Love Never Dies

Ok, I'm back on this one, so I'll update a couple on here and then update Siren again.

Multi-tasking, you can see I'm a woman!

Someone one asked me two very interesting, and very annoyingly obvious questions the other day. One: How can you like vampires that sparkle?

You know what I say? Diamonds are a girl's best friend, and the idea of a vampire boyfriend whose skin is encrusted with diamonds is pretty good. You'd never need to put jewellery on again, just have a Twilight vampire on your arm and strut through that sunlight honey! ;)

Two: How can I be so madly in love with Aro/Michael Sheen? Easy, to people who aren't in the know, sure Michael isn't the most conventionally, Taylor-Lautner-Orlando-Bloom-Robert-Pattinson-obvious good looking, most people, including Michael would concede that. But for those of us that has seen Rise of the Lycans….we know what's under that expertly tailored black suit.

Drooling now……

Anyway rant over. On with the show…I've just shrunken New Moon into one chapter, so bear with it, since the focus of this story isn't Edward or Jake, but Bella, Christabelle and Aro.


Act VIII: The Music Of The Night

Bella

Forks, Washington 2010

September

Edward had left me.

He had left me.

Nothing remained.

October…

November…

December…

January…

Nothing remained, except for me to live.

For Charlie, for Renee, for Jake.

I woke up.

February

I once thought that death was easy, and life is hard. But I was wrong, neither living nor dying is anything compared to coming back from the dead.

I could barely eat, or sleep because of my dreams about him. I was a shadow, a zombie.

Jake was my sun, pulling me through the grey of my depression. When I was with him, I felt…almost whole.

Like the hole in my chest had healed over, until I was alone.

We laughed and talked, and fixed bikes together……

Maybe as long I had him, I could make it through this.

For Dad, for Mom and for him.

March

Jake's gone. I have nothing left.

He won't talk to me, he won't see me. I feel alone, anchorless in a sea of currents.

I started to sink again.

April

"See ya later, Bells!" Charlie called up the stairs, as I sat up in bed. It was a weekend, and I hated weekends.

Weekends would be the days I drove down to La Push to fix the bikes with Jake.

Not anymore.

He wouldn't call, he wouldn't talk to me, he wouldn't see me. And deep down, I know it's my fault.

"Bye, Dad," I called back down, dragging myself from my bed and over to my closet.

I didn't look in the mirror.

I knew if I did I would see an emaciated, shrunken, pale girl with dark circles under her eyes. The way I had been looking for weeks.

I dressed, and then proceeded to wander aimlessly through the house.

My aimless wanderings led me up to the attic, and I found myself rummaging through old boxes.

I found old video cassettes from my childhood, picture albums and old toys. My old baby crib was in one corner.

Anything to distract from Jake and…him.

My fingers brushed against some old wood, and cold iron. I frowned and heaved aside some old curtains and disintegrating cardboard boxes full of old picture albums, and saw an old, weathered chest.

It looked ancient, the wood dusty and cracked, as I pulled it forward with my little strength. My curiosity piqued, I sat back on my heels and pulled it open.

Inside were a few gowns, the faded silk soft under my fingers. They were old-fashioned, almost Victorian in style, and I held them to my cheek wonderingly.

Laying them aside, I pulled out an enamel hairbrush, its bristles missing from their places, and a few old perfume bottles. And underneath was a small, red leather bound book.

A journal.

I picked it up, and opened it up carefully, the old paper crackling slightly in the open air.

Out tumbled two old fashioned photographs, in black and white, of a small boy in a smart suit and a kindly looking woman in black, her eyes seeming to twinkle with good humour despite her straight face.

I fingered it, my hands passing over their faces, as I wondered who they were.

Underneath was another of a young woman, in Victorian garb, and as I looked at her face, I felt myself floored.

It was like looking in a mirror.

This woman was obviously older, and in better health, but it was me.

My jaw dropping, I turned it over and saw the date written on the back.

1885.

127 years old. Why did Charlie have these?

I set the photographs down and picked up the journal again. From its pages tumbled an envelope, faded and yellowed with age. It was open.

Curiously, I tipped the parchment out and unfolded it carefully, beginning to read.

1885

The city of Volterra

My darling Giacomo,

My heart longs for you, my dearest son. This past month has been difficult without you, and my arms yearn for you to be in them once more.

I will be with you soon, dearest. Your journey to America will be long, but I hope you shall enjoy it. Please, do whatever Algaria may tell you. She will look after you until I can come to you. I've even sent along some of my dresses, so you know I am coming after you soon.

Together we will forge a new life in the New World.

Remember, that whatever may happen, I have and always will love you, my darling Giacomo. I pray we will meet again soon.

Goodnight, my darling.

Your dearest Mamma x

I frowned as I set it down. The crackle of paper under my hand made me look down and realise I held another piece of paper beneath the letter. I unfolded it and began to read, as shivers unconsciously ran down my spine.

March 29th, 1885

The city of Volterra

Dear Algaria,

It has been a week since my last letter and I can only marvel at how much has changed in a week.

Oh Algaria, I feel surrounded by darkness and temptation, and I am drowning. But my first priority is you and Giacomo.

I am sending you my entire performance fee, and I beg of you, book passage to America as soon as you can. I fear you may be in danger, and I must save you.

For my sanity, please do everything to hide yourselves. Take the name of Swan, and only call Giacomo Jack from now on. As for you, I can only be grateful you speak such good English, my old friend.

I can only reiterate how much I love you, and hope for your good health and prosperous life. I may not be able to come to you for months, and I beg you, love my son as if he were your own. I would not do this unless it was in your best interests, and for your safety.

There is a darkness at the centre of this city, Algaria. It both frightens and enthrals me, and I do not know if I can break free. I am drowning, and part of me does not know if I want to come up for air. I should never have come here, but then love makes us do the worst things, as well as the best.

I do not wish to break free, and yet I pray to God daily that I may find the strength to leave him.

I have never felt like this, Algaria. He makes my skin burn with need and my pulse rush with exhilaration. How can I not love him, even if his darkness should prove to be my death?

God help me.

Pray for me, dearest friend, and soon may I join you in America, so we can start a new life.

But if I should not, assume I am unable to come, and, I beg of you, raise Giacomo as your own. You shall have a wonderful life, I know it. I also send my journal to you, so you may understand what I am talking about. In hope, maybe foolish hope, I send some of the gowns I left in Florence to you, so Giacomo does not fret.

Stay safe.

Yours, with affection and love,

Christabelle


I lowered the letter, and felt those shivers take hold again. First the picture, and now this. The handwriting on the letters was exactly like my own.

I was shaking, as I felt some strange images flash in front of my eyes.

A strange melody in my head…

"Bella?!"

I jumped, and looked around as Charlie's voice carried.

God, was it evening already?

I scrambled up, taking the photos, letters and journal with me, and hurrying downstairs.

"Here, Dad!" I called, closing the door, and I dumped my treasure horde on the bed before I hurried downstairs.

"Hey there," Charlie smiled up at me, and I gave him a weak smile back, as I led the way into the kitchen and began making dinner.


"Dad, whose was the trunk I found up in the attic?" I asked, over dinner that night. I picked at my lasagne, and Charlie looked up frowningly.

"What trunk?" he asked, taking a swig of beer.

"The one in the attic. You know kinda old looking, full of old fashioned gowns and letters from someone called Christabelle…" I trailed off, as recognition dawned in Charlie's eyes.

"Oh, that one. That belonged to my great-grandpa Jack," he replied. "We kind of keep it in the family, you know, sentimental value and all that."

"Sentimental value?" I asked, tilting my head to the side as I watched him expectantly.

"Yeah, because it belonged to his mother. My grandpa showed me once. The young woman was Great-grandpa Jack's mother, Christabelle Renzi. She was half English, half Italian, and she was a soprano," he explained, as I stared at him.

"So I really am Italian?" I asked, as he grinned, and a memory came back.

Emmet had thought I was Italian just because my name was Isabella.

I flinched away from thoughts of the Cullens.

"Well, a little. Yeah, anyway after Jack Swan moved to America, a month later they received news that she'd died suddenly in Italy. Shot, by the sound of it," Charlie continued, and I gasped.

"Whoa, family drama," I smirked, thinking back to the letters I had read. She was my direct ancestor, so was it any wonder I looked like her and we had similar handwriting?

But a familiar feeling of unease began to grow and take hold of me.


That night I lay in bed, and I glanced at the journal. I wanted to read it, to find out why Christabelle's last two letters had been so full of despair, even in her son's, if you read between the lines.

And yet, I was full of an odd reluctance to even touch its waxy surface, and still it held a hypnotic pull on me.

I wanted to find out about my ancestor, the one who looked so much like me, who wrote the same as me, and discover what had happened which ended in her death 127 years ago.

For a moment, images of a raven-haired man I dimly recognised from somewhere filtered into my brain and out again.

I nodded decisively.

That man, who I had seen somewhere before, was the key to my great-great-great-grandmother's death, and it was in this journal.

I took it in my hand, and began to read.

1885, March 3rd

I write this from the carriage on route to Volterra, so I may more accurately recount my time there for my dear Giacomo.

My thoughts turn to him hourly, and I miss him so, yet I cannot help but be absorbed by the company of the man whom I was accompanied by.

Aro Volturi is…I cannot find words to describe him. He is darkness and light, power and gentleness. He was fast and witty, so much so, I must be on my toes constantly to keep up with him. His gaze is piercing and all-seeing, as if he could see into my soul.

We travelled straight from Florence to Volterra, barely stopping all evening and all night, and we made it to the city early morning. To be honest, I barely noticed the time passing, nor felt any tiredness. My companion ensured that.

I have learnt the cause of his strange eyes. Apparently he and his brothers were travelling in Asia when they contracted some terrible, unknown disease. They survived, but their eyes were left with that strange crimson colour, almost like blood and their skin preternaturally pale. I outwardly accepted his explanation, but something just doesn't fit to me.

But the moment he touches me, it is like a whirlwind of sensation strips away my faculty to think, to reason. Even if it was merely handing me down from the carriage, it is enough to send my pulse racing and my skin burning with desire.

Is this love, as Algaria believes? I do not know.

Anyway, I must get back on track.

As I had asked, Aro lodged me outside of his family's castle in Volterra, and it is beautiful.

The house rises on three levels, the third level is my rooms, and is only reached from a separate staircase to the servants. The second level holds the dining, parlour and music rooms, while on the first level are the kitchens and sleeping quarters. It is a beauty of Italian Renaissance architecture, in golden sandstone and red tiling, the floors of cool marble and the columns of graceful, fluted stone.

My chambers are upholstered in sapphire blue silk and black marble, and it is the most luxurious I have ever seen.

I even have my own gardens, where cypresses rise in the night, shielding cool fountains and flowering shrubs. I can see it all from my balcony. I feel like I am living in a play of 'Romeo and Juliet'.

The servants served me a late supper, and I noticed that Aro did not eat.

I must stop writing for now. I am tired, and I must begin rehearsals soon.

March, 4th, Volterra.

I received visits from Aro's brothers today, Marcus and Caius. They watched as I began my preparations for the concert in a month's time. I shall be singing from both Carmen and La Traviata.

Marcus seems so sad and yet so dignified in private. I must ask Aro what has happened to him. Caius is much improved on closer acquaintance, not nearly so haughty and superior. Both complimented me on my voice before they left.

I cannot help but feel somewhat uneasy. I am surrounded by wealth and luxury, yet there is something amiss.

March 7th, Volterra

Oh so much has happened since I last wrote.

My rehearsals have continued apace, and I grow ever more confident. The Volturi brothers are as attentive as ever, although the behaviour of one of them is more…disturbing than the others.

I do not mean disturbing in a necessarily bad way. I just spend hours thinking about him, when I should not. I gave my heart once, and I cannot give it again. I must put Giacomo before myself.

But every time he draws near, every time our hands brush I think back to that moment in my dressing room at the Teatro della Pergola, and scandalous heat floods me. I can only pray to God for strength.

March 10th, Volterra

Aro came to me today and demanded I take a break from rehearsals. We went riding, and I cannot but feel the pull of him, even now. He is so powerful and strong, and I feel myself falling, with no-one to catch me.

Maybe Algaria is right, because the way he looks at me, I…I have no words to explain it. Maybe, just maybe, I am in love with him, and he is in love with me.

But I have so many questions he will not answer! Why is he so cold? So pale?

I notice neither he nor his brothers will visit on sunny days, when there are no clouds in the sky. He never eats, and he never seems tired or wearied at all.

He moves with a grace I have never seen before in a man, to put all ballet dancers to shame.

And today I met one of his servants, a young girl called Jane. She is so beautiful, an English Rose, as my father would have said, but her eyes!

They were the same crimson as her master's, and she wore dark garments with a hood to protect her pale skin. And the way she looked at me!

I felt as if she wished to skin my hide, and still that innocent smile would be on her face.

Something is going on in this city, and I fear I will find out what soon.

March 29th, Volterra

It has been so long since I last wrote, but I write now with shaking fingers.

For weeks, nothing has happened and nothing have I learnt of the brothers until now.

I knew there was something in the city, a darkness, and I feel it sucking me in even now. It calls to me, the music of the night, and it would claim me, if I would only let it.

It will claim me, regardless.

And I want it to.

I have learnt so much, and yet it is ridiculous. Do monsters and myths truly walk the day as surely as we do?

But what I witnessed, and what I have learnt about myself has led me to make drastic steps. I have sent letters to Giacomo and Algaria, bidding them flee to America, so whatever may happen, they will be safe. I must admit that Aro's nickname for me has proved the inspiration behind their new name.

He calls me his little swan.

I can only hope they shall be safe. I am confident the Volturi brothers do not know I have a son.

In seven days time I will sing for the Volturi, and then shall my doom be sealed. I know it, and no amount of praying to God shall save me.

I am in too deep, and I cannot find my way out. How can I, when I love him so?

I love Aro Volturi with every fibre of my being, so much so, I am almost willing to give up my life for him. But I must think of Giacomo, and so I leave my fate in the lap of the gods, but I shall try to get to him.

If I fail, then I shall be lost, and I will have to leave Giacomo, rather than embroil him in the darkness which has become my world.

Oh God, I yearn for him even now. My soul and my body cry out for Aro, and I desire his caress of ice even while I know it shall kill me.

In case I do not make good my escape, I shall send this journal on to Algaria, so she may, one day, understand.

If I am honest, I am not confident of my escape. How can one fight one's own soul?

I shall recount what I have seen, so she may understand. I pray she shall not think me mad, and understand why I have done what I have done, and so preserve my memory.

This morning, I was walking through the Piazza dei Priori, when I took one of the side alleys. It was a cloudy day, and the sun was not out.

Suddenly I heard growling, and as I hid, fearing some wild animal, I glimpsed a figure pinning a struggling girl against the wall, and baring her neck.

I hid in the shadows, knowing my heart was hammering, fear freezing me to the spot as I watched the creature yank her head to the side, and sinking its teeth into the join of her neck and shoulder. The young woman screamed, and still I could not move.

The creature had all the figure of a young man, with scruffy brown hair and dishevelled clothing, his skin filthy and black.

Gradually the girl stopped struggling, and I glimpsed crimson eyes and perfect white skin, before figures in black cloaks bearing an all too familiar crest appeared, in blurs of speed, and surrounded him. I made my escape, praying they would not hear me, as I ran.

I had glimpsed little Jane, Aro's servant girl as she smiled down at the creature, as it writhed in pain, screaming. Her smile was inhuman.

I have heard all the stories, have seen the evidence with my own eyes.

Vampires.

And now I am sure Aro, and his brothers are of the same ilk.

I walk in the light of day, and yet nightmares may walk beside me and tempt me into the darkness.

I can only hope my plan shall work, and my heart does not break too much when I leave Aro and Volterra behind.

For I still love him.

I guess that makes me a monster too…

I have guests it seems, I must go.

Christabelle

I dropped the journal onto the side, my hands shaking even more.

Volturi…

The Volturi. Now I knew the identity of the man I had seen in my dreams, and even now haunted my mind.

Il mio piccolo cigno…

The whisper sounded in my mind, and I shivered. It seemed my life, and my family had been entwined with vampires for centuries.

My ancestor had been in love with one of the most ruthless vampires in existence, and one of the oldest.

Ditto.

I grinned wryly. It seemed it was genetic, the whole falling in love with vampires thing.

But what happened to her? How did she die? Did Aro kill her when she tried to run?

But something inside, deep within, told me no. Aro loved her, he would never have harmed her. Charlie had said she was shot, but by whom?

Shooting wasn't a usual vampire MO.

Was there a reason she looked so much like me?

All the nebulous thoughts wiped away the pain of the last few months, as I became enthralled by the dark love story at my fingertips.

And all the way, I could hear his voice in my head, and a strange melody playing in my ear, as I sank into slumber.

That was the first night in a long time I did not suffer from nightmares.


Christabelle

I can only hope my plan shall work, and my heart does not break too much when I leave Aro and Volterra behind.

For I still love him.

I guess that makes me a monster too…

I have guests it seems, I must go.

Christabelle

I hastily finished writing when I heard my maid, Esperanza, come into the room.

"My lady? Master Aro is here," she bobbed a curtsey, as I closed the journal and shoved it into the packet I was to send to Florence.

To Algaria and Giacomo.

The big performance was tomorrow, and while I would usually be nervous and rehearsing feverishly, I was almost white with fear.

What I had seen today would stay emblazoned on the inside of my eyelids for the rest of my life, I was sure.

My hands shook as I sealed the packet and called Esperanza in.

"Have this franked and sent to Florence with all haste," I ordered, as I stood and smoothed my gown down. The little maid bobbed and took it, hurrying away as I stepped out into the cool parlour, and faced my destiny.

Shaking with not just fear, but desire and yearning and…

Love.

"Il mio piccolo cigno, you look as lovely as ever, my dear," Aro breathed, as he stepped forward and took my hand. I felt the brush of his cold lips, and the rise of desire in my veins, superseding the fear as I could not help but smile.

He was clothed in a dark cloak and his customary golden suit beneath, but I noticed he wore riding boots. He held out his gloved hand to me. "You need a break from all your rehearsing. Come riding."

I blushed, not sure if I wished to be alone with him. "I do not know, Signore. I really should be rehearsing for tom-" I began but he cut me off.

"No, my dear. You should not wear yourself out before tomorrow's triumph, Christabelle, and I believed I asked you to call me Aro," he finished with a wry grin. I couldn't help but smile.

Then the image of the bled out girl rose in front of my eyes.

"So you did," I managed to choke out stiltedly, as he stepped closer. His gloved hand caressed my cheek, running down my jaw and I felt my breath flutter, and my heart race. My lips throbbed, parted and I desperately desired his lips at that moment.

Vampire or no.

"I suppose a short ride cannot hurt," I managed to squeeze out, before I had to turn away. "Give me ten minutes."

"Take your time, my dearest," he breathed behind me, and for a moment his cold breath caressed my neck and I shivered, both fearing and wanting his mouth on my skin.

He let me go, and I hurried away, fear and yearning warring for dominance.

God help me.


More soon.

I decided to use the journal format to try and get the bulk of the love story out of the way, primarily because I want to get to the Aro/Bella part of the story. Although the majority of the next few chapters will be Aro/Christabelle.

I also wanted to give you a little titbit to chew over, since most of you have guessed that Christabelle does die, but how? Was it Aro, or was it someone else?

More soon!