3000 years, ties to a coven, to a wife, but never a soul mate. Caius, who for all intents and purposes has dismissed the notion of even having another half. Being a king of the Volturi insures he’s met most, if not all, living vampires.
He almost succumbs to a mindless rage when the truth is revealed.
A human. Weak, spineless, soft. A creature so easily squashed from existence, standing in the reception of the palazzo dei priori, requesting a tour. Sketchbook in hand, explaining to the human receptionist ( who Caius cannot be arsed enough to remember the name ) about how they loved the architecture.
Caius dismissing them outright, turning them away from the Palazzo, only to assign a private guard. Caius, who locks himself away in his studies trying to grapple with the fact that his ψυχή is bound to a human. Grappling with the concept of telling Aro- Athenodora
Caius enraged as he fights against the mental bonds, locked in his study, driven to create. Anything he touches, he turns into the visage of his soul mate. Soft features. Alive.
The word’s catch, ringing along in Michael’s head. Ringing- loud, Loud, LOUD. Skin , blood, the stench of death clings to him, sinks deep into his own pores. The man steps closer, arm raising just enough it draws Michael’s eyes. It’s supposed to be a smooth motion, but he just jerks his head to follow it.
“What are you prattling on about?”
The voice scoffed, the sneer almost audible in it. It’s from somewhere behind him still, but closer. Closer. Michael clutches the child to his chest,the sound only finally coming back to him. Ringing silenced, Michael jolts as he’s pulled into a heavy embrace. He can only crane his neck upwards to stare at the stranger holding- no clutching- him close. Warm woody earth, tinged with the scent of blood. If Michael wasn’t careful he’d get lost in it. The grip tightens marginally, and Michael squirms to put a little distance up between them. The grip he has on the kid has started to slip.
“ Caius, watch your tongue this is- “ the stranger holding Michael rasps.
Michael finally gets a look over his shoulder, eyes latching onto Caius. Blood red eyes and a furious expression. Perfectly styled white blond hair clinging to his skin. The blood soaks it, dying it a sickly rust shade. Michael clamps his eyes shut, praying for a quick end. The man holding him growls, deep in his chest as Caius sweeps closer.
“Shut up that incessant crying” Caius barks the order out. He’s drawing close, and Michael can only manage to situate the crying child more firmly against his chest. Faster than he can open his eyes, the stranger stands between him and Caius.
“You will not touch my mate.”
The room holds its breath. Caius stands at a distance, snarl wiped clean from his face. He stares Marcus down, brows furrowing almost in confusion. The word reverberates. Mates? Like… those stupid corny werewolf romance novels? Panic shoots through him, settling low in his stomach. Caius snarls, moving in a blur. The sound of marble meeting marble booms through the chamber. Caius had moved to strike, and the large man blocking Michael was the only thing currently keeping him alive. Unable to suppress a whimper, he shoves his body against the stranger’s back. The kid clutched to his chest has stilled, holding his breath,
“Brothers. Please, now is not the moment for violence.”
“ Aro this is-” Caius snarled again, his muscles straining. Hairline cracks break out across both of their skins where they touch. Aro steps forward, his shoes clicking on the marble even as death pools beneath them.
‘Breathe… Breathe.’ Michael mentally repeated to himself. Doing mental countdowns and repetitions don’t help, only causing his heartrate to sky rocket as Aro draws closer. Michael inhales shakily, shoving himself further against the cold icy back of his protector. Aro is close enough to touch, and Caius finally breaks away. Sneering he steps back, his glare never leaving Michael’s face.
“The human seems to have taken a liking to you already, Marcus.” Aro’s voice rings out, twinkling almost like a bell. Michael looks up through heavy lashes, meeting blood red eyes. Chills track down his body, coiling low in his stomach. Icy sweat beads on his skin, and every movement is amplified by the sheer terror coiling in his body. Aro reaches for Marcus, gently clamping both of his hands over the other man. A look of wonder flits across Aro’s features, his thin lips quivering up into a smile. That’s when his attention shifts to Michael.
“Fascinating..”
Aro steps closer, Michael shrinks even further against Marcus’s back. ‘ I have to take the chance with the guy keeping me alive.’ The thought is heavy in Michael’s head. Aro seems.. unimpressed that Michael isn’t frothing at the mouth to prostrate. Aro tilted his head, his hand raised as if to touch
“Go ahead and escort the human to a chamber. We have much to discuss.” Aro commands. A member of the guard steps forward, but Marcus turns and swoops Michael and the child up without breaking a sweat. Heart thundering, he stares down at the kid in his lap. He keeps his eyes down. If Michael thought Marcus would move at a human pace, he was quickly proved wrong.
Marcus moves- blurring faster than Michael can keep up with. The sense of vertigo is enough to have him dry heaving and clamping his eyes shut. He only opens them as they’re roughly pulled to a stop. No longer in the blood soaked room, Michael looks around. Dark wood and beautiful craftsmanship greet him. It was a bedroom larger than his entire apartment. Marcus carefully slides him to his feet, and Michael takes two sharp steps back.
‘It’s not like that matters. He could kill you without lifting a finger.’
The thought both nauseated him, and set him alight with fresh panic. Sure this man claimed he was his mate, but Michael had also just watched him demolish a crowd of people. Swallowing, he takes another step back, this one involuntarily. He couldn’t just ask for space, could he?
“ Tesoro, please let me … ” Marcus murmurs softly. The hurt that settles in his features sinks deep against Michael’s chest. An invisible weight that has Michael grasping at straws. How was he supposed to escape?
“ please I… just need space.”
Michael offers hesitantly. He nods along, biting his tongue as Marcus visibly debates listening to him. Not a word is exchanged between them for a long minute.
“I’ll have a guard posted outside your door, when you’re ready, mia amore.” Marcus murmurs, dipping his head. Within a blink, he’s gone, the door shutting behind him with a click. So much for being a guest, huh? Kneeling, Michael carefully checks over the kid still tucked against him. The poor boy is sniffling and babbling in Italian, and Michael knows the likelihood of them both surviving is low.
“Stay.”
Michael whispers. He had to find a way out, if only for the kid. Looking around the room, a few windows catch his attention. Each one he checks is tightly shut, and despite the way he throws himself back trying to wrench them open, they don’t budge. The kid is watching him, tucked against the edge of the fireplace. Swalllowing, Michael ducks into one of the other rooms.
A massive bathroom, one that has Michael inwardly gaping. How much money did these people have to spend on such frivolous things? A window, in the corner. It’s big enough for the boy, and perhaps Michael? He peers through the stained glass, trying to get a look at the landscape outside. He gives it a small push, and the window creaks open with a sharp noise. Inwardly wincing, Michael rushes to turn on the shower full blast. The noise fills the room almost completely.
Michael makes the mistake of leaving the bathroom door open. Ducking back into the main room, he goes immediately to the bed. His hands shake as he fights with the sheets. ‘ Rope. I need to make-‘
The creak of the window being opened is a gunshot. Michael drops the sheet, racing to the bathroom as quick as he can. Sliding on the tile, he sees the kid go out the window. Shoving himself against the wall, his fingers grasp the rubber of the boys shoe just long enough for them to light up. Hanging half out the window, Michael watches in horror as the child hits the ground. He doesn’t get up. Limbs jutting at odd directions, blood pooling from under his body.
Screaming. Who’s screaming?
It’s him. Michael shoves himself back away from the window, clamping his hand over his mouth as the screams force their way out. Not looking, he corners himself in the shower, crumpling under an icy spray.
Rolling hills that never stop, impossibly warm air, tawny colored bricks. Climbing out of the small car, Michael is accosted by just how beautiful Volterra is. Florence was beautiful, with its stunning architecture and vast expanse of history, but it was also terribly busy. Pushing down that lingering anxiety, he carefully unloads his guitar from his rental. Strapped across his back, he starts in a random direction. Something deep in his chest tells him that it’s not random, that he’s meant to be there. Today.
The closer he draws towards what he thinks is the town center, the more people file in. They’re all dressed similarly, wearing red cloaks and celebrating joyfully. One store turns into two, and each one passed all have similar cloaks for sale. Dodging a tourist, Michael ducks into a relatively quiet alley. A quick Google search has all the answers, and for a long moment he stays still.
‘A city celebrating the expulsion of vampires… ‘ Michael muses, a half smile on his face. ‘ Usually I have to wait until October for the vamps to come out.’
The thought brings a frown. A holiday meant the town would be packed. A thread of anxiety works its way through Michael, settling low in his stomach. The crowds are exactly what drove Michael so far away from Florence in the first place; being thrust back into them does nothing but make him feel nauseated. Exhaling slowly, he closes his eyes. Driving so far out, being entranced with a beautiful landscape.. Just to turn around?
Even as his feet turn to leave, something draws Michael to look over his shoulder. Inexplicably, he’s drawn to the facade of the clock tower. Michael could see the tip top from the distance he stood, and he stood a bit higher to try and see further. The rolling hills he previously relished in kept him from seeing the entire tower. It would more than likely be swarming with people, but Michael felt that inexplicable tugging in his chest again.
‘Just go, explore,’ A small part of his brain whispered. ‘ What’s the worst that could happen?’
Michael huffs out a breath of air. Normally, when prompted, the universe would show you the worst that could happen. Trying to keep his eyes open, they involuntarily slip shut. Swallowing, Michael tries to keep the worst memories at bay.
Hands gripping him, tighter than anyone had the right to. Warm hands that circle his own wrists like cuffs. The screaming is nothing in his ears now, a torrential downpour of overwhelming stimuli. He’s there, shaking Michael. Even in his rage, Michael can’t pull away from the other man.
“ Dante, please-”
His knees buckling is the only thing that brings him back to Italy. Hands flying out instinctively to catch himself, he slides into a crouch. His treasured guitar scrapes against the cobblestone floor dangerously. Michael fumbles for it, cursing under his breath as his palms grip the cedar. Blood stains the wood, and carefully he overturns his hands to look at them. They’re bleeding, scrapes where he caught himself on the stone wall now obvious. Wiping them off on his dress, he ignores the sting of gravel in it. Carefully inspecting his guitar- she was in one piece, it seemed. Michael slides fully to the ground, pulling his instrument carefully to the side.
People still pass by the alley, some peering in to look at him, and others unaware of his presence. Breathing slowly, he lets his head rest on his knees.
Slowly now. ‘ 1.. 2 … 3.. 4 ‘ Michael inhaled, held, and then exhaled. Slowly peeling his eyes open, he checks his phone. There wasn’t much in terms of notifications, and the time glared back up at him in response. 11:30. Pocketing his phone, he carefully readjusts his guitar and steps out of the alley. The flow of people slowly brings him towards that same looming clocktower. Heart pattering in his chest, he doesn’t fight the instinct to trail towards it.
People are beginning to part, and Michael must choose a side. He lingers close to the tower, sinking back into the shadows to avoid the bulk of the crowd. He stuck out not being in costume; he didn’t need to be in the crowd's eye. Something draws his attention, and raising his gaze, he catches someone else not donning the festive robe.
A teenager, running full speed through the crowd. Michael scrambles to his feet, bracing against the wall as she ducks and darts between the festivalgoers. Ringing overhead, the clock tower chimes its ancient song. The solemn tone was a gruesome soundtrack as the stranger cuts across the procession. She manages to dodge the small parade happening and runs full speed towards the tower.
‘What the fuck?’ The only thought Michael musters when the teen slams chest first into a very… sparkling… man? In his line of sight, and then gone the next, every molecule of sense was screaming at him. ‘This isn’t your business!’
But. Michael had once wished every day that someone would’ve stepped in for him. So guilt and the indomitable human spirit guide him. Following up to the same door the group disappeared into, he stalls at the door. Hand shaking, he clasps his grip around the handle and gives a tug. The weight is immense, and Michael has to put his full weight into it to get it to budge. Sliding in, he clamps both hands around the brass knob before pulling. Door shut, he carefully looks through the castle.
Stifling his breathing, he creeps through the corridors. Pausing at every door, Michael strains his ears to listen. The first few doors offer nothing, and anxiety shoots through him again. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to move- closer or farther, Michael couldn’t tell. The inside was desolate and unforgiving, and the further he snuck in, the tighter the pit in his stomach grew.
Glancing around a corner, he takes two steps. Shit!-” Feet sliding against the tile, he scrambles to remain upright as he's yanked backwards. Coming face to face with a tall man. Michael screws his lips shut into a deep frown.
“Let’s get you back with the rest of the tour.” He spoke to Michael a lot more politely than a trespasser deserved. Did this six-foot-tall giant really think he was part of a tour group? Michael cleared his throat, trying to speak.
“Well, you see it’s actually...” trailing off, Michael's eyes widened. The man who had such a tight hold on him was slowly pulling him in the opposite direction. Swallowing, Michael catches himself so he doesn’t trip into the back of the tourist he’s shoved at. Stumbling, he keeps his head down. The group moves as one, and while they walk, he finds himself studying the inside. The rest of the group is drawn to the guide, but all Michael can find himself focused on is the rush of his heartbeat in his ears.
Center of the group now, he jerks his head as they pass more people. It was the teen from before and the man with her. Michael turns to break off, but the tall man still lingers at the back of the group. He pushes forward, being let into a massive bright chamber. Its circular, large alabaster pillars lead to a domed roof. Marble sits under his feet, and for the second time that day he felt unsafe.
In the span of a moment, he zeroes in on the person next to him. A child. A little boy no older than five, dressed in a pair of overalls and light-up shoes. The click of the door behind them is so quiet under the chatter of the other tourists, but it’s a loud chime in Michael’s ears. Michael’s met death more than once; he knows what heralds it. Swallowing, his eyes dart to the three figures resting on obvious thrones. Hell breaks free before he can truly see them.
Guards, who had once circled the room, disappeared. The sudden smell of rot, and blood and FLESH crashes through him. Choking back the panic, the room to think is forfeit. Hand shooting towards the child, Michael shields him as he’s shoved towards the front by the dying crowd. Blood seeps into his toenails, and the warm viscera clings to him like a shroud. Stumbling- on what, he would never look- he crashes to the small steps at the foot of the thrones. Screaming echoes in his ears, the sounds of the child, and Michael shoves his hand out and forward. He’d crawl out of that blood pit before he lay down and died.
His hand collides with cold marble, and Michael clamps a fist around it. Something incomprehensible settles in his chest, something warm and heavy. Making the mistake of looking up, his eyes meet the oldest man in the group. Familiar red eyes stare down at him, and Michael shifts to pull the sobbing child close. The older man shifts forward in his seat, and the room finally stills.
“ What is it now?” A voice sneers from somewhere behind him. The stranger doesn’t break eye contact, his milky gaze drilling into Michaels. A hand, slowly offered to him like he wasn’t an offering to a lion. Michael takes it, his hand slowly sliding into the cool palm of the still silent man’s hand. The child sobs. Withdrawing from the stranger, he wraps both of his arms around the child.
“Bellissima..” The man rasps, his voice heavy from obvious disuse. An icy palm cups the edge of Michael’s cheek, smearing the blood against his skin in a macabre show of intimacy. “I have waited for you for a millennium.”
Thirteen and a half hours. Too many miles for one person to count. Never in his wildest dreams would he be out of Georgia, much less in Italy. Florence, to be exact. Considered the birthplace of the Renaissance by many. That's one of the things Professor Haze waxed poetically about before rallying around this trip. For the other art students, it was a massive deal.
‘ But what do I know about art?’ He grouses mentally, slowly picking himself up and out of bed.
The rest of his roommates aren’t awake, so he carefully tiptoes to the common room. He passes the other two rooms, the doors firmly shut. One was for the rest of his group, and the other for their professor. Only one other person is awake at this hour, and Michael inwardly grimaces.
‘Why of all people is it Kevin?’
“Morning,” Michael says.
Michael offers a half-wave, then moves to the fridge to peek inside. It’s nothing like the American counterparts, instead being small and relatively empty. The idea of having to get dressed and go to the market for breakfast agitated his nerves. Kevin grunts in response, but hasn’t looked up from his sketchbook just yet. There’s a pencil tucked behind his ear and an eraser between his teeth.
‘He could be cute if he wasn’t… Kevin,’ Michael inwardly muses and clears his throat. “Has anyone gone down to buy breakfast or is it everyone for themselves?” Michael asks, peering around the counter slightly to get a look at what Kevin’s drawing. It's some sort of architectural ... thing. Better not to call it that to Kevin's face though.
“You’d have better luck taking your guitar downstairs and playing for scraps; now leave me alone,” Kevin grumbles.
Michael blinks, blowing out an air of breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Ok, somebody absolutely pissed in his cereal this morning.
“Thanks for nothing,” Michael mutters.
He moves back towards the sleeping quarters, stopping long enough to grab his bag. He needs some silence, and the only place that offers that is the bathroom—communal, of course. Michael doesn’t possess any body dysmorphia anymore, so stripping down is easy. Washing, getting ready for the day, it was all a soothing balm for Michael. Stepping out of a too-hot shower, he takes a moment to look over his body. A nice layer of muscle, but still lean. Tattoos that cover scars, and scars that cover tattoos. He was one massive back piece away from looking like a yakuza.
His long blond hair is brushed and dried, pulled into a loose braid. He dresses a little more androgynously. A loose oversized dark dress and sandals. A massive sun hat to protect his hair, and he’s trudging down three flights of stairs.
His guitar is carefully strapped to his back. He never went too far without the acoustic guitar, the cedar being a reminder of home. Ducking into a nearby cafe, Michael smiles in greeting, offering up a soft.
“Buongiorno,” Michael offers an awkward wave.
Michael points to something in the deli case. He hopes it would be appetizing… It was a bakery, so most of the goods were sweets, and it was hard to fuck up sweets. Mourning the lack of understanding of Italian, he orders.
“Per favore?” Michael asks.
The shopkeeper nods, carefully bagging it up for Michael in a heartbeat. Michael hands over his money and steps back out into the warm Italian air. He unwraps his.. shortbread? With a raised brow, he takes a small bite. Delicious buttery flavors explode across his tongue, and he can’t help but delight in them. Savoring every bite, Michael crumbles the trash and finds a trashcan for it.
On instinct, he checks his phone. At the top of the screen, a message from their professor.
“Go enjoy Italy for the weekend, rent a car- it’s a beautiful country. Keep your locations ON “
Professor Haze was always so... vibrant and lackadaisical. It was worrying, in a sense, giving seven teenagers the blessing to run across Italy.
‘Although if they were irresponsible teenagers they wouldn’t be enrolled in SCAD...’
Ignoring the city signs that outlaw playing live music, he digs out his phone. How much could a rental car cost anyway?
‘Jesus Christ.’
Michael balks, looking at them, only scrolling for a few moments until he settles on one. It seems… ok enough. He shrugs, and without much more forethought, books it. It’s a cheap option through a website he’s never heard of before, but the storefront ( according to Google ) is relatively close. He could've stayed in Florence, but the hustle and bustle was starting to worm it's way under his skin. Michael loved people as much as the next person but Florence was constantly packed.
‘Thank you 21st century and the internet.’
It’s a quick trek, by city standards. Three blocks, and Michael’s standing in front of a storefront. Slipping inside, he’s accosted by the soft music playing overheard. Some Italian melody he’s never heard before. It brings a smile to his face. It’s something played on a piano with an accompaniment.
“ Ciao!” Michael waves to the clerk at the desk.
He has to momentarily pause to rack his brain for the Italian he crammed in via Duolingo for the past month. “ Parli inglese?” Michael finally manages after a moment. He flushes, rubbing across the back of his neck.
The front desk clerk waves it off. “No worries, you tried.” Her accent was a little thick, but the small age gap gave her a more casual air. It always put Michael at ease dealing with younger folks; they seemed more understanding.
“I’ve got a reservation, oh uh, here.”
Michael offers his cell phone, where he had gone through the effort of uploading all his information. It takes just a moment of double-checking everything, and a scan of his license, and he’s being handed a key.
“Grazie,” Michael murmurs, ducking out of the door.
At least he didn’t get stuck with a fee for being under 21- being 27 had its perks. A grey Fiat sat outside, and Michael almost snorts. It’s so… small. Swallowing, he opens the trunk and loads his guitar into it. Climbing into the Fiat was an experience. The wheel on the wrong side, it being a manual, and it being minuscule all working against Michael’s sense of normalcy.
‘I can drive a manual. This is just... thirty years newer than any manual I’ve ever driven.’ Michael ponders. Carefully buckling himself in, his frame settles in easily. ‘One more perk of being 5’4.’
‘I don’t... really have a place in mind.’ Cranking the car and hooking his phone into it, he pauses.
Michael huffs, opening his Maps app. There were a few places of interest, but looking at them for too long just made him anxious.
‘I’ll hit RA 3 and head south. Enjoy the landscape a bit, and just drive.’
With that thought in mind, he eases out of the parking lot. Selecting a playlist, Michael hits the highway. The window cracked, his mind wanders as he drives. RA 3 turns into SR 68. Passing landscapes turn into passing cities, but still nothing feels… right.
Almost an hour and a half on the road, and a sign catches his attention. He almost missed it while fussing with his hair.
Volterra.
Something pulls at Michael, and without further questioning, he pulls off the highway onto the exit ramp. He could see the outline of a tower even past the rolling hills of Italy.
