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Chapter 2: What's done is done
1960
Constanta, Romania
The humid air hung heavy with the smell of the sea and fish. Two small shadows stole from the city toward the surf. They passed without a sound under the waxing light of the moon that was hidden here and there by clouds sliding before it. They appeared and disappeared along the beach in different locations as the moonlight pulsed slowly in the sky. Each time, their winter-white skin heralded their location before the moon caught them fully in its weak glow.
When the moon reemerged from hiding, the shadows were frozen on the beach. Two pair of burgundy eyes scanned the packed sand of the surf. The sand seemed to glow pearly white marred only by their two shadows, and three sets of darkened footprints. Their two sets of prints were partially obscured in the shadows cast by their creator's. The last pair of footprints ran perpendicular to the waves. Each foamy lap reached farther and farther up the beach to scrub away the evidence.
Someone had walked out of the Black Sea.
The burgundy eyes moved together to scan the horizon of the sea, but there was no boat moored within sight. One set of eyes scanned up the beach, while the other scanned down, but no footprints could be discerned entering the sea. Their eyes fell again on the footprints before them, and they slowly traced the path away from the water and toward their city.
The owners of the eyes were slight and short, a common stature for men at the time they had shed their humanity. One of them now answered to the name Stefan, though he had long ago forgotten his mortal name. His dark hair framed his face and cast his eyes in shadow. The other had ashy blonde hair that washed out in the moon's light. He had always been called Vladimir, even back to his humanity. They both exuded age and antiquity; eons upon eons of human history witnessed with barely a flicker of interest, though their sharp and narrow eyes held interest now. No one stepped upon Romanian soil without their knowledge, let alone without their permission.
Silently, they turned together and followed the indentations away from the water. The impressions looked less like footprints here away from the packed sand and blurred into odd dents as the sand became dry and loose.
When the elder vampires reached a scraggly copse of beach grass and shrubs, Stefan put a thin hand on Vladimir's elbow. A naked man stood with his back to them. By his scent the stranger was vampire. His body glowed as white as the beach. His platinum blonde hair stood up in wisps about his head giving the illusion of a halo.
"Tu trebuie să-şi prezinte singur in orasul nostru, camarad," Vladimir stated in a deep whispery voice.
The stranger turned slightly and looked at them with pale metallic eyes. His face was painted with confusion. "I don't understand," he said, but by the hollow tone of his voice, it could have been in reply or it could have been a simple statement of fact. As soon as the words fell from his lips, his eyes once again began roaming everywhere as if he were searching for something.
Vladimir glanced at Stefan. "Engleză?" he observed quizzically then turned back to the stranger. "I said, you must present yourself in our city, friend," Vladimir repeated.
"We have few rules here," Stefan added, "save that, and it is not negotiable."
The pale stranger looked around again. "Where am I?" he whispered, struggling to keep the quaver out of his voice and swallowing hard.
The elders paused and glanced at each other, half smiles formed on their matching lips, clearly amused.
"Where do you think you are?" Vladimir asked.
The stranger did not answer. He wrapped his arms around his chest and hung his head, trembling.
"Maestru," a new voice greeted from behind the elders.
"English, please, Erhan. We have a guest," Stefan requested gently in a commanding tone as both elders turned to acknowledge their acolyte.
"Yes, my Lord," he managed to say in almost discernable English. His accent was thick, the words forced. Erhan was short and thickly built with olive skin and dark hair. His eyes appraised the naked man before them.
"We have found a refugee washed upon our shores..." Vladimir began in a deep whispery voice.
"...who will not answer our questions," Stefan finished in such a smooth tandem that it sounded as if Vladimir had continued speaking.
Erhan understood his role and stepped forward. His eyes glowed red as he approached. His broad chest flexed beneath the brocade cepkenhe wore.
"You are guest here, yavru," Erhan said in his heavy accent, his voice low with no hint of welcome in his tone. "You will speak when spoken to." He took no notice of the violent shudders of the naked stranger. Many trembled before them, mortal and immortal alike. This was nothing new.
The stranger finally raised his head, but he looked with wide unseeing eyes. His fevered unfocused expression provoked Erhan, but it puzzled the elders. They leaned their heads together watching the stranger in interest.
"She's not here," the stranger muttered. "She's not here."
"Identify yourself and kneel before your elders," Erhan insisted.
"She's not here," was repeated again before Erhan dropped a heavy hand on the stranger's shoulder to force him to his knees.
His first attempt to press the stranger down failed. Erhan's eyes hardened and with a sneer he roughly shoved the stranger down with both hands.
"Your name!" he snarled.
When the stranger simply muttered again, Erhan brought the back of his hand against the stranger's head. A sharp crack split the air. The sound sparked a low rumble from the earth. The stranger spun to the ground with the blow, his shudders taking on an even more violent nature. Erhan grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back up to his knees.
With a violent yank, Erhan bent the man's head back, hissing into the stranger's face. "You will give your name!"
The stranger's eyes cleared in an instant and with deadly focus, settled on Erhan. The rumbling from the earth reached a crescendo like an approaching train.
The stranger struck Erhan's chest with the flat of his hand. "ROLLE!" he shouted as a cloud of dust replaced the old Turk.
§∞•••∞§
"We don't want you to do this," Edward insisted, his own voice full of pain.
Rolle's expression changed to a compassionate, knowing smile. "Don't be sad, Edward." He looked at Bella, but continued speaking to Edward. "You have everything here that you need to be happy." He faced Edward again. "You do everything and ANYthing to make sure she's safe or I'll kick your foolish head in. Don't," he said slowly, gently poking Edward's chest as he enunciated every word. "Become. Me."
Rolle pulled Edward into his arms and clutched him tight. "Don't lose the best part of who you are," he whispered to his friend.
Edward gripped him firmly in return, his face twisted with remorse.
When Rolle released him, he turned to hug Bella as well. "Take care of each other," he said, and then let her go, putting her hand in Edward's as he did.
Rolle looked at both of them and then turned to leave. Before he disappeared around the corner, he paused and looked back. "Tell Carlisle that I didn't break my promise to him. Will you make sure he knows the truth?"
Edward wrapped his arm around Bella's shoulders and opened his mouth, but no words came out as he nodded.
Rolle nodded once and put his hand over his heart, and then he was gone.
~•~
Edward's arm kept Bella pulled close to his side, but it was hardly necessary as Bella's arm around his waist was just as tight as they walked back to the car in the airport parking lot. Edward pressed a loving kiss to Bella's forehead before he opened her door for her and held her hand as she climbed into the car. She met his eyes briefly, seeing her own distress mirrored back in his eyes.
The enormity of Rolle's sacrifice was not lost on them.
Their friend was laying down more than his life for theirs. At least in death he'd find peace. No, he was doing something infinitely more significant. He was giving up his freedom, his free will and his peace of mind — what little of that there was, which made it all the more precious. He was giving up his very existence for all of eternity, bound forever to an enemy. He was turning himself over to the Volturi to try to keep them safe.
Edward closed the passenger door softly and walked around to the driver's side. Their eyes followed each other as he made his way around the front of the car. They did not speak as he pressed the starter and put the car into gear. They did not look back at the small airport as they pulled onto the lonely road. They did not want to see the plane taking off.
Without sharing a single word Edward and Bella Cullen suddenly asked themselves the same question: How could they pass a single day in happiness knowing that somewhere their friend stood in silent pain, the staunchest defender of their love?
He was no soldier, honor bound by the call of duty. He was no policeman, striving to keep his community safe. He was no politician, exchanging political favors to keep a nation secure. And yet, Rolle was becoming all those things for them, to keep them safe, to keep them together: a memorial to true love, a memorial to the one he lost.
He was, in truth, only a poor minstrel with a broken heart trapped in the pain of a loss so deep that his mind could not bear the burden of it. Edward understood this better than anyone.
The car's engine purred, the constant hum broken only by the double hiccup of the tires when they passed over fractures in the pavement that had been filled with tar. Without a word, they reached for each other at the same moment, clasping their hands together. Their thumbs stroked slowly back and forth over knuckles and fingers, each lost in their own shock and realizations.
Edward thought back over the last few weeks when Rolle suddenly appeared at their new home in Nova Scotia. He thought about what he'd gleaned from Rolle's fractured thoughts. Edward thought about his fondness for his friend, even though he could not bring himself to fully trust him. Never once had he considered that Rolle was capable of sacrifice of this magnitude.
When Rolle offered to kill Caius, Edward was not surprised. When Rolle was unable to return a show of affection to Carlisle, Edward was not surprised. When Rolle's presence at the house became sporadic and unexplained, Edward was not surprised. As much as he hated the memory of it, when they had burst into the yard to find Carlisle in Rolle's deadly hands, deep down Edward was not surprised.
Hearing Rolle admit a moment ago that the threat to Carlisle had all been a ruse to deceive the Volturi elder, however; Edward's shock and surprise.... and gratitude, pierced him like a knife for having doubted his friend.
In the quiet confines of the car's cabin they sighed heavily at the same time. Startled at the coincidence, they smiled sadly at each other, squeezing the fingers they held.
"Edward," Bella began slowly, "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but..."
"I know. Me, too," he added, bringing her fingers to his lips.
"I don't know what's worse," she whispered. "I'd do anything for you," she said, looking at him suddenly. "I'd die for you. I'd probably even kill for you."
"But asking a friend to submit to..."
"Slavery!" she finished in a gasp.
Edward winced at the word. "I know."
"It's too much."
"I know," he repeated.
"Part of me..." Bella tried to begin, "My God, Edward, part of me is actually so thankful to him, but as soon as I think that way I feel like a horrible selfish..."
"Stop," he said quietly trying to keep his voice even. "Bella, please."
Guilt over even tacitly accepting Rolle's decision crashed over them. Being in love was supposed to change you, not force the world to change around you. How could they enjoy a frivolous moment without pausing to think about what the Volturi might be forcing Rolle to do? How could they watch a sunrise without wondering what was happening to him halfway around the world? How could they ever enjoy being together if it meant the unending suffering of another? How could they live with that?
It was already starting to eat them up inside.
"What was he thinking?" Edward hissed in impotent frustration. "How could he think we'd ever agree to this?"
Bella tried her best to soften the irony she knew must be in her eyes. "He's doing what he thinks is best for us in the only way he knows how no matter what it costs him... or us," she explained quietly. "We both know too well what it's like to assume to know what is best for someone else."
Edward looked at her askance. Together they remembered the time when Edward, himself, had done that very thing, despite the painful cost to both of them. They had long ago worked through that experience, but it drove the point home to him. Bella comforted him by entwining her fingers in his.
A sharp gasp, almost a sob, rushed from him. "I feel like we let him do this. We just drove away and let him sacrifice himself."
"Don't!" Bella said sharply. "Don't do that, Edward, please." Her voice cracked in desperation. "If we had known for sure, we could have come here prepared to argue with him. We're still in shock over everything. We couldn't know that he had planned all of this. My God! He attacked Emmett and Carlisle!" She covered her face with her hands. "When I think about what Rolle could have done to him. I can still hear Carlisle scream."
Edward swung the car sharply off the road and deep onto the shoulder. Even imagining the possibility of losing Carlisle like that was too painful to imagine. He slammed the car into park and pulled Bella into his arms, kissing her face before burying his nose against her neck. They shuddered against one another.
Edward shook his head. "He didn't. He didn't do it." He pulled away, running soothing hands over her face and over her hair. He took a deep calming breath. "I don't think he could. I don't think he could really hurt Carlisle any more than he could hurt you or I."
Bella furrowed her brow in confusion. "But you thought he could hurt me. You didn't trust him."
He tipped his chin pressing his lips to hers tenderly, before leaning his forehead against hers. "I don't know what to think any more, love, I really don't."
Bella tightened her arms around his neck, pulling him back to her shoulder. She wove her fingers in his hair, so they could just breathe each other for a while to draw comfort and strength from being together.
§∞•••∞§
It was intolerable. Coach? Packed in with meat into a locker, Marcus curbed his shudder of disgust as he crossed through the front of the plane and into the over-crowded third class section. He had exchanged his own first class ticket so he could add his unexpected travel companion. He knew he should keep the Rolle at his side which required repurchasing tickets for two seats to be together. He had hoped in vain they would at least be able to remain in first class. All international flights were overbooked due to the storm so with no bags to carry other than the one following him on its own two feet, Marcus took his seat next to the window. Rolle slid in beside him.
It was utterly intolerable.
Marcus' scowl sat on his face like an unwelcome guest; like the unwelcome guest of his traveling companion. When he made the boy, he never envisioned himself traveling with the tracker. He'd always assumed to simply wake up one day to find the man standing over him with a sneer on his lips and a flaming torch in his hands. Now they were flying back to Italy together like father and son.
Marcus took a small measure of relief in Rolle's silence. Based on the nervous energy and constant fidgeting Rolle had displayed as they left the Cullen's, Marcus had begun to worry that he'd have to destroy Rolle simply to keep his own sanity. The farther away they got from the Cullen's compound the quieter Rolle's physical demeanor became. As more time passed, Rolle fell into heel like a well-trained guard dog, silent and unwelcoming.
When they had taken refuge in a local hotel to wait out the hurricane, Rolle simply stood against the wall in silent vigil. Marcus had noted his behavior without comment. Silent, still and watchful were excellent traits for the guard. When Rolle stood this way for nearly thirty-six hours, Marcus noted a trickle of grudging pride leak through his disinterest.
As the storm began to break Marcus called to have new clothes delivered to them. When the porter left, he handed one bag to Rolle and instructed him to get cleaned up for their flight. Rolle obediently took the bag and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Marcus heard the sound of the shower coming on and changed into a clean shirt himself.
More than an hour later, the shower was still running. Irritated that he had to do something about it, Marcus let himself into the bathroom without preamble. What he found disarmed his irritation momentarily, only to have it flare back twice as bright. His protégé was still in his torn and dirty clothes, standing in a torrent under the showerhead. There was no steam from the shower. Icy water pelted Rolle's serene face. Marcus manfully yanked Rolle out of the shower and turned it off. He shoved a towel into Rolle's hand and coldly told him to change and dress.
He hadn't spoken to Rolle since.
The airplane attendants walked up and down the aisles for their final passenger check, ensuring luggage was stowed, seatbelts were buckled and electronic devices were turned off.
Adjusting the dark-tinted glasses on his nose, Marcus tried to stifle his irritation at the memory. Rolle might be quiet, but he was becoming insufferably irritating. Marcus was not used to being required to care about anything. Indeed, he had cared about very little in almost seventy years, since Didyme's death. It was bad enough that Rolle was a reminder of that loss, let alone the inconvenience he was becoming now. Marcus knew he had no choice. Aro would insist on examining the boy, and it would be necessary now to have Rolle corroborate Demetri's insubordination.
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1960
Constanta, Romania
The elders gasped as one, their eyes shot wide with surprise watching the cloud dissipate into the humid Ottoman air. Their mutual surprise gave way to understanding. They glanced at each other before turning their hungry covetous stare on the stranger.
"At last," they whispered together.
Their history with the Roman Volturi was long and black. As far back as Trajan, the Romanians — then known as Dacians — had fought against the Volturi. For almost two thousand years the wars raged between them in the guise of mankind: Dacian wars, Trajan wars, the battle of Tapae. Sixteen hundred years ago, the Dacians had soundly beaten the Volturi themselves in the Battle of Adrianople.
Vladimir and Stefan remembered those days well, the height of their power, when the Dacian Draco destroyed what they thought was the bulk of the Volturi might. The wolves chased down the fleeing Volturi like rabbits scared from the wood. To this day, the Volturi secretly harbored a deep fear of the wolf though no one outside of the two remaining Dacians knew this.
One hundred years later, the Volturi showed their true strength within Rome. Atilla, the Hun, fell in Italy. The manner of his death was reported back to be from a nosebleed, a simple nosebleed, but the fact of the blood-letting had been telltale. The night they learned of this attack a fire raged through the Dacian nest, claiming the lives of the entire coven, save two. The two attacks had been well-planned, and only chance had spared Stefan and Vladimir from the same fate as their brothers and sisters.
For fifteen hundred years the two survivors had waited for their chance to reclaim what the Volturi had taken from them. For fifteen hundred years they had watched the Volturi grow stronger and stronger collecting vampires who had powerful gifts.
In this one man, this youth from America, the ancient Dacians saw their future anew.
They stepped carefully forward, palms outstretched. "Dear friend," Stefan began in a gentler tone. "Please forgive our impertinent servant."
"He takes our meager wishes too far," Vladimir added equally servile. "Please, you must come with us."
"Here," Stefan offered, bending carefully at the knees without getting too close to Rolle. He lifted Ehran's cepkenand şalvar and lightly shook the sand from them. "Clothe yourself, our friend. Let us answer your questions..."
"...And show you the hospitality of our home," Vladimir finished again.
Kneeling in the sand and grass, Rolle blinked at the space where his attacker had stood. His shuddering frame stilled in disbelief. He blinked again, harder this time, his eyes rapidly scanning for the man who had vanished in front of him. When they focused on the outstretched clothing that the dark-haired vampire held out to him, Rolle drew back in fear.
Stefan glanced at his associate and a question flew between the elders. Rolle was staring at them, accusing, as if they had caused Erhan to disappear. The boy had no idea of what he had done?
Stefan knelt cautiously and set the clothes back on the sand. He pushed them slowly toward Rolle before backing away, careful not to startle the boy into bolting like a wild animal.
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A/N: Special holiday treats and red sharpie pens to my previewers: IrishGirlTaken, coolmommy99, Milalencar, and LolaShoes. Different special holiday treats to my husband for the same reasons. And special notes to you, dear readers, cuz the devil is in the details. Heh heh.
The ocean scene was inspired by this commercial
Youtube(dot)com/watch?v=Jmta7GwXCpo
Tu trebuie să-şi prezinte singur in orasul nostru, camarad
[you must present yourself in our city, friend]
Engleză
[English]
Maestru
[Master]
cepken - a collarless vest or jacket of the Ottoman Empire
Şalvar - trousers of the Ottoman Empire
See visual references from my photobucket site
s861(dot)photobucket(dot)com/albums/ab177/gkkmouse/AbsolutionRefs/
yavru
[whelp, young dog]
References about the Trajan and Dacian wars and history are from Wikipedia
En(dot)Wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/Dacian_war
Rumor has it you can stop Rolle's bizarre attack by leaving reviews... So I've heard...