Thank you as always to SunflowerFran for her work on this.

If you've made it here despite the release of Midnight Sun - I welcome you!

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Chapter Eleven

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They peer inside, Edward's staff shining a soft light over the shadows.

They have appeared in a round hall, shelves reaching so high even with Edward's light they cannot see the tops of them. Like rays of the sun, stand-alone bookcases radiate from the middle, leaving long trails. The single candle burns right in the middle, on a small, three-legged table no wider than Bella's hand.

She pulls her scarf over her mouth, trying to stop the coughing, and Edward lifts his collar, trying to dispel the dust.

"This will take us hours," she moans, looking around, trying desperately to see the ceiling. "Or weeks."

The idea of staying in here for weeks makes the cloying darkness that seems to permeate every inch force itself into her conscience, and she has to shift her weight, to somehow dispel the sickening feeling. She looks to Edward, and if she thought she is handling it badly, Edward is positively harrowed.

His face is hard, his eyes wild, and he does not seem to be able to let his gaze settle on any one thing.

"Edward?"

His eyes fly to hers, and he swallows heavily.

"Sorry. This place…it feels infected. Like I will…forgive me."

"That's okay." She squeezes his hand. She doesn't like his countenance. Doesn't like what it stands for. As if he's caught somewhere in between horror and want.

"Let's just…work our way around. You start there, me here, and then we'll meet on the other side." Bella points to the first freestanding shelf. There are twenty in total. Ten each. "If we find anything about historic blades…we call the other. We can take the outside shelves afterward."

Something akin to panic crosses his features at letting go of her hand, but he contains himself.

They release each other begrudgingly and begin, back to back, in the aisle just in front. Bella reaches into her pocket and brings out a lighter, using it to peer over the hundreds of scrolls and leather backs of books. Most are in languages she does not understand, but nothing looks like Old English. They both reach the end of their first half shelf with no comment, and Bella toys with the idea of getting on her broom to search higher, but something in her rejects the idea. Perhaps the same reason why Edward is not employing any finding spells. This room…it's as if they do not want to make themselves known. As if they want to avoid detection by the festering magic here.

They round their respective bookcase and lose sight of the other. Edward's staff casts a long glow into the middle of the room, where the candle sits, and Bella forces herself not to shudder at the loss of light. Edward's bright light had been comforting.

The light.

The warmth.

They work silently, sifting through rows and rows of books and scrolls, only daring to touch something if absolutely necessary. The longer they spend in there, the colder Bella feels, and it has nothing to do with the underground basement. She finds herself forgetting what light is like, what sunlight is like, what it feels like to inhale fresh air, salt-water on the breeze…

On her sixth shelf, she suddenly sees Old English.

Her breath hitches and her lighter is pressed closer to the backs of the books, as if she will understand it. Everything here is old - untouched for a millennium - but some of the texts here could easily be closer to the two millennia mark. She is up on the balls of her feet, looking up, trying to somehow cover the whole area as quickly as possible, when a journal catches her eye. It's lower, down by her hand, and it pulls at her, and she narrows her eyes, crouching as she tilts her head to read the inscription on the back. Roman numerals give the year 956 AD, and forcing her shudder down, she places her broom on the floor, pulling out the leather.

If she thought the blade was dark, it has nothing on the sinking feeling she has to battle, holding the journal in her hand. It causes barely contained panic and bleakness to seep into her very being - whispering to her, urging her of demise and despair.

She sits on the floor, taking breaths to contain the emotion, reminding herself that she is not alone. She can still see Edward's light, some rows away.

I am not alone.

The leather creaks as she breaks the spine, the sides of the pages painted a dark gold colour. The brittle pages are covered in script, odd markings along the sides as if doodles, and her magic flares at her, wanting attention, but she's not sure what she is meant to find. Then she turns a page, and she realises she can read it. It is Old English, of course, but the book has decided to reveal itself to her. As if it wants her to understand.

The words jump out at her, suddenly clear, and her hands shake.

This is it.

It is a book about the creation of cursed objects, about the power of text to twist a magical object. Her eyes skim the words, engrossed, panicked, elated - because she knows she will find answers; knows this book has chosen to give them to her.

In her eagerness, she almost drops it, but catches it, and the book falls open to a page toward the very back, a different hand - someone else had added to this later.

It is becoming clear I must make my own, the text begins, and Bella holds the lighter closer to the faded text, heart in her throat. Despite my trials, I am unsuccessful - Didyme's Athame is too neutral, it will not readily accept the power I wish to give it. She tells me I simply have not found the correct mindset, that I need to search my soul, but it is proving useless. She is becoming wary, I can see it in her eyes, withdrawn and suspicious - she is straying from the path. Our hope is slipping from us, and she is giving in to despair. I am losing her - in front of my very eyes - and yet I know I am close. Only together can we cure this world of this imposed divide - only together can we forge ahead, create a new line which will join us.

Bella turns the page, barely able to hold the journal still enough to see past her shaking, but her battle is lost when she sees the drawing greeting her. The athame. Clear as day - the serpent staring back at her. She places the book on the floor, fumbling for her bag, reaching out and unwrapping the blade - they lie next to one another, the drawn representation almost more impossible to look at than the real thing.

The child will not survive, it continues, and dread that is wholly her own is forced to be acknowledged. Every time she becomes with child, it does not survive. She insists that my power is too great, that her body is unable to match it long enough for the child to be shielded in her womb, that she must grow stronger herself before her body can accept my seed. The child's heart gives in. Each time. Her blade is not enough - her rituals too late. We must strengthen the heart of the child before it is born, long before it. Yet I cannot see the way - we need more of her power - the child must be balanced. We need blood sacrifices, but taking so much from her would only weaken her. I need more witches, but Didyme rejects the idea. I can no longer respect her wishes. I must forge ahead - it is the only way. The child must be born. It is the only way my line will continue. No one but Didyme is strong enough, no one but her will give me an heir worthy of my name.

"Bella - there is something you must see."

Bella is pulled from her reading, heart pounding, staring at the text, and as she blinks, it returns to unintelligible scribbles, her mind unable to comprehend it once more.

No. It's gone.

"Bella?"

Bright light shines down on her, and she has to squint to see.

Edward looks as if wound, a coil spun around too many times, and he leans down at her side, staring at the book she has open.

"You found something?"

"Yes," Bella whispers, blinking at the text again as if it will reveal itself. "I think…I think they were trying to create a child - a child to a witch and wizard. The blade…it was Didyme's; I think it was changed, tampered with. They were trying to ensure a pregnancy went to full-term…I don't know. It was right there - the text revealed itself to me—"

"Then, it is even more important you see this." He looks grave, and she pushes down her annoyance. She wraps the athame back into its cloth, putting it back in her bag. She takes her scarf from around her neck and wraps the journal in it, taking it with her.

With her bag on her back once more, Edward takes her hand, Bella's fingers trembling around her broom. He leads her to the other side of the room, to the very last bookshelf, down the side until they stand at the circular wall. It is a stretch free of books, a tapestry hanging in their stead.

"Look there." He points with his staff toward the bottom, and it does not take long for her to realise it is a family tree.

It follows a line of wizards, the earliest from before the Roman Empire was founded. Her eyes follow the intricate names, the tapestry completely pristine - threads gleaming gold, red, and violet.

And then she sees Marcus' name.

It's Marcus' family tree. The most powerful dark wizard the world had ever seen. And next to his name…

Didyme.

It was Marcus' words she has just read. Marcus and Didyme were a pair.

"They succeeded." The breath leaves her, and she is on her knees, staring closer, as if proximity will make it real. "They had a child - a daughter!"

"The very daughter who helped seal this place from the world," Edward adds, but she barely hears him.

They succeeded. A child was born with a witch as a mother and a wizard as a father.

"But Didyme killed Marcus!" Bella feels wild, finding Edward's eyes somewhere above her. "The Volturi asked her to kill her lover?"

"She was the only one strong enough. Bella, that's…not all, look up. Follow the threads - the tapestry is enchanted, it must add names as they are born. Follow the descendants."

Her eyes travel upward, through the centuries, realising the line only produced women. Witches. Evenly spaced, through the ages…until she reaches the present.

"Marcus' line has a live descendent, Bella. There still lives a witch with his blood."

She stands, her breath leaving her. At the very top, the name written in a neat script is a woman she knows.

A member of the Council.

"You said it yourself, Bella. Dark magic is wizard made. Who else but the descendent of a wizard can be responsible?"

"Jane." Bella does not recognise her voice. "Jane is their descendent. She is Marcus and Didyme's living heir."

"If she has been pulling power from witches - if she has Marcus' blood in her veins - she will be powerful beyond belief."

Bella goes to answer, but her body gives up on her.

In a moment, her stomach seizes, her chest constricts, and agony radiates through her every cell as if her soul has been taken and thrown from her body.

"We are out of time," she gasps. "Esme. It is beginning."

Esme.

Please, please fight.

A/N: ...I'm just gonna go find a nice place to hide...happy cliffhanger everyone!