He washes their wounds and cares for their bodies, convinced that when three days have passed, he can add the final ingredient, that odd-looking herb, and bring them both back. Only to be awakened on that third and final day by a group of neighbors alerted by the smell, finding him curled up beside the bodies, the bottle of elixir clutched in his hand.

He struggles against them, retrieving the herb and desperately shoving it in. Determined to get it to his parents, to make them both drink, but overpowered by his neighbors long before he can. Because they're convinced that he's practicing some sort of sorcery, he's declared a ward of the church, where devastated by loss and pulled from everything he knows and loves, he's abused by priests determined to rid him of the devil inside.

He suffers in silence, suffers for years—until Drina arrives. And Damen, now a strong and handsome man of fourteen, is transfixed by the sight of her flaming red hair, her emerald green eyes, her alabaster skin—her beauty so startling it's hard not to stare. I watch them together, barely able to breathe as they form a bond so caring, so protective, I regret ever asking to see this. I was brash, impulsive, and reckless—I didn't take the time to think it all through. Because even though she's now dead and is no threat to me, watching him fall under her spell is more than I can bear.

He tends to the wounds she suffered at the hands of the priests, handling her with great reverence and care, denying his undeniable attraction, determined only to protect her, save her, to aid her escape—the day arriving much sooner than expected when the plague sweeps through Florence—the dreaded Black Death that killed millions of people, rendering them all into a bloated, pus-ridden, suffering mess. He watches helplessly as many of his fellow orphans grow ill and die, but it's not until Drina is stricken that he returns to his father's life's work. Re-creating the elixir he'd sworn off all these years—associating it with the loss of everything he held dear. But now, left with no other choice, and unwilling to lose her, he makes Drina drink. Sparing enough for himself and the remaining orphans, hoping only to shield them from disease, having no idea it would grant immortality too.

Infused with a power they can't understand and immune to the agonized cries of the sick and dying priests, the orphans disband. Heading back to the streets of Florence where they loot from the dead, while Damen, with Drina by his side, is intent on only one thing: seeking revenge on the trio of men who murdered his parents, ultimately tracking them down only to find that without the aid of the final ingredient, they've succumbed to the plague.

He waits for their death, taunting them with the promise of a cure he never intends to fulfill. Surprised by the hollowness of the victory when their bodies finally do yield, he turns to Drina, looking for comfort in her loving embrace...

I shut my eyes, determined to block it all out but knowing it's burned there forever, no matter how hard I try. Because while knowing they were lovers off and on for nearly six hundred years is one thing, Having to watch it unfold—is another. And even though I hate to admit it, I can't help but notice how the old Damen with his cruelty, greed, and abundance of vanity—has an awful lot in common with the new Damen—the one who ditched me for Stacia. And after watching over a century of the two of them bonded by a never-ending supply of lust and greed, I'm no longer interested in getting to the part where we meet. No longer interested in seeing the previous versions of me. If it means having to view another hundred years of this, then it just isn't worth it.

And just as I close my eyes and plead—Just get me to the end! Please! I can't stand to see another moment of this!—the crystal flickers and flares as a blur of images race past, fast-forwarding with such speed and intensity I can barely distinguish one image from the next. Getting only the briefest hash of Damen, Drina, and me in my many incarnations—a brunette, a redhead, a blonde—all of it whirling right past me—the face and body unrecognizable, though the eyes are always familiar. Even when I change my mind and ask for it to slow down, the images continue to whir. Culminating in a picture of Roman—his lips curled back, his eyes filled with glee—as he gazes upon a very aged, very dead Damen. And then—And then—nothing. The crystal goes blank.

"No!" I shout, my voice bouncing off the walls of the tall empty room and echoing right back at me. "Please!" I beg. "Come back! I'll do better. Really! I promise not to get jealous or upset. I'll watch the whole entire thing if you'll only just rewind!"

But no matter how much I beg, no matter how much I plead to view it again, the crystal is gone, vanished from sight. I gaze all around, searching for someone to help, some sort of akashic record reference librarian, even though I'm the only one here. Dropping my head in my hands, wondering how I could've been so stupid as to allow my petty jealousies and insecurities to take over again.

I mean, it's not like I didn't know about Drina and Damen. It's not like I didn't know what I was going to see. And now, since I was too big of a wuss to just suck it up and deal with the info before me, I've no idea how to save him. No idea of how we possibly could've gone from such a wonderful A to such a horrible Z. All I know is that Roman's responsible. A pathetic confirmation of what I already guessed. Somehow he's weakening Damen, reversing his immortality. And if I've any hope of saving him, I need to learn how if not why.

Because one thing I know for sure is that Damen does not age. He's been around for over six hundred years and still looks like a teen. I drop my head in my hands, hating myself for being so petty, so small, so foolish—so heinously pathetic,that I robbed myself of the answers I came here to know. Wishing I could rewind this whole session and start over—wishing I could go back—