill anyone who stands in my way. Whether that person happened to be family or not appeared to be a collateral damage issue which would invariably be settled later—or never. A formal execution worked too.

Even centuries later, all anyone needed to do to get Godric to laugh was say the name Constantine—truly, the man was a muse to vampires everywhere. Or possibly the antichrist—which made it even funnier.

On a more serious note, vampires had been working their way into the Roman Empire for centuries. Godric had gotten caught up in it when he was still human. A literate, semi-educated slave often draws the wrong sort of attention. He wasn't even a hundred percent sure where he learned to read at that point. Humanity all seemed like a half-forgotten dream. He wasn't exactly bitter about it, but he'd certainly learned many lessons since then, and he was no longer the naïve, emotional child he had once been. Chiefly among the lessons he'd learned since the demise of his maker was not to involve himself in the business of other vampires. He was already hiding out because of the maker business and he didn't want to make his presence known, but he would be a fool not to keep informed on the dealings of certain key players. Rumor had it, even when he was still a slave to his vile maker, that there were whispers a secretive group calling itself the Authority crawling out of the woodwork, and he was keeping his ear to the ground. His kind were dangerous when they congregated, especially to solitaries like himself. And he had a sinking suspicion that this had the Ancients' names written all over it. His maker's legacy, perhaps?

Or perhaps it was time to become a maker himself?

The idea was initially revolting—for obvious reasons—but was becoming more and more appealing as time passed. He'd give it a few more centuries and keep a weather eye on this…'Authority.' If they, or the Ancients, approached him, he wasn't even ashamed to admit that he'd be out of there like a bat out of Hades. If he had a child to keep in check on top of it…it would just make things that much more difficult. He was still on the fence about it. His relationship with his own maker had been…ambiguous at the best of times, and his failings had driven Godric up to some very high standards for progeny of his own. He'd do it differently. Take his time—never against someone's will as had been the case with his own turning. Godric would make it a gift to one who was worthy. He'd need a warrior, like himself, an intelligent strategist whom he could at least stand on a personal level. That last part was going to be difficult, as he'd had trouble standing anyone's company for nigh on four centuries now… In fact, he did not remember speaking to anyone since the death of his maker that he did not plan on killing directly afterwards. It was safer that way.

He'd become a very logical thinker in this time—an expert in survival—but survival very clearly demonstrates the law of strength in numbers. Now was the time for consolidating that strength, not taking stupid risks, and the only vampire you can trust not to turn on you—within reason, of course—is one you make for yourself…granted they're not stupid enough to do it on accident, in which case, why bother to make one at all? He was really going back and forth on this… Nevertheless, survival was always his priority, before anything else.

So you could say charging gung-ho into a witch burning was a little out of his character to say the least…

He was really only sticking around because he found the sweet aroma of burning flesh and the screeching serenade of screams inspiring. He was still deliberating on whether to stay in Constantinople or take to the wilds in the north—probably for the best—when it hit him. That scent; it was subtle, yet powerful, and he recognized it from somewhere… He couldn't help but gravitate towards it. Then he saw her and everything fell away. Time stood still—still as his un-beating heart. And suddenly he was like a newborn child again. Centuries of control and refinement—out the window.

No sensibilities. None whatsoever. Gone.

And in the next moment, so was he.

Chains were breaking, entrails went flying, people were screaming bloody murder—all hell broke loose in a very quick and disorderly fashion. And all that was on his mind was one steadfast goal: Her. She was hanging unconscious, dirty, and shackled in a quay of sniveling, crying women to be put to the stake. How on earth she had ended up there was beyond him, but he wasn't thinking of all the details at that particular moment. Right then, he was thinking of dear old Constantine's dogma of kill anyone who stands in my way. It was a creed he deeply resonated with at that moment, and one he followed with gratuitous amounts of zeal.

What could he say? The man was an inspiration.

He wasn't sure if this was the event that got people to start calling him Death, or if it came after. Outright mindless slaughter in the then capital of the world usually turns a few heads—and there he went breaking rule number one: Do not draw attention to yourself. He didn't even think, he just ripped right through, got what he wanted, and ripped back out. And just then, he did not care about his rules. He truly, honestly didn't. The Authority, the Ancients, or whoever else wanted a piece of him could just damn well get in line. Because he had what he wanted, and anyone who tried to take it from him was going to die.

It was so nice when things were simple.

He'd rise the next night feeling like a giant idiot, but at that moment, it was worth it. He hadn't lived in the moment for centuries, and as he held the miraculous, unconscious form who'd unwittingly triggered it all, for a few moments, he felt alive again. For a few moments, it was just the wind whipping against his face, a warm, breathing body pressed against his, the delectable scent of blood and a spicy herb he couldn't identify, and the joy of the night upon them—and, briefly, the tiniest golden flutter of excitement. He got the feeling something monumental was about to happen.

But it needed to happen soon, or else the sun was going to come up and he'd miss it.

It was a good long while before he slipped out of his temporary moment of insanity and back into his right mind. And by then—brilliant strategist as he was—he'd already brought a strange human back to his resting place. They were in an abandoned cistern he'd discovered, not too far out from the city, held up by carved pillars in the pitch dark. It wasn't as defensible as he'd like, but he was sure no one had been here in a very long time. But now there was a human here… What was he thinking? Was he even thinking at all?

He was positive he was losing his mind now. He wasn't just an idiot, he was an imbecile. This was ludicrous. Absurd. He examined his person, covered in the habitual amount of blood and filth and was not so abhorred that he'd caused a massacre in the current hub of the world, but that he'd done it for a human. One measly, dirty…beautiful…beguiling…

She truly was exquisite.

Now that he'd gotten the chance to come down from his keyed up nerves and self-flagellation for the idiotic move that may very well bring the Ancients swooping down upon him again, sitting poised on his heels he could examine her where he had set her down against a damp pillar. Everything about her was familiar. The hair—though dirty and tangled—the elegant shape of her face and pallor of her skin—though both were obscured with dirt and blood—the scent, however—earthy, with tantalizing spices…that hit him where he lived. Something about it just screamed at him that this was something he needed to remember. He had met her before…he had to have. But Godric did not meet people, per say, in so much as what anyone could call a 'civilized' fashion in centuries—certainly not a fragile human.

She stirred when he ran a finger along one of those cheekbones and he instantly found himself putting distance between them in a very vampire fashion, his back directly pressed against the wall across from her. Thoroughly annoyed with himself at the very childish reaction, he wondered just what it was about this woman that made his instincts go completely berserk. They usually served him well…in that he controlled them, and not the other way around. This was completely unbelievable…

He watched her intently from out of sight as the woman gave a little moan, going about the process of sitting up with the typical human slowness. When vampires rise, they're just up, he noted, studying her with intrigue; there's no foggy in between stage like this woman appeared to be in—although she also appeared to have taken quite a beating, he granted. Whatever the circumstances of her previous capture, she must have put up quite the fight… He tried to picture it and stifled an amused smirk that tugged at his lips with the image conjured in his head. He wondered how much of a fight she would put up this time...

Legs splayed out by her side, the woman reached out to use the carved pillar for support and noted the remnants of the shackles on her arms, their tinkling chains still dangling from them but tapered off at the ends where he'd literally ripped her out of the procession of other women—ripping off several other limbs in the process. He could smell the enticing rawness of the chafed wrists beneath and felt the familiar ache in his gums that was always the prelude to so many sordid acts of decadence. He silently stalked her in the gloom, keeping just out of her inferior sight as she looked dreamily around the darkened cistern with slightly glazed sea-blue eyes.

Ever so slowly, he watched those eyes regain their awareness as she stared around into the dark, unseeing. He was surprised when they narrowed keenly and she demanded commandingly in the language of the times, "Who watches me from the shadows?" When he answered her with silence, she called, "Why have you brought me here? Show yourself, creature of darkness."

Did she know he was a vampire? Could she sense him? Perplexed, he slowly revealed himself, cautiously reentering her line of sight as his instincts urged him. Something told him he might want to listen to what they were telling him. The fine hairs on his arms were even standing up, the air charged with static, and a delectable scent he couldn't name—but it was obviously all coming from her.

What was she?

When she caught sight of him, however, she froze. Now there was the reaction he was looking for. Surely now she would scream and cry as human women are oft to do when faced with a creature covered in the entrails of several other humans. Afterwards he would enjoy doing whatever he liked with her for a while, drain her, dispose of her creatively, and the entire upsetting ordeal would be forgotten in a matter of nights. Temporary insanity. All of it.

But…he did not smell her fear. The entire absence of it was almost annoying. Her eyes though—those eyes grew wide and large, shining in the darkness as she beheld him. Still no fear, he noted irritably. She seemed almost…dazed. Stunned. In awe. And he watched as she slowly rose to her feet—he noted with even more irritation—as one does when they don't want to scare small animals… He could appreciate the irony at least. The air was charged with tension, and then she spoke Gaelic words in hardly more than a whisper rippling through the dark…

"Oh, sweet Boy, what have you done?"

Déjà vu slammed into him as if he'd received a haymaker to the gut from one of the Ancients. Those words resonated in his head so hauntingly and deeply that even he couldn't help but feel affected. He didn't know what it was about them, or where he'd heard them before—perhaps in a dream? But he no longer dreamed, how could he—but something about them triggered that response in him. The one he'd had when he first caught her scent and he'd single handedly ripped through a congregation in the capital of the world for all to see. This was dangerous, he realized. It was as if he was completely raw and stripped down to his component parts. A newborn. Human, even. How did she do this? What was she? More importantly…

"Who are you?" he whispered in his native tongue.

His words seemed to hit her in exactly the same way hers had hit him. She even took a step back, slumping against the pillar behind her with a weak hand to her chest. She suddenly appeared exhausted, as if the weight of a million years were weighing down on her as she witnessed him. She responded in kind, whispery, stricken, "You do not remember me…"

It was less of a question, he realized, and more of a soundless cry of grief. And there he stood, watching her in astonishment as her eyes slowly glazed over and dripped trenches down the filth on her face. Human tears. And not for herself. Not the fearful, pathetic tears of prey. He intrinsically knew that these tears were for him. She wept for him silently and just stared. And when he automatically approached to better behold these inexplicable treasures, to taste them, she held her arms out as if welcoming him.

He had never ever in all his many years witnessed a human display such behavior. He was out of his element, and had no idea how to react to her. And when he stopped and came no closer, she came to him, hand outstretched to cup his cheek and gasp shakily at the contact. "You are so cold…so cold…" Her hand was burning in contrast, scorching warmth he could almost remember sinking into his chilled flesh. It reminded him of sunlight, and her blue, blue eyes bore into his own green orbs as she beseeched, "Who has taken your warmth from you, my sweet Boy?"

"He is gone…" he heard himself saying, as if in a trance, still transfixed on figuring out where he knew her eyes. "I killed him."

Her eyes suddenly flared with fury and she spoke lowly in a rasping tone, "Then he is lucky." Her voice hissed and echoed strangely off the walls in the cistern as she declared, "Had I found you while he was still walking this earth he would have lived an eternity in torment before I finished with him…"

He stared at her quizzically as she placed her other hand on his face as well, running her thumbs gently over both his cheeks. Could a woman such as her make such fantastic claims, he wondered, actually entertaining the idea for a moment. Humans did not live for an eternity, much less possess the ability to torture an Ancient. From her appearance alone, one would not guess such a dainty creature would have the inclination for such things.

"What are you?" he asked finally.

She tilted her head, eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile that wanted to weep. "I am your Cassia." Her hand brushed dirty, matted locks away from his face in an almost loving gesture. "And you are my sweet Boy…" her voice caught, trembling slightly on the words, "no matter what else you have become in my absence…"

"You know me…" he realized. "And I know you…" She nodded, eyes shedding more tears, but she was smiling this time. He'd never seen such a thing in over three hundred years he had walked the earth. And this time he caught the streams before they could mark more trenches down her face, capturing the tears on his fingers and savoring the taste on his tongue. "I know your taste," he recognized, and darted forward to run his nose along her collar even though she tensed. "This scent…" The name wavered in his head until it finally came into focus with her face and he whispered into her neck, "Cassia…"

And he was suddenly across the room again, away from her, pressed against the wall. He knew her. She was a dream. He had convinced himself of that. Otherwise…otherwise… He stared at her and she stared back, smile fading at his stricken face. "You did not come."

Her features once more encompassed grief as they crumpled. She shook her head sadly. "I will not subject you to my excuses." She took a careful step towards him. "But if you would like an explanation I would see that you have it… It is the least I can give to you." She held out her hand.

She had already given him her tears, which he found divine. Perhaps she would have more. And though his recollection of his years as a human were faded at best, Cassia's face was like a flare in the dark. If she had an explanation, he would hear it. Hesitantly, he detached himself from the wall, and slowly approached, eying her hand warily before cautiously making contact again with the scorching warmth of her skin. He could develop a craving for it, he realized with horror. He could feel the desire to rub himself against her like a cat rising up within him and he summarily stomped it down, though the urge to bathe himself in her warmth—in her life—was nearly stifling.

He let her lead him back over to the pillar where she tugged him down to sit close beside her, stroking his matted hair back from his face so she could see his eyes, brushing the back of her hand down his cheek once more in a show of affection before she began to place it back in her lap. Without thinking about it, he snatched it up to hold it in his, making it clear there would be no other arrangement. He watched her lips almost smile at him, but there was so much sadness in her eyes when she looked at him that it would not have matched.

She squeezed his hand back and confessed, "My mother came for me before I could come for you."

He remembered a broken ruin where a tilting tower full of wonders and twisting staircases used to stand. It was hers. He used to meet her there. He ran there when… "The Romans came."

"I know," she whispered, reaching for his face again with her free hand. "Mother sent them for my fiefdom when she felt her curse break. She was very angry and chased me out…I could not go to you lest I lead her straight to you…" Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, and she murmured almost to herself, "She would do terrible things to you if she knew you were the one to free me…wicked things…"

"You were cursed…" he tried to remember, but all he knew were the smiles she gave him. He remembered her laughter.

"You saw through Mother's magic," she reminded him with a tint of pride in her voice. "You loved me when the curse assured me that no one ever would. You defied it, and me," she added with a mischievous tilt to her lips, "…with a kiss, of all silly things." She laughed at his incredulous face. "No matter how much time passes, I will never understand how a kiss can cure a curse…"

"I loved you?" The concept was foreign to him. He tried to remember, but he came up with nothing… He did not understand what his instincts were screaming at him. It made his head buzz unpleasantly, the feeling too big to wrap his head around and examine properly. Every time he tried, it slipped just out of his reach. What was worse is that he didn't even know where it came from. Was it her? Him?

"You must have," she told him quietly, wary of his contemplative expression, "else the curse would be with me still. And perhaps you and I would be in a different place now, having a very different conversation."

"I loved you when I was still human," he realized, eying her very closely. "That was hundreds of years ago."

"Yes…" she sighed, her face smoothing into a mask. "It has been long… I am not hurt that you have forgotten me."

"I loved you when I was still human—hundreds of years ago," he repeated, still giving her the same careful look, adding, "and yet you still live, looking exactly the same as you did then…and you are human. You look like a human"—he reached out a hand to trace her face and leaned in taking in the head spinning scent— "smell like a human"—he leaned further to whisper in her ear—"taste like a human…" He felt a shiver run through her, and he longed to tell her exactly how much he wanted to taste her.

"I am a witch," she told him simply, and he let her gently push him away to hold his face in her hands again. "And you should have lived to be my apprentice. I should have taken you away at the first chance and explained all of this centuries ago, but now…" she sighed, and whispered, "it is forbidden… All of this, is forbidden." She leaned forward and kissed his brow. "Please forgive me, my sweet Boy."

"Forgive you?" he asked her, perplexed. She had not offended him that he knew of. In fact, he could admit that he rather liked her. A little too much.

She shook her head slowly, sadly. "I allowed this to happen. It is my fault that this cruel fate has befallen you."

He blinked at her. "I like being this way." At her incredulous face, he laughed. Perhaps he needed to convince her then. He lifted her shackled wrist first and easily hulled the cuffs from her arms with the same effort it took a human to shell a nut. "I am strong." He abruptly lifted her up into his arms effortlessly to prove it, laughing again when she let out a little squeak and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I am fast," he said, and demonstrated this by ferrying her from one island of the cistern to another, and back sitting where they were in less than two seconds. She laughed then, looking windblown, a little dizzy, but looking a little impressed as well, and he beamed at her proudly, glad that he had effectively communicated his point.

Still, he felt the need to further elaborate when he smelled the blood seeping deliciously from her chafed wrists, snatching both her hands up. Razor sharp fangs pierced his gums and she gasped, but did not pull away as he went about cleaning up the aftermath of the irons. He watched her watch him and then then the wounds as they began to slowly close up, even as he worried at them with his sweeping tongue, savoring the taste of her. "You can heal…" she whispered in astonishment. "I did not know vampires, of all creatures, were capable of such a feat…"

"I am capable of many things," he told her matter-of-factly when he was done, admiring the unmarred flesh of her wrists and especially the lovely blue veins that he could see pulsing so marvelously through the pale, almost translucent white of her skin. He could almost frame them there—like a painting. Just for him. And with that thought, he asked her almost idly, "Are you Mine?"

"…I do not know what meaning that term has to vampires," she finally settled on saying, after watching him for a very long, wary moment. Her eyes were careful, fixated on his own, as if trying to read what thoughts lay behind them, and coming up short. "That word has power behind it that I do not understand."

"It means you will stay with me." He was suddenly very sure he didn't want her going anywhere else from now on. "I will protect you," he added. "No other may touch you." Then he reaffirmed almost authoritatively, squeezing her hands a little tighter, "You will not leave my side."

She eyed him, very seriously considering his words. She appeared to be deliberating internally over something. "I am…in a small amount of trouble at the moment," she confessed to him haltingly. "Someone wishes me dead."

"They would have burned you," he pointed out. "I did not let them."

"You killed them?" she scarcely whispered, eying the dried blood that adorned him warily.

"All of them," he elaborated. Then he smiled.

"…You're a bad boy," she murmured, her lips looking like they wanted to twitch up into a smile, but she shook her head at herself with a frown. "What would your poor mother say?"

His smile stretched into a wide grin in response.

"I should scold you…but I cannot find it in me," she finally told him with a quiet sigh. "Those men are godless, even if they call themselves Christians. None of those other women were witches, but they all had the spark… It is a cruelty to snuff out such a light." She eyed his chest softly and ran a hand down it. "Yours is so dim now…blackened by hate." She met his eyes woefully. "Who hurt you, my sweet Boy?"

He slapped her hand away quickly, unhappy with the turn of the conversation—when was the last time he had actually had a conversation?—and did not answer her. She did not reach for him again. They sat in sullen silence for a long while until his head suddenly snapped up. "The sun is rising." He looked at her again and asked quickly, needing to know, "Are you Mine?"

A strange feeling of triumph flushed through him when—hesitantly, and very unsure—she nodded.

"You will not leave?" he stipulated, a strange urgency he didn't recognize creeping into his tone.

She shook her head and held her arms out for him. Without as much hesitation this time, and with a strange sensation that felt very suspiciously like relief, he cautiously let her hold him. She rested her head on top of his where it lay in the hollow of her neck and her scent was strongest, then she methodically and gently began to remove the mats and tangles from his hair. "I will watch over you when the sun is out."

"You are mine," he said into her neck, just to confirm it.

"Yes, sweet Boy…" she whispered into his hair, her head bowed over him as he sunk deeper into her arms, pressed closer to her soft, impossibly warm form, feeling the sun's pull on him. Her voice was heavy with something that was not exactly grief. "I am your Cassia."

He did not know she trembled when she felt him die for the day. Nor did he know that she spent the entirety of it debating on whether or not it would be better to end him. But she could not, and spent the day intermittently letting her tears fall, dozing off and on, and carefully working out the many nots in his hair. He knew this last because he awoke that night without a single tangle to be spoken for to a then dozing witch and the heavenly smell of her tears practically bathing him and staining her face.

"Why do you cry?" he asked her, suddenly curious, startling the sleepy woman from her dreams.

She examined her surroundings and him as if she had momentarily forgotten where she was and whom she was with, but blinked again and smiled at him sadly. "I care for you very dearly," she said simply.

"Why?" He wanted to know why she was still here, and hadn't taken the morning's chance to flee. Surely any sane human woman should fear him, yet this one didn't. He was undecided of whether he wanted her to or not.

She debated over her answer, her chin tucked to her chest as she thought carefully. Then she explained, "Long ago, my line was cursed to only bare daughters." She swept his hair away from his eyes, admiring them thoughtfully.

"I freed you from your curse," he pointed out, "did I not?"

"Yes, sweet Boy," she whispered, still smiling her sad smile. "But this curse I speak of is not the same. It was placed on my line…" she shook her head slowly in thought, "so long ago, even my mother's mother cannot recall the age. And curses are tricky things… They grow, change, adapt, evolve, just as the curse that affects you, and all other vampires."

"We are cursed?" He sat up, listening to her attentively. His maker had taught him much of the origin of vampirism, and Lilith. To him, it sounded like a bunch of religious drivel, but he had no other explanation for what he was.

"Yes," Cassia breathed, "both your curse, and mine are older than either of us can imagine. You know of Lilith?" He nodded, gesturing for her to continue. "Along with being the first vampire, she was also one of the first witches…and a very foolish one at that. She was very adept at curses—her affinity, for all witches have one—and may have even been the one to lay the curse upon my line. But her hubris also led her to curse herself. No longer able to cast her hateful spells, she learned to pass on her curse to others, just as my ancestor passed on hers to all of her daughters…" She paused gravely, and explained, "A curse that has been passed on has never been broken in living—" she cast him a cursory look "—or un-living memory."

He tilted his head, thoughtful of what he had just learned, but argued, "I do not feel as if I am cursed."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "I have always adored your optimism. I am glad you have not yet lost it." He gave her a bark of cynical laughter and the smile faded as she refocused. "As for your original question… Perhaps it is silly, but I always thought of you as..." she paused, and confessed, "the son I would never have. I watched you grow, and laugh, and I took pride in your accomplishments as if you were my own child—" She broke off, pain lacing her tone as she relayed to him, "When I lost you…I felt…" She shook her head, and closed her eyes sorrowfully, not having the words. She was always bad with words, he suddenly remembered. She looked at him then and told him earnestly, "Forgive me, for I promised I would not burden you with my excuses, but I…" She winced, curling her fingers to her heart as if her memories pained her, then she looked at him again, eyes beseeching his for something unknown to him. "I searched for you. Day and night. It was only after a century had passed that I finally lost any hope that I might…"

"Could you not have used your magic to find me?" he wondered with a detached sort of curiosity. Things might have been very different for him if she had, he mused. He wasn't sure what to think of that yet.

She shook her head, heavy with grief. "There are tracking spells. I tried many of them, but most, if not all, require some sort of article from the one being tracked—blood, a lock of hair, a personal belonging. But when I returned to the village, it had been burnt to the ground… Nothing remained of you for me to track…" Her fingers clenched in the fabric of the burlap sack they had stuffed her into and she grated out darkly, "I managed to find the Roman contingent that took you…but you and the others had already been shipped off by slavers by that time. Even then, I tried to follow the charters, sifting through paper trails like a regular scribe… When that bore no fruit, I even humbled myself to my colleagues. I begged for help, but that was a desperate time for many of my people in Gaul." Her voice was a grim whisper as she informed him, "Several of us were hunted down and slaughtered. It was a massacre we still have not fully recovered from…"

"Vampires had infiltrated the Roman Empire by then," he felt inclined to inform her.

"Yes, smart Boy," she acknowledged grimly, "our people have hated each other since the beginning. It is likely they manipulated the Romans to remove us from power in Gaul. Vampires are very cunning, I will give you that…"

He grinned at her proudly. He wondered at the thought that she thought of him as a son. He remembered having a mother once, but not very well. He was not sure what he thought of this bit of information. He was fairly sure sons did not look at their mothers as he was looking at Cassia. Curious about something else she'd mentioned, he asked, "The Romans you tracked… I am interested in knowing what fate they were dealt."

Her warm eyes cooled at the reminder, and she suggested dryly, "Perhaps you should use your imagination, Boy…then consider the fact that whatever vile, dark imaginings you behold, the reality was a million times worse, I assure you." He could see a tantalizing darkness in her eyes when she asked rhetorically, "What do you think I occupied my time with for a century when I became frustrated in my many failures to track you down?"

His grin stretched even wider. "You would not spare even one minor detail? You are cruel, Cassia."

"I was not known as Cassia the Cruel for nothing," she told him matter-of-factly. "But those days are over."

"Are they really?" he asked with some disappointment, inching nearer, eyeing the pulsing vein in her neck.

"Do not tempt me, wicked Boy," she pushed him away by his forehead good-naturedly, and proceeded to inform him. "You need a bath."

Completely thrown—he had not thought about baths in a good long time—he instantly asked, affronted, "Why?"

She stood, very businesslike and began looking for an exit, then she professed very bluntly, "Because you stink. And cleansing is very important for—" She paused thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it would not be of much import to a vampire, would it? Hm…" She assessed him pensively. "I suppose it depends on what the vampire plans on doing with himself, no?" She cocked her head at him. "What do you plan on doing with yourself?"

A good question.

"I had been thinking of heading as far north as possible—to the wilds," he admitted. "The Ancients are…displeased with me."

"Ancients?" she considered the word. "How ancient?"

He shrugged. "More ancient than I—that is all the information I need to tell me to run in the opposite direction."

"My order is displeased with me as well, evidently," Cassia gestured to her prison garbs with a disgusted crinkle of her nose. "We are of the same mind…" She sighed, and reluctantly confessed, "But I must reclaim my belongings if I am to travel with you. I have several caches hidden here and there, but my staff, and my robes…these are irreplaceable."

"How did they capture you to begin with?" he wondered.

"Templars," she sneered, "—rogue members of my order. They are mercenaries. Not quite witches, no talent with magic, but a nasty affinity for the magic of others… They can force closed the gates in us which allow the essence of the universe to pass through our bodies. It is horribly painful, not to mention…" she sighed, "I will be weak for a time while my channel to the universe reopens… Reclaiming my belongings will help ease the process, although…"

"What happens if it does not reopen?" he asked, vaguely remembering something about 'gates.'

"I will age," she explained matter-of-factly, then added more quietly, "and eventually pass on…"

Not liking the sound of that, he stood up and declared, "We will retrieve these effects of yours and head north."

"That is as good a plan as any other," she nodded her agreement. "I have a cache located nearby. Let us stop there first so that I may stock up on supplies."

"Supplies?" he questioned.

"Weapons, among other things." She sent him a knowing look when he grinned. "I did think that might interest you."

"Are they magic weapons?" he inquired, quickly leading her towards the exit of the cistern.

"Yes," she smiled at him mischievously and explained, "It is possible to bottle magic, if one is inclined towards caution, such as I am. Though it is a double edged sword…" She giggled, "Just imagine the mayhem one could wreak if one such as you got ahold of these weapons."

"Is that a promise?"

"Oh, yes. I think so."

I'm going to tentatively say that I am officially out of my slump.

Hope you all liked this chapter!

Next time, we'll see what happens when Cassia and Godric join forces.

Again, I pity Europe.